He laughed. “If you want.”
“We’ll have it before.”
“Or you buy dinner.”
“Fair enough.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Max arrived back at the hotel and admitted to herself that she felt a little lost. She’d turned everything over to the police and now she had nothing to do except wait.
She took her laptop to the hotel bar and ordered soup, salad, and a glass of wine while she started her article on the case. She believed the FBI when they said they’d give her the exclusive, but sometimes even when they had the best of intentions, they let information slip. She wanted to be ready to run with the article as soon as they arrested Danielle Sharpe, and she could fill in the details—hopefully with solid quotes—on the fly.
Her phone rang, it was John. Why was he calling her? He had made it clear he wanted her to no longer pursue the case he’d put in her lap. He’d avoided her calls all weekend. And now, here he was.
She almost ignored his call. But she couldn’t do that—she owed him something, didn’t she? Except she couldn’t give him what he wanted—peace of mind.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hi, Max, it’s John.”
“How are you doing?”
“I haven’t been able to sleep. I promised Blair I wouldn’t contact you, but I need to know—have you found anything?”
“I tried calling you this weekend. I had questions, but you didn’t answer.”
“Blair had been with me. She’s so stressed—the trial starts in a week. I didn’t want her to know we were talking, further upset her.”
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” she snapped. “I’m trying to get answers.”
“For me. And I appreciate it.”
“No, for Justin Stanton and the other victims.”
“And? Do you have answers?”
“Yes, John.” She paused, considered what she should say and how to say it. Tact wasn’t her strong suit. “I don’t know if they’re the answers you want.”
“Anything will help—I’m at my wit’s end.”
“Why? Honestly, John, why? Blair’s attorney is competent and he thinks the prosecution isn’t going to be able to make the case. Me? I’ll give it fifty-fifty. Circumstantial cases are hard to prove, but not impossible.”
“But I have to know who killed my son. We’ve been over this, Max—I have to know. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. The last nine months have been hell. Peter is dead. My son—” His voice cracked. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I understand grief, John.”
“Then tell me what’s happening.”
“I solved Justin Stanton’s murder, John.”
“Oh, my God—Max, that’s great. Who?”
“I can’t tell you yet. I promised the police I wouldn’t talk about the case until they give me the okay to release the information.”
“This is me, Maxine! What am I going to do with the information?”
“I don’t know—”
“This person killed my son!”
“No, John, the person who killed Justin Stanton and the other boys didn’t kill Peter. It’s not the same person.”
“Of course it is.”
“It’s not. I can prove it to you, but not until I get the okay. You’re going to have to trust me on that.”
“I don’t. I don’t trust you! It has to be the same person!”
He was losing it. “John,” she said in a calm, quiet voice. “I don’t have the answers you want, but I’m still looking. You need to go into this trial with your eyes open.”
“They are. Max, I’m dying here. I don’t know how to keep it together. I need to help my wife.”
John was clinging to these cold cases because he wanted proof that his wife wasn’t a killer. But deep down, he had doubts.
“I have to go,” he said and hung up.
She put her phone down and asked the waiter to bring her a martini.
When he returned with her drink, she thanked him and saw a familiar face in the doorway.
Sean Rogan.
He walked over to her and sat down. “Hello, Max.”
“Lucy isn’t here.”
“I just talked to her. She said the meeting today went well and she’s on her way to interview the suspect.”
“Did you just fly in?”
“Came right from the airport.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I could use food.”
Max signaled for the waiter and he took Sean’s order. At least the PI ordered a beer so Max wasn’t drinking alone. Not that she cared.
“Did Lucy fill you in?”
Sean nodded. “We talked last night, after you two put together the presentation. She asked me to cut you some slack, that you had developed a symbiotic relationship.”
“I suppose we did. But I don’t care if you cut me any slack, Sean. I’m not fragile.”
He smiled. “No, you’re certainly not.”
They didn’t talk anymore about the case, and Max was relieved. Sean asked about some of her other cases, and admitted he’d read a couple of her books while he was in Sacramento. He particularly liked her last book, which she’d written about a nursing home director who had killed several patients.
“Why that one?” she asked, curious.
“First, the subject matter. You made me laugh with some of the antics of Lois Kershaw and her band of octogenarian sleuths.”
Max smiled. “Lois is a hoot. I visited her a couple of weeks ago after she had surgery. You’d think she was getting younger.”
“And the way you stood up to the local police. I have a healthy respect for law enforcement and some deep distrust. You seemed to balance that well.”
“It’s like the nursery rhyme.”
“What is?”
“When the police are good, they are very, very good; when they are bad, they are horrid.”
Sean laughed. “I like that.”
Max considered pumping Sean for more information about his wife, but realized he’d recognize any ploy she came up with. Instead, she sipped her drink.
“What is it you want to ask?” Sean said.
“Everything, but I won’t. And—I’m not digging around. I did, before your threats, and I’m curious about a lot of things, but I can let it go.”
“You can? That doesn’t seem to be in your personality.”
“I have a lot of respect for your wife, and I don’t say that about a lot of people. On the one hand, I am curious. I’m curious how Lucy became involved as a consultant for two major cases in New York before she was ever an FBI agent. I’m curious about why you were expelled from Stanford. I’m intrigued by the cases the staff dug up that Lucy worked last year in San Antonio.”
As she spoke, Sean didn’t move. He didn’t change much of anything, except he was watching her closely. Trying to assess her angle? Her game plan?
“Yes, I want to know what makes Lucy tick, but I realized it’s just because I hate not knowing anything. I like facts and proof and truth. But I’m really okay not knowing. Maybe for the first time in my life.”
“Why?” he asked sharply.