He nodded, then smiled. “Come to my house for dinner.”
She wrinkled her nose. For some reason, Caitlin Talbot—now Caitlin Revere—had always considered Max a rival. Everything was a competition with her. Sports, grades, boyfriends, college acceptances—and Max, who was naturally competitive, had contributed to the rivalry. Lindy had been the mediator, though she, too, was competitive. With everyone except Max. But at some point the competition between Caitlin and Max had turned unhealthy and Max had cut ties. Hard to do when the Talbots and Reveres were longtime family friends.
And then William married her. Which wouldn’t have been a problem for Max because she lived three thousand miles away—except when she visited, Caitlin scratched at old scabs. She had rewritten history to the point that Max could barely have a civil conversation with her. If Caitlin was to be believed, she’d been Lindy’s closest friend and confidante, her best buddy, they never fought. On the contrary, Lindy put up with Caitlin because she was part of their group. Nothing more.
“Caitlin would serve hemlock with my salad.”
William laughed, spontaneous and genuine, and Max smiled. “Neutral ground then.”
“I don’t think tonight—” Max began.
“Grandmother’s,” William said.
“Hardly neutral.”
“She won’t poison you.”
“True. She’s afraid I have secrets about the family that will be revealed on national television when I die.” She’d have to go home at some point, but not tonight. Not when she was tired from a full travel day and still had work to do before the close of business. “Tomorrow,” she said.
“I’ll talk to Grandmother.” William stood. “I need to get back to work.”
She walked him to the door. “By the way, do you know anything about this construction guy, Jason Hoffman, who was killed at the site of the new ACP gymnasium?”
He shook his head. “I was stunned when I heard. A robbery or something, right? Construction is a loss-intensive business.”
“They’d just broken ground. There was nothing to steal.”
“I didn’t know the guy—but I do know Jasper Pierce.”
“That name sounds familiar. Why?”
“He graduated from ACP a decade before us. He’s one of the two major donors on the gym—the other is Uncle Archer. They’re calling the building the Sterling Pierce Sports Center.”
“I really have been out of the family loop.”
“Your choice, Maxine.”
He was right.
She wasn’t quite ready to talk to William about Hoffman’s case; she honestly didn’t think he knew much about it. “Can I drop your name if I want to talk to Pierce?”
“You hardly need to drop my name. Revere will get you in to see him. Why?”
“Nothing specific. Just curiosity. It was good to see you, William.”
He looked at her a moment too long, and Max knew he had something else on his mind. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he kissed her on the cheek and left.
William definitely had a secret.
Chapter Four
Max was cognizant of the fact that most cops didn’t like her. Much of the time it simply had to do with the fact that she was a reporter. Cops, as a general rule, shunned the media. But some in law enforcement downright hated her, particularly when she shined light on a faulty investigation or blatant incompetence. It didn’t seem to matter that she went out of her way to highlight good cops and skilled investigations, they only remembered embarrassments. She always walked in as a professional, but Max could and would play hardball when warranted.
She left the hotel at three impeccably dressed in her turquoise sheath and a short navy jacket. Accessories matched, makeup flawless, new notebook in her shoulder bag. She had an iPad and a laptop, but most of her research she wrote longhand. In her new notepad, she’d already jotted down basic research on the Menlo Park Police Department—clearance rates, political connections, crime statistics—it was best to be prepared.
The police station, hidden behind established trees and a wide expanse of lawn, bordered an older residential neighborhood. It hadn’t changed much since the last time she was here, when she tried to convince the police that Kevin had a solid alibi and they should try to find Lindy’s real killer. That hadn’t gone well.
Max walked through the public entrance. A small, clean, empty waiting area with a female desk clerk behind glass. Doors, accessed by a digital passkey, were behind the gatekeeper. Soundproof walls cut most noise from the main office, though a faint hum of machines crept through. Everything seemed smaller now than it had when she was a teenager.
She approached the window and slid her business card through the slot. A screen allowed her to speak to the trim, middle-aged woman on the other side. No uniform, likely a civilian clerk. Her nameplate read D. BELL.
“Maxine Revere. I need to speak with the detective in charge of the Kevin O’Neal death investigation.”
All nonattended deaths were investigated, even if it was a cut-and-dried accident or suicide. A suicide would not generally be confirmed as such until after the coroner’s report, even if the initial police investigation ascertained there was no evidence of foul play and the crime scene was consistent with suicide.
Bell picked up her card. “Do you have an appointment with the PIO?”
“I’d like to talk to the detective in charge of the investigation,” Max said.
“All reporters are required to go through the PIO. I’m sure you’re familiar with the process.”
Max couldn’t assess whether Bell was being particularly difficult or simply following the rules.
“I understand, but this is a personal matter, not professional.”
“Officer Corbett will make the decision whether to allow access to our investigators.”