Penny looked panicked. “No, please—”
Again, Max focused on Henry.
He let go of Penny’s hand. “The truth is better than not knowing,” he said quietly.
Max believed it, but few other people did. Most people said they wanted the truth, but few appreciated it. Many people hated her for telling them the truth—truths that they asked for.
She thanked the Hoffmans and walked out, melancholy and unsettled. But she wasn’t thinking about Jason Hoffman. She was thinking about Lindy.
No one was asking her to look into Lindy’s murder. If anything, people wanted her to steer clear of it. Detective Beck. William. Andy. Max was the one who wanted the truth. Could she live with the truth if she uncovered it?
*
Max had enough time before the funeral to check out Evergreen Construction. The main office was in downtown Redwood City near the county center, but there was no one in the office today. In this economy, a construction project would be working weekends, and since Jason was killed at Atherton Prep that’s where she would start.
She considered calling Jasper Pierce, or even her great-uncle, Archer Sterling, but decided to use that card when she needed it. Gather information first. Besides, Archer was her grandmother’s brother—he would tell Eleanor everything Max was doing.
She wanted to get a feeling for the business. Maybe someone would talk—it had happened to her more than a few times. Share what they know. Give her a direction, a lead to pursue.
Nostalgia hit her when she drove through Atherton to her high school campus. It was a beautiful campus, most of the land donated by the Ames family, who’d once owned a large chunk of the town. The Sterling Pierce Sports Center was on the south side of the campus—it had once been grass and trees; most of the trees remained, she was pleased to note—the complex made good use of the open space for the substantial footprint of the building.
She used the construction entrance, not the main school entrance. She was surprised at how quickly the building was being constructed—the sign out front boasted that the gym would be open in December. Right now, they had a basement dug out—according to the plans posted near the entrance, the basement would house the wrestling room, weight room, locker rooms, and practice gym. She felt a little thrill at the excitement of the project—what a remarkable facility. She would love to see it when it was complete.
Construction sites had valuable equipment, not just machinery and tools, but wiring, pipes, heating and AC units. Had something been delivered that weekend? Valuable enough to kill for, Max supposed, but in the construction thefts she’d read about they usually went in and out late at night, at a site that wasn’t guarded or had no security cameras, and took what they could haul off in a few hours. The thieves were about low risk/high reward—murder wasn’t usually a result.
As soon as she got out of her rental sedan, Max was approached by a burly fifty-year-old in a hard hat. “Can I help you with something, miss?”
She handed him her card. “Maxine Revere. I’m a freelance reporter working on an article about theft on construction sites. I’m also an alum of Atherton Prep. I wanted to talk to the manager about the theft here last year.”
“I’m the foreman, I run this project, but you’d probably want to talk to Mr. Robeaux. He won’t be back until Monday.”
“Actually, I’d rather speak with you.”
He didn’t like the idea of talking to her. “I’m really busy. We run on reduced labor over the weekend, I have deadlines to meet and—”
“Five minutes. I promise.”
He sighed, and said, “You can’t quote me, not without Mr. Robeaux’s permission.”
“Agreed.”
“What paper?”
“Freelance.”
“So you don’t have a job.”
Max was amused. “I’ve had my work published in the San Francisco Chronicle, The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times—most major newspapers, in addition to numerous magazines.”
“You mean they still have papers?” He laughed. Max did not. She followed him into one of the trailers. A young woman, not more than twenty, was sitting at a desk typing on an electric typewriter, a stack of triplicate forms next to her. She glanced at them without slowing down.
“So, Ms. Revere, what do you want to know?”
He sat behind a cluttered desk with a partially obscured nameplate. She pushed aside the paper blocking his first name. Roger Lawrence.
She pulled out her notepad. “According to my research, there were a total of twenty-eight construction thefts in San Mateo County last year. This robbery was the only one that resulted in a death.”
“Jason.” He shook his head. “Loved that kid.”
“You knew him well?”
“I’ve worked for Mr. Robeaux for fifteen years. Jason loved the business. He loved building design, creating structures that blended in with their surroundings. Not really my cuppa, but he had me sold—just the way he talked about it.” He jerked his thumb toward the door, but Max had no idea what he was referring to. “That big oak in the courtyard? We were going to remove it. The law says we have to preserve as much as possible, a minimum number of trees and such, but not everything. Jason tweaked the plans so the tree could stay, and honestly, the whole place is going to look better for it. He would have made a terrific architect. Gordon Cho, our architect on the project, was particularly devastated by Jason’s death. He’d been Jason’s mentor for years.”
“I haven’t been able to reach the detective in charge of the case, so I don’t have a copy of the police report yet. Do you remember what was taken?”