She was going to find out if Beck was telling the truth about Olivia Langstrom. If he was, then maybe—maybe—Max had been wrong. That Kevin was a killer and Max betrayed not only her family, but her best friend. How could she call herself an investigative reporter if she could be so easily deceived?
She’d also forgotten about the pool house and how the rules had been much looser on her small private school campus than on most schools. Max had played volleyball and had a key to the locker room. So did all the other athletes. Did the key Kevin left for her to find—because there was no doubt in Max’s mind that Kevin intended her to find that letter and the key—fit the pool house? Were they assigned keys? If so, would that matter? Did the locker room have the same lock as the pool house?
Which meant that anyone, including Lindy, could have unlocked the pool house where she’d been killed and dropped into the Olympic-sized indoor pool.
Lindy drowned.
According to the testimony, Lindy had been raped, strangled, and dropped into the swimming pool after death. The chlorine and chemicals had destroyed any physical evidence that may have been on her body. She’d been clothed, according to the testimony that had been made public. Had the killer dressed her after raping her? Why?
Max had time and experience on her side now. She needed the trial transcripts, and she knew where she might be able to get them over the weekend—if she could reach Kevin’s defense lawyer.
She first called the Menlo Park Police Department and asked to speak with Detective Nick Santini. She was a bit surprised when the receptionist said he wasn’t on duty and asked if she’d like his voice mail or to speak to another detective. Max happily left a voice mail, pleased she didn’t have to identify herself to the receptionist.
She spent the rest of the drive tracking down Kevin’s defense attorney.
Gregory Q. Jones was no longer working for the legal defense company he’d started with. Now he was a corporate attorney, who would likely be moving in the same circles as William had he not relocated to Los Angeles.
His new law office refused to do anything but take a message, and Max didn’t want to wait until Monday for the information she needed. She hesitated a moment before calling David. She really didn’t want to disturb his weekend with his daughter, except he was a miracle worker in getting her the information she needed when she came up against a brick wall. Sometimes she didn’t know how he did it. She’d once accused him of being psychic and he’d laughed. A rarity.
“David, I need a phone number. I’m sorry to—”
“Tell me what you need.”
“Gregory Q. Jones. He’s with Blanchard, Dixon, and Grossman out of Los Angeles, a firm specializing in corporate law. He specializes in criminal law. The weekend receptionist did nothing but take a message, but I’d really like to talk to him before Monday.”
“Give me five minutes.” He hung up.
David would text her the information, so Max felt comfortable leaving her car when she arrived at Olivia’s house, instead of waiting for his call.
She didn’t know how connected Olivia was with the people from their hometown, but Max hoped she had the element of surprise on her side.
A long stamped concrete walkway framed by evenly spaced and pruned rosebushes led to the wide stairs and stately Craftsman-style home in an historic neighborhood near Stanford University.
According to the Stanford faculty Web site, Christopher Wallingford Ward was a European history professor specializing in the Georgian and Victorian periods. Originally from Montecito, California, a wealthy community near Santa Barbara, Ward got his B.A. in history from USC, his M.A. at Boston College, and his Ph.D. in Georgian history at Stanford. He had several books published in the field and had been a tenured professor for the last five years. He was forty-seven years of age, but with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, looked years older. Distinguished, but certainly not anyone Max expected one of her own thirty-something peers would marry.
The veranda was wide and had carefully placed cushioned outdoor furniture and potted plants that practically screamed staged. A little too picture-perfect for Max.
Or maybe she was reading into her recollection of the perfect Olivia Langstrom from the perfect home that Max had learned was less than “perfect.”
Max rang the bell. Chimes, not a buzzer, rang through the house. Several moments later, the door opened.
Olivia Langstrom Ward had changed little in thirteen years. Her delicate features seemed more refined; her tall, willowy frame and pale hair suited her porcelain skin and gray, almost drab, conservative attire. But her ice blue eyes spoke the truth—she recognized Max immediately and knew exactly why she was here.
She looked scared. And angry. An interesting combination.
“Hello, Olivia.”
“Maxine—wow.” She glanced behind Max, toward the street. To escape or to determine if Max was alone?
“May I come in?”
“This isn’t a good time.”
“It’s a nice afternoon. We can sit here on the porch.” Max walked over to a chair and sat. Olivia stared at her as if she didn’t know whether to follow or bolt the door.
Olivia glanced behind her into the house. Was someone home? Her husband? Staff? A friend? A child? Max didn’t know what happened to Olivia after she left Atherton.
Olivia closed the door so quietly that Max barely heard it click shut. The skittish woman sat on the edge of the love seat, her long, slender hands clasped in her lap. “I don’t know why you would come here.”
“Your behavior is odd to me,” Max said. “Considering we used to run around in the same circles.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I have just one question for you. Why didn’t you tell the police you were with Kevin the night Lindy was killed?”
Olivia stared at Max, frozen. It was clear she hadn’t expected that question.