“I don’t talk to reporters.”
Max couldn’t figure out where he was going with this conversation. “Detective, you returned my call—you didn’t send me to Officer Corbett. If you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t have called. Twenty minutes. I’ve already done my background on the case. I just need a bit more information.”
“I won’t say anything on record. If you can’t agree to that, this conversation is over.”
“I didn’t take this case to write an article.”
“Oh?” He now sounded surprised—and intrigued. Good.
“I’m in town for a friend’s funeral. Jason’s grandparents asked me if I could find out the status of the investigation and maybe give them closure. Because I’m an alumni of Atherton Prep, I agreed to help.”
“Hard to give closure when the killer hasn’t been caught.”
Max couldn’t disagree. “If I write an article, I promise not to quote you without permission.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means nothing. Your reputation is mixed.”
She laughed. “That’s kind. Probably very mixed.”
“Essentially, you’re a bitch, but your word is gold.”
“That’s accurate.”
This time Santini laughed. “I have time tomorrow, late morning. Make it noon.”
“I’ll buy lunch. Menlo Grill. I have one question first. During the initial investigation did you interview the young, blond secretary? Dru—I don’t know her last name.”
“Dru Parker. She had nothing to contribute to the investigation.”
“I think you might want to talk to her again.”
“Why?” His voice went from light to serious in a word.
“I visited the construction site where Jason was killed and talked to Roger Lawrence, the foreman. When he saw me talking to Dru, he sent her on a needless errand. I tracked her down and she left, panicked.”
“Reporters can have that effect on people.” His tone was serious. “I have to go.”
He hung up before Max could say anything else. She’d planted the information in his head that she wanted, and from the sound of his voice, he was going to follow up.
Chances are, if the cops showed up at Dru’s house, she’d call Max in a panic. Wanting to get her story out to cover her bases. It had happened enough times in the past that Max had a good grasp of the people she could manipulate like this.
She was surprised that Nick Santini agreed to meet with her. After her confrontations with Beck and Corbett, she certainly hadn’t expected anyone in the Menlo Park Police Department to be forthcoming with information. He’d been calm and even-tempered on the phone, but all business as soon as she brought up the secretary. She expected he would be the same tomorrow during their lunch meeting.
Maybe this weekend would end on a bright note after all.
Chapter Eight
Max stopped by her hotel room to drop off supplies she’d picked up earlier. A couple of trifold project boards, sticky notes, markers, tape. She’d bought enough to create expanded storyboards for each case, both Jason Hoffman and Lindy Ames. She didn’t know when, exactly, she’d committed herself to Lindy, whether it was when she saw her death certificate and Kevin’s accusation of drowning, Kevin’s apartment and his suicide postscript, or at the funeral when she realized that she owed it to Lindy to find out the truth. But she wasn’t going to back down.
Still, time wasn’t on her side. She had a commitment with her cable station to cover the Bachman trial for them, and though she didn’t need to be in New York on Monday like Ben wanted, she couldn’t stay in California longer than a week. She feared that spreading herself between two cases was going to mean she solved neither, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. She only hoped that Detective Santini cared and would pursue any threads she uncovered, because she didn’t think she’d be here long enough to follow them.
She changed into a simple black dress and wrapped a multicolored blue and purple scarf around her shoulders. She didn’t have clothes to last a week, which meant hitting both the dry cleaners and the mall—something she enjoyed when she wasn’t pressed for time.
As she was getting ready to leave, she sat down at the hotel desk to straighten her notes when she saw the light on, indicating that she had messages. Had it been blinking, she would have noticed it as soon as she walked in, but the subdued orange light didn’t attract her attention when her arms had been full of office supplies.
She pressed the message button, and instead of being sent to voice mail, the desk clerk answered.
“Yes, Ms. Revere, this is Assistant Manager Devon Hardy, how may I help you?”
“I have a message light on my phone.”
“Yes, thank you, a message was called in. If you can wait one moment.” Less than ten seconds later, the clerk came back on. “I have a message that was called in at four forty-five today.”
That was ten minutes before she returned to her room.
“The caller didn’t want to leave a voice mail, but asked that I take down this message. He said, ‘The Ames case is closed. The family doesn’t want you or anyone else reopening that can of worms. Go back to New York.’” Devon hesitated, then added, “He refused to give me his name. I’m sorry, Ms. Revere, but I have a standing order to give you all messages, even anonymous.”
She always had that policy when she traveled because many people she interviewed felt uncomfortable sharing information, even their name and phone number. Many high-end hotels wouldn’t forward an anonymous message.
“Thank you, Devon.” She hung up.