Gorman bristled. “Why did you have a weapon?”
“My Taser?” Max counted to three. “Here’s my statement. My name is Maxine Revere. I’m a freelance reporter. I was asked to look into the cold case of Jason Hoffman, who was murdered at Atherton College Prep at the Evergreen construction site last November. I met Ms. Parker at the site this morning, asked her to call me if she wanted to share information related to Jason’s death. She called and asked to meet me here. When she wasn’t in Starbucks like we’d agreed, I came down here and found her car. I called her cell phone, heard it ring, took my Taser from my purse, turned it on, and followed the sound. I had the sense that something was wrong. I found her lying, bleeding and unconscious, between those two cars.” Max gestured. “Then, from that parking space”—she pointed to the spot across and one over from where Dru had been—“a dark, probably black sedan flashed his brights, peeled out of the space, and nearly hit me. The rear driver’s side hit the white car,” Max pointed, “when he fishtailed, and then he left. I couldn’t see the license plate because the high beams temporarily blinded me, but I believe B was the first letter and the last number was eight or three. I then called 911 and administered first aid until the ambulance arrived.” She took a deep breath. “You have my contact information if you need to reach me. I’m going back to my hotel now.”
“I’m not through,” Gorman said.
“I am.”
She turned and found herself staring at another cop, this one also in his mid-thirties, with a conservative haircut but unshaven jaw, and sharp green eyes. Six feet two inches, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. Part of a U.S. Marine Corp tattoo was visible on his bicep. His badge was clipped to his belt and so was his gun. It looked like a .45, but Max couldn’t be certain. David was teaching her about guns since she obtained a permit to have one in her New York City apartment. Threats were part of her business, and none of them were viable, but they seemed to keep coming, and David said unless he could be with her 24/7 she’d damn well better learn how to protect herself in her own apartment.
The cop lifted his badge for Gorman, but didn’t take his eyes off Max. She couldn’t read his expression. Her first impression package was: ex-military, tough, immovable. A man of few words who would take shit from no one.
“Santini, Menlo Park,” he told Gorman. To Max he said, “Five minutes.”
She wanted to argue with him—she was tired, hungry, crabby, and her head was about to explode. But she didn’t. She stood there and watched as Santini pulled Gorman aside. Santini positioned them so he could see Max, but Gorman couldn’t. Did he think she was going to leave?
She wanted to. But the night had drained her and she had no more energy. She didn’t even think she could handle another confrontation with Gorman.
The conversation between Santini and Gorman lasted less than three minutes, and Gorman walked over to the officer who was standing near the couple who’d stayed to help. Santini walked over to Max.
“Please don’t tell me I have to go through this all again.”
He shook his head. “I heard everything after you called Dru Parker’s cell phone.” He handed her the Taser the officer had taken when he first arrived.
She smiled and put it in her purse. “Thank you.”
“Gorman doesn’t like you.”
“I doubt we’ll be getting pedicures together anytime soon.”
He cracked a half smile. “We need to talk.”
“Okay.” She glanced around, looking for a place to sit.
“Why don’t we go up to Starbucks and you can clean yourself up? I promised Gorman I’d get your clothes for evidence before she leaves.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “What’s the indecent exposure law in this county? Can I walk around in a thong and lace bra?”
“I wouldn’t arrest you.” Santini grinned. “Follow me.”
Max followed the detective up the staircase, which opened into a courtyard. Everything was closing around them, even Starbucks. Santini knocked on the door and showed his badge. “Can Ms. Revere wash up? Five minutes.”
It was the barista from earlier. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, but she nodded and let them in.
Santini turned to Max and said, “I’ll be back in one minute. Don’t leave.”
Max went into the bathroom and turned the water on hot. Looking in the mirror she realized she was a horrific sight—there were blood smears on her pale face, her eyes were bloodshot and droopy, and she looked as crappy as she felt.
There was a knock on the door. “Max,” Santini said.
She opened the door and he handed her a large paper evidence bag, plus a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. “It’s all I have. I need your shoes, too. And the thong and lace bra.” He winked.
She took the clothing and bag and shut the door. Nick wasn’t as hard-nosed, tough military commando like she first thought. He had a sense of humor. She liked the contrast.
The paramedics had taken her scarf. She removed everything and dropped her clothing in the bag. She wasn’t planning on wearing any of it again.
She cracked open the door. “Santini!” she called out.
He stepped in the corridor. She dropped the bag in front of him and closed the door again.
Naked, the tile floor cold on her feet, she washed her hands, arms, face, and neck as best she could with the water from the sink and paper towels. She still desperately wanted a shower. She pulled on the sweatpants—a little big, but workable—and T-shirt. USMC. It was faded, but smelled clean, and fit comfortably.
She breathed deeply, splashed cold water on her face, and felt human again.
Nick Santini was waiting for her, holding two cups of coffee and a small bag. He must have passed the evidence bag off to Gorman.