“They’re based in San Mateo.”
“I have a friend in San Francisco who knows everything about anything green. I’ll call him and let you know what’s up.”
“Thanks, Shell.”
“Anytime. But seriously, Max, don’t wait until you need something to call. I miss you.”
“Hey, the phone lines go both ways.”
“Touché.” Shelley laughed and hung up.
Shelley had a point. Max tended to keep her friends at a distance, and she wasn’t sure why. She really didn’t like psychoanalysis, but she suspected her need to avoid close attachments was related directly to Karen’s death as well as her mother’s disappearance. No-brainer, she was sure any first-year shrink would diagnose her as having abandonment issues or some such nonsense. Whatev, as Whitney said earlier.
Sitting down the street from a mail drop wasn’t going to help her find J. C. Potrero. There had been nothing in Dru’s room with his address or phone number—that information was likely in her cell phone. If the police had recovered her cell phone, Nick might be able to get it, but then she’d have to explain why, and she wasn’t certain there was anything to this theory. In fact, she didn’t even have a real theory. Nothing that connected to Jason Hoffman.
If Potrero’s mail drop was in San Mateo, it was reasonable to think that he lived or worked in the area.
She logged into a public files database that was used primarily by private investigators. She did a variety of searches, but it wasn’t until she went back to his Facebook page and learned that his full name was John Carlos that was she able to find his home address.
John Carlos Potrero was twenty-one, a year older than Dru, and lived in a pricey condo west of El Camino Real in San Mateo. Just up the hill from the complex were some of the most expensive homes in the region and Crystal Springs School, which had been a rival of Max’s own Atherton Prep.
Family money—maybe. But when Max did an ownership search on the address, the condo was owned by DL Environmental. And she couldn’t find anything on a Potrero family trust or a DLE trust. Didn’t mean there wasn’t family money, but if there was, it wasn’t obvious.
Max sent the information she’d uncovered to Shelley, then approached the building.
The apartment building was a combination of condos in a three-story structure and bungalows, which surrounded the main building. She pulled a flyer from a unit that was for sale and was surprised it was listed for more than half a million dollars. J. C.’s property was a bungalow in the back, likely worth more than the condos. There was a single car garage attached. Max couldn’t see in through the shuttered windows.
She knocked on the front door and there was no answer. She considered breaking in like she’d done at Dru’s house, except here was a lot more dangerous and she didn’t have a plausible excuse. All the shutters were closed and she couldn’t see into the unit. She turned to leave.
“You’re trespassing,” a guy said behind her.
She turned back and faced who she knew to be J. C. Potrero from his Facebook profile. “J. C., right?” He wore jeans and a red windbreaker. He looked like he was leaving, but he hadn’t answered the door. Odd.
“What do you want?”
She extended her card. “Maxine Revere, freelance reporter. I’m writing an article about the attack on Dru Parker last night. She’s a friend of yours.”
“Why would a reporter care?”
“Because she had a meeting scheduled with me last night, but was attacked before we could meet.”
“That’s none of my business.”
“But you’re her employer.”
“She works for a construction company in Redwood City.”
“But you own DL Environmental.”
“It’s just a small nonprofit.”
“Small? It paid for this condo. And nearly one hundred thousand dollars of annual income to Ms. Parker over the last two years.”
“Where are you getting your information?”
He was edgy, bouncing on his feet, and belligerent.
“DLE also has the title on Ms. Parker’s car.” Max took a leap. “I can’t help but think she was attacked because she had planned to meet me. Do you know what she wanted to tell me? Do you know why someone would want to kill her?”
“I haven’t talked to Dru in months. Now leave.”
“Months? Then why would her roommate have suggested she was spending the weekend with you?”
“Get the fuck off my property or I’m calling the cops.”
That would be interesting. “Do you own a black sedan?”
His face was red. He couldn’t speak. He pulled out his cell phone.
She doubted he’d call the cops, because she had a lot to tell them if he did. But she walked back to her car and drove down the street. She stopped at the end of the block and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long. A motorcycle with a rider in a red jacket identical to the one J. C. had been wearing flew past her.
She quickly wrote down the license plate while she followed the bike.
He didn’t go far. Four miles up the road, in Burlingame, he turned off El Camino Real and wound through a neighborhood until he was at the top of a hill. Another nice neighborhood, though not as pricey as the Crystal Springs area where J. C. lived. He parked in the driveway and strode up to the door. A woman answered and he started shouting at her, then the door closed and Max couldn’t see or hear him.
She ran a title search. The house was owned by Rebecca Cross, and had been for the past three years. No husband on the title. A Google search told Max that Ms. Cross was an instructor at Ca?ada College.