The problem, Max realized, was that she had doubts that the drug money laundering scam was the root of Jason’s murder. Dru had seemed nervous around Roger Lawrence, the general manager of the Evergreen project, and Lawrence had been the one to send her on a worthless errand when Max started talking to her. Max wouldn’t have been surprised if Lawrence had been the one to knife her—that it was someone completely different, with no apparent connection to Evergreen, made Max skeptical that the two cases were connected.
She didn’t want to be skeptical. Skeptical meant that she still had questions that hadn’t been answered. Questions she couldn’t even guess at.
She couldn’t forget what Dru said on the phone. That strange things had been happening at Evergreen the week before Jason’s murder. And later Dru talking about holes and trees. And since the farm had nothing to do with the construction company—at least from what Max could tell so far—these “strange things” might not be related to the drug money, either.
She needed to talk to Dru again. But not tonight.
Max signed the check and went upstairs to change into her swimsuit. She needed to decompress. Her muscles were already so sore she could hardly walk up the stairs; the spa would work wonders to loosen her up and help her sleep.
She changed into her blue one-piece suit, pulled on a hotel robe, and grabbed a towel. She swung by the bar for another glass of wine, this one in a plastic cup for the pool, and went outside. The night had cooled off substantially and steam rose from the spa. There was a couple enjoying the warmth but Max had no problem slipping in and relaxing. She said a polite hello, then closed her eyes and put her head back. A few minutes later she heard the couple leave, and then she put her feet up on the seat. The cold wine went down beautifully and for a few blissful minutes, her mind was completely clear.
Then her thoughts drifted back to Lindy’s murder and the key she’d found in Kevin’s apartment. Jason Hoffman’s case was far from closed, but she’d handed everything over to the police. Though she still had some questions—that she hoped Dru could answer—she didn’t have another angle to follow. And while the pot farm had been a big distraction, Lindy and Kevin hadn’t been far from her mind.
Though Kimberly Ames had kept Max from talking with Gerald Ames on Saturday, she wouldn’t be at Gerald’s office tomorrow morning. Max would ask him point-blank whether he’d left the message for her at her hotel. And then, depending on the answer, she’d ask for his blessing. Lindy had problems with her parents—what teenager didn’t?—but she’d truly loved her father, and Max wanted to give him peace of mind.
She considered her motivations. Was it Gerald Ames she cared about or herself? Did she need to know, regardless of who else wanted the truth? Would she continue pursuing answers even if Lindy’s father wanted her to stop?
She wouldn’t know until she asked him.
Max heard someone approach and opened one eye to find Nick Santini standing over her. She smiled; he frowned.
“Detective,” she said.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
She closed her eyes again. “You can go,” she said.
“Not until you explain yourself. Risking your life for a damn story?”
She sighed. “I’m trying to relax. Don’t yell at me.”
A chair scrapped along the tiles and Nick sat down. He said in a low voice, “You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“You’re a cop. It’s part of your job.”
“You’re not a cop.”
“Until I took the host position with “Maximum Exposure,” I was an undercover investigative reporter. I sometimes got into scrapes that were hard to get out of, but aside from a broken arm a few years back, and the occasional bumps and bruises, I’ve been fine. Going out to Cross’s place on Phleger Road brought back all the reasons why I love my job. Besides, no cop could have gone where I did without a warrant.”
“There’s a reason for the rules.”
“And there’s a reason to break them.” She opened her eyes again. Nick sat close to the edge and she had an overwhelming urge to pull him into the spa with her. After last night’s kiss, she wanted more.
But he still looked angry.
“You talked to a suspect.”
“Dru? She would have lawyered up if you went in all hard-nosed cop on her. I got what you needed, and she’s cooperating. You’re welcome.”
“You think you’re some catalyst for truth, justice, and the American way?”
“I’d use the slogan, but that would be plagiarism.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you? It takes time to build a case. We had to arrest them because of what you found, but now they’ve called their lawyers, I have no proof that either of them killed Jason Hoffman, and if the DA or the U.S. attorney—because hell, right now there’s such a big jurisdictional fight that I don’t know if I’ll even get to talk to any of them again—cut some fucking deal, there goes any closure for the Hoffman family.”
“Rebecca Cross stabbed Dru. I saw her damaged car.”
“Her car was definitely in the parking lot. We have it on surveillance. But we don’t have her on tape. The angle is wrong. And she’s not talking, not one word. Neither is Potrero. The only thing Potrero said when I put Jason Hoffman’s murder on the table was that he didn’t kill Hoffman, didn’t even know him.”
“You believe him?”
“Potrero is an ass, and he’s definitely capable of killing someone. Possession with intent to sell is a far lesser charge than murder and attempted murder. We’ll see.”
“Cross?”
“Cold. We now have to build a rock-solid case.” He ran his hands over his face. “I don’t think you understand the position you put us all in today.”
“I got you proof of their operation.”
“They’re going to make bail. We just found out about the drug operation—usually, we work for weeks, sometimes months, to build a case to turn over to the district attorney. We don’t have that kind of time now—we have to show our cards and build the case after the fact. That makes it harder on everyone, and we’re going to miss things. Some damn lawyer will get them off on some fucking technicality and that’s all on you. It’s out of my hands now. The FBI and DEA are taking it over.”