She glanced over to where Nick was sleeping on the couch. He’d taken his pants off, they were on the chair, and he’d slept in the USMC shirt Max had borrowed from him Saturday. A blanket was tangled around his legs, but she could see his well-toned body. She admired and appreciated men who kept fit.
She didn’t like that Nick now knew so much about her—Kevin had kept a lot of information, his personal notes about her and her family, as well as articles she’d written, reviews of her books and cable show, and her finances. A finance article was on top, about how her family had contested Genevieve Sterling’s will because half her estate was supposed to be left to her charitable trust, and the other half split among her grandchildren. Because Martha had disappeared and never been declared legally dead, the family objected to Max receiving Martha’s share. Fortunately, Genie had left an explicit letter that the judge accepted stating that if Martha Revere didn’t come before the court and identify herself within one year of Genie’s death, that the inheritance—and the board seat that went with it—would be affirmed to Max.
That her family—led by her uncle Brooks—would try to convince the judge that Genie was senile had led to a rift that Max had never forgiven them for. While her other aunts and uncles hadn’t been as emphatic as Brooks, they’d been complicit. Max still didn’t know if their problem was because she had been a twenty-one-year-old college student who continued to cause problems for the family, or if they just wanted money, or if they didn’t want her on the board of the trust. She didn’t care. This was her slot, and her decision.
What pained her more than anything was that Eleanor hadn’t stood up for her. Privately, she’d chastised the others for creating a public disagreement on a matter that should have been handled within the closed doors of the family. But Max refused to cave-in to Eleanor’s so-called compromise, and Eleanor refused to make any public statement on her behalf, nor would she go to the judge for Max. That she hadn’t joined with Brooks and the others didn’t matter to Max—this wasn’t something she should have remained neutral on.
Max didn’t like that Nick knew all this stuff about her. It’s not something she talked about, and it’s not something she wanted to share.
Then in the relevant pile she saw a drawing. It looked exactly like the northwest corner of Atherton Prep. There was the gym under construction, the line of trees, the old gym, the wall—also three small red x’s where the three bodies had been found: Lindy, Jason, and the unknown victim.
He’d even put in distances.
“You weren’t much of an artist,” Nick said as he sat up.
“And you are,” Max said, impressed. “You said there was a connection last night, but I don’t know—there’s no one missing from ACP or Atherton. I checked.”
“I saw your notes. Honestly, I don’t know what to think yet. I do believe that you’re right in that Jason was killed because he caught the person removing the bones, or the person thought he’d been spotted, or that Jason had found something around the grave site and was going to contact the authorities. I don’t see how that connects with your friend, Lindy Ames, but if the bones are as old as my forensics team says, it puts that death at about the same time as Lindy’s. I can’t discount the similarities.”
“The gun that killed Jason—”
“Nine millimeter. Ballistics didn’t show a match to any other crime. Nothing special about the bullets, either. No shell casings at the scene, so the killer policed his brass. The killer was less than ten feet away. Could have been a lousy shot and still hit him.”
“And Jason was killed where he was found, here near the trailers.”
Nick nodded, got up and stretched. Max stared. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man. Nick gave her a half smile, grabbed his pants, and went into the bathroom.
Damn, he knew he was hot. A hot cop.
Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!
She almost laughed out loud. Yes, hot cops were her vice. She had to watch herself or she’d be flying west a whole lot more than she wanted to.
Her phone rang and she grabbed it.
“Max, what happened?”
It was her producer Ben, sounding hysterical.
“What happened with what? I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“I got a call last night from the police, on my answering machine, about the rental car being totaled. Why didn’t you call me? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“Were you talking on your cell phone again?”
“No, Dad, I wasn’t.”
“Stop that, our insurance rates are through the roof. You’re the definition of a distracted driver.”
“I wasn’t even driving,” she snapped. “I was rear-ended.”
“And the car was totaled?”
“I wouldn’t say totaled. Undrivable?”
“Maxine Revere, tell me what happened.”
She gave Ben the short version because she knew how stressed he got when she was working a dangerous case. “It was nothing. Really. I was reading something in my car—while it was legally parked—a van rear-ended me, stole some stuff, and left.”
“What the fuck? You were robbed?”
“Don’t raise your voice. It’s not my fault!”
“I’m calling David. He’ll tell me the truth.”
“Go ahead, I already told him what happened.”
“Dammit, Max, what are you working on? You were attacked? What have you been doing? It’s Wednesday, you promised you would be in New York by Friday. You’re coming back Friday, right?”
Her head was hurting listening to Ben. “This is why I prefer e-mails,” she mumbled.
“What?”
Nick had finished in the bathroom and was watching her from the doorway. His expression was both confused and bemused.
Max said, “I’ll try to be back on Friday, but don’t count on it. I can fly back with David Sunday.” Or Monday. Or Tuesday. But she didn’t say that to Ben.
“I have six interviews lined up for Friday. Your new assistant.”
“Change them.”
“I’ll pick one.”
“Don’t you dare. Your track record sucks, Benji.” He hated the nickname he’d had in college.