Poisonous: A Novel (28 page)

“Did you see the schedule? We’re going to be shooting at
four in the afternoon?
I’d expected to be in the city slicing and dicing the tape by two.”

“Tommy and Austin have school until three. I can’t get them out of school for this. Austin is a minor.”

“And where’s Paula Wallace on this schedule? You sent me to her house, but we’re not interviewing her?”

“She backed out,” Max said.

“You’re killing me.”

“I’ve prepped the boys. We’ll have everything else done. I only need thirty to sixty good seconds of the kids.”

“Do you even understand what goes into editing twenty hours of tape into seven minutes?”

“Ben sent you because you’re the best,” Max snapped, “so act like it.”

“You’re fucking impossible.”

Charlie knew damn well they were on a tight schedule, and there was no doubt that he’d already pulled the B-roll he wanted to use. He had the interview with Donovan Hunt, the NCFI spokesman, and a Skype interview Max had done with an expert on cyberbullying in the UK late last night. They would have the police spokesman, the boys, and of course Max. She’d already shot part of her segment yesterday at the preserve, they’d do the voice-over as soon as they were done with the Central Marin Police Authority, and Max hoped one of Ivy’s teachers agreed to speak on camera. Then there was Ruby Jones, who would hopefully have confirmation on time of death after analyzing the organic evidence preserved at the lab in San Francisco. They wouldn’t have time for an on-site interview, but a Skype interview would work.

Max let Charlie walk off his frustration and went into the station. Grace Martin met her almost immediately. “The chief wants to talk to you.”

“Am I in trouble?” Max asked.

“He’s letting me go on the record.”

Max lit up. “Really? Why the change of heart?”

“Time of death—he wants to release the information in a controlled manner, and I suspect he thought if I went on record with you, you’d let us shape the revelation.”

Max would have deferred to them on this point anyway, but she didn’t say that. “You found something.”

“Travis Whitman’s alibi is gone. He was home alone until eleven fifteen when his parents returned from a movie. But I checked the movie times again. His parents had said they’d arrived home ‘around’ eleven fifteen, take or leave. The movie got out at eleven ten, and walking to the car and driving—going as fast as I could imagine them going—they wouldn’t have been home until eleven thirty. At the earliest.”

“And no one can confirm that he was in fact home while his parents were at the movies.”

“Correct. The problem is any defense lawyer would skewer the prosecution if we arrested Whitman solely on this lack of an alibi and time of death.”

“You want him to confess.”

“We’re going to ask him to come in this afternoon.”

“What about Justin Brock? Is his alibi more or less solid?”

“When we interviewed his girlfriend, she said he left her house just after midnight. She could be lying, so we’ll talk to her again, but his alibi is more solid if Ivy was killed between ten thirty and eleven thirty. I have a list of other potential witnesses who could have seen Brock with the girlfriend, but after a year I can’t trust them as being reliable memories.”

“Was his girlfriend at the time Laura Lorenzo?”

“Yes, how did you—wait. Is there a relation between her and that damn reporter?”

“Yes. Younger sister.”

“Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

Chief Reinecke came out of his office and into the lobby. He introduced himself and said, “I just spoke with Graham Jones of NCFI. Impressive operation he runs.”

“Yes, it is,” Max concurred.

“He’ll have his report to me by noon today, including the etymology report from his colleague who’s working with the state lab. I rarely allow detectives to speak to the press, but I’m making an exception in this case. However, I told Martin only the facts. We will not discuss individual suspects, and I would appreciate if you don’t ask the question.”

“Understood.”

Reinecke still seemed nervous. Max said, “I told Detective Martin that my objective is to find the truth, not to vilify the police department. I appreciate your cooperation.”

He nodded but didn’t respond. “Our spokesperson will go on record with a formal statement, and then you can talk to Grace. But I’m going to sit in.”

“Absolutely,” Max said. “Let’s do it—I’m sure Charlie’s ready.”

They went to the chief’s office, and first the official spokesperson gave a perfunctory statement that Max doubted she’d use at all, and then Grace sat in the chief’s chair. While Charlie rolled the camera, Max had Grace verbally document the investigation, starting at the point the CMPA was called to the preserve. Grace went on a bit too long, but it could be edited down. Max then asked the key question. “Northern California Forensics Institute sent a team down to review evidence. Have you received their report and what did they find?”

“We have a preliminary report. Based on a state-of-the-art computer program that takes in all environmental factors, plus an analysis of the organic material, they have narrowed the time of death to between ten forty-five and eleven fifteen at night.”

“Isn’t that earlier than you’d initially thought?”

“The coroner originally gave a wider time of death, but based on other evidence—such as the fact that Ivy’s phone was used at one ten—we determined she was likely killed closer to one thirty or two in the morning.”

“And have you changed that theory?”

Grace nodded. “We believe that whoever killed Ivy Lake used her phone at one ten and pretended to be her. This was likely done to establish an alibi for her killer.”

*   *   *

Max liked working on a rush segment; the time flew by. After Grace came an interview with one of Ivy’s teachers, then the Skype session with Ruby, a Skype session with Graham, and a follow-up with the psychologist, and finally Max’s voice-over. Charlie edited between filming, and they already had a good chunk of the show complete.

When they were finished it was time to meet Tommy and Austin at Jenny Wallace’s house. The final clip, the part that was going to twist the hearts of Max’s viewers.

Max told Charlie to shoot film of the tree house while she settled Tommy down. He was antsy and nervous, and he began to stutter.

Jenny didn’t want him going on camera at all, but Tommy insisted he wanted to.

As soon as the camera started to roll, even if they told Tommy it wasn’t on, he froze or stuttered or mumbled. Austin gave his interview like a well-trained actor, but in the end, Max realized it wasn’t working out the way she wanted. They left at four thirty and Max knew they were cutting it close. Charlie was stressed, and she was headed in that same direction.

David saved the day.

David said, “Richard will drive you to the city so you and Charlie can work on the segment on the road. Hopefully, by the time you get there, it’s just a matter of fine-tuning.”

“And you?”

“I’ll follow and you can take the car when you’re done. I’ll head back with Richard. I know you want to see Nick, though I still think I should come with you. Justin Brock could be our killer.”

“If he is, he’s not going to admit it to me. He only agreed to meet because I got through to his fiancée. I have questions, and since neither his parents nor the Wallaces are going to answer them, I need to convince Justin to talk. Specifically, I want to know the steps the Brocks took prior to Heather’s suicide.”

“What do you mean?”

“They had to have known Heather was being bullied. They pulled her from school, sent her to the all-girls school, they must have talked to Ivy or the school or her parents. Austin said he recalled Paula and Bill talking about a visit Paula had from Mrs. Brock—but I don’t know the details. Paula isn’t going to tell me. Mrs. Brock isn’t going to tell me.”

“Why is it important?”

“Because it might reveal other people whom Ivy had humiliated online.”

David didn’t say anything, and Max glanced over at him. “What aren’t you saying?”

“Some crimes shouldn’t be solved.”

Max shook her head. “I don’t believe that. You’re thinking, someone—likely a teenager—reacted to Ivy’s machinations by pushing her off a cliff. Possibly spontaneously. Possibly by accident. And that I can believe. But the problem is, Ivy might have been a bitch, but she deserved a chance to grow up, to redeem herself. Further, the person who killed her—if they had come forward—would likely have been given a minimal charge if there were extenuating circumstances like cyberbullying. If the person was a minor, they could have had their records sealed. They could have felt remorse.”

“Teenagers don’t think that way. They panic. They lie. They conceal, because they think, ‘Oh shit, no one can ever know about this.’”

“Yes, but do they then set up evidence like the tweet from Ivy’s phone two hours after she died? In order to give themselves an alibi? If Graham’s team is right, Ivy died within an hour of leaving her house. The killer met her in a remote location, pushed her off the cliff, and either left and returned two hours later to send the tweet and throw the phone over the edge with Ivy’s body; or sat up there for hours, thinking how to cover up the crime. And all the while, two teenage boys are stuck in the middle of a hate-filled divorce and remarriage.

“If Paula and Bill had stopped Ivy when it was first brought to their attention that she was tormenting Heather Brock—and possibly others—Heather would likely still be alive and so would Ivy,” said Max. “So talking to Justin Brock is paramount. If I get any sense that he killed her or knows who did, I won’t tip my hand. Plus, I’m meeting him in a public place only two blocks from the police station.”

“Just be careful.”

“I was doing far more dangerous things and talking to far more dangerous people before Ben hired you,” Max reminded him.

“Those days are over,” David responded.

Chapter Twenty-three

She’d left San Francisco at seven thirty that evening, after the segment aired in New York, but not yet in California. It took her an unreasonable ninety minutes to drive thirty miles. By the time Max arrived at Nick’s house, she was irritable and stressed.

Nick answered the door and opened his mouth—she didn’t know what he was going to say, but she stepped inside and said dramatically, “I despise traffic. I’m starving. And I really wanted to see you.” She shut the door before wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

Nick’s hands fisted in the small of her back as he embraced her. Her tension headache all but disappeared.

“How hungry are you?” Nick asked, his voice low and rough.

“Very,” she whispered.

He reached up to the back of her neck and slowly pulled down the zipper of her dress. She shivered as he reached her waist and he slid his hands down and gently, purposefully, pushed her pelvis toward his.

“Me, too.” He looked at her and smiled, his eyes dark and mischievous. Nick walked backward through the living room, down the hall, pulling Max with him. He didn’t have to pull too hard. By the time they reached his bedroom, her dress was on the floor and Nick’s T-shirt was no longer covering his chest.

This was exactly what Max needed.

*   *   *

It was nearly eleven by the time Nick and Max crawled out of bed, and Max was truly famished. “I’m going to pass out if you don’t feed me,” she said, breathing deeply. “I smell oregano. And tomatoes!” She slipped on one of his shirts, he put on sweats, and they dashed to the kitchen.

He grinned. “I made lasagna when I got home, all it needs is to be warmed up.”

“Good in bed and you cook, too,” she said, taking a seat.

“Only good?”

She smiled and accepted the wine that he offered. “I wouldn’t want you to rest on your laurels.”

“I don’t think either of us will be resting tonight.”

Nick slipped the lasagna into the warming oven, then sliced a loaf of fresh sourdough bread. He poured olive oil onto a shallow dish and added fresh minced garlic. He put both on the kitchen table in front of her. She immediately dipped a chunk of bread into the garlic oil.

“Your stomach is loud,” Nick said.

“I told you I was hungry. I could eat the lasagna cold at this point, but the bread will tide me over.”

“Fifteen minutes.” He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down across from her. “I know you’re angry with me.”

“Yes, I always have two orgasms when I’m mad.”

“For canceling our weekend.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“Of course I’m fine. I’m not the one with a manipulative ex.”

He bristled, and Max regretted being so snippy. “Okay, I’m a
little
upset,” she admitted. “But I’ll get over it. Sex and food works for me.”

When Nick didn’t say anything, Max didn’t know if he was angry with her or upset with the situation. She shouldn’t have responded with sarcasm, but she wasn’t someone who held back what she thought. David told her to stay out of it, and she was
trying
but she cared about Nick and she hated that his ex-wife was using his son to hurt him. She wasn’t someone who could sit back and let things just
happen.
She wanted—needed—to solve problems. Isn’t that why she’d picked the Ivy Lake homicide to investigate? Because she wanted to fix all of Tommy’s and Austin’s problems? To fix two families who were destroying each other from the inside out?

“Max, I’m really glad you’re here,” Nick said. “But I need to handle the situation with Nancy on my own, in my own way. I need you to respect that. I can’t talk to you about it.”

Max had a laundry list of things she wanted to say about the situation between Nick and Nancy. Max was stunned, however, at the twist of pain in her chest when he said
I can’t talk to you.
It didn’t matter that it was about his ex. It was that Nick didn’t want or value her insight. He was keeping her at arm’s length.

It hurt. More than she would ever admit to Nick, but Max had long ago promised that she would always be honest with herself. She was falling for him. Part of the reason their relationship was working—and had been for five months—was because they lived three thousand miles apart. Seeing Nick was fun, exciting, a vacation from her busy life. But she found herself wanting to spend more time with him, and not wanting to leave.