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  “Justin and I played in those trees more than at the playground. We made up games. Some of my happiest childhood memories were here. Justin loved climbing trees. He was so much better at it than me. I’m not afraid of heights, but I was always nervous. Justin would go as high as he could, and if he slipped or fell he didn’t care. He got right back up and did it again.”

  She looked back at the trees. She could almost see Justin climbing the tallest tree. The happy Justin, the carefree Justin.

  “I think,” Lucy continued, “that the killer buried her victims in a place they found joy. A child’s joy. A special place. And that means that she had been watching these boys for a long, long time.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  David was waiting for the detective who had been in charge of the Tommy Porter homicide investigation—who was now the assistant chief of police—when he received a message from Max.

  Find out if Tommy played baseball. Plus, the print newspaper archives are not available online. Staff put in a request for print-outs, they’ll be ready for you at the paper before five.

  No please. No thank you. Par for the course when dealing with Max, but he’d thought they’d gotten beyond the employer-employee relationship. They’d become friends. But ever since they’d returned from investigating the Ivy Lake cold case in Corte Madera, Max hadn’t shared much with him. Four months? Yeah, four months and he had the distinct impression she was giving him the cold shoulder.

  A year ago he dreaded her opinion—because Max had an opinion on everything—now, he missed her commentary. Because while Max might lack tact—especially when irritated—her perception of human nature and behavior was both sharp and insightful. Her producer Ben often called her a human lie detector.

  David wasn’t one for talking, especially about anything personal, but he might have to deal with this Max situation because something had happened, and he had the distinct impression she was angry with him. Which was odd, because when Max was mad, she never held back. Maybe he was wrong. But he didn’t think so.

  A young female officer approached him. “Mr. Kane? Chief Carney can see you now.”

  David followed the officer through a security door, then through the bullpen. He’d been in enough cop shops to recognize the buzz, though this building was nicer than most he’d been in.

  Carney motioned for David to have a seat, then closed the door to his office. He was a large man with a shiny black scalp. David knew his record—Carney was fifty-three, had been a cop for thirty years after serving three years in the marines and completing two years of community college with his AA in business administration. He started as a beat cop in South Central L.A.—a dangerous territory even thirty years ago. He moved to Santa Barbara five years after, also as an officer, took his detective exam at the age of thirty, and was a detective for twenty years until the assistant chief retired and Carney was appointed.

  Behind him were photos of family—lots of family. It appeared that he had four or five kids and at least one of them was married with children.

  “You don’t look much like a reporter,” Carney said bluntly.

  “I’m not. I just work for one.”

  Carney grunted a laugh. “I wasn’t going to talk to you, but Officer McKnight called me direct. Said you were on the up-and-up and that he wanted to help if he could. Which means me talking about the Porter boy.”

  “Yes, sir. Did Grant give you the details?”

  “He did. The words ‘serial killer’ were used.”

  David didn’t blame him for sounding skeptical.

  “Do you know Andrew Stanton, the district attorney of San Diego?”

  “Not personally, but I know of him.” He paused, as if accessing his memories. “He lost his son as well.”

  “Yes, five years before Tommy Porter. There are more than a few similarities. Grant confirmed that Tommy was found with a stuffed animal.”

  “He was.”

  “So was Justin Stanton and at least one other victim we’re looking at. Max is working with the detective who investigated the Stanton case. He’s reviewing witness statements and interviews. I was hoping I could get a copy of the statements and interviews from the Porter case.”

  “All public information has been released to the media. I checked with our PIO, and she indicated that NET had already received requested information.”

  “Yes, the public information. The press packets. But the witness statements are key and those aren’t public. Max and a federal agent she’s working with believe that the killer knew her victims, either through the parents or through the victim. They also believe that she may have been interviewed because she lived near the victims or worked with one of the parents.”

  “She. What evidence do you have that Tommy’s killer is a woman?”

  “None.”

  “Then—?”

  “I’m going off what Max told me last night. We’re working different angles of the case, but the federal agent surmised that because of the manner of death—the victims were all drugged and unconscious prior to being suffocated while wrapped in a blanket; they were not sexually assaulted; they were buried with their favorite stuffed animal; and they were buried in a place close to home—that the killer is a woman.”

  “A federal agent is working with a reporter?”

  “I’m as surprised as you, sir.” More than a little surprised, but Max wanted this investigation and working with Agent Kincaid was the only way she was getting the access.

  Carney stared at him for quite some time. David would have been nervous if he was guilty of something—a good tactic, he supposed.

  “Tommy Porter was a difficult case for me,” Carney said. “I had young children back then—four kids, between the ages of five and sixteen—when Tommy was killed. Any case involving a child was always hard on me, hell, it’s hard on most cops, but Tommy stuck with me because it made no sense. Not then, not now. I was positive one of the parents must have killed him. I believed it for a long time, in fact, even after we verified and reverified their alibis. I interviewed them multiple times, and neither gave me any indication that they had the capacity to kill. I didn’t want to believe that this was another Polly Klaas, that a stranger can just walk into a person’s house and steal their child. Now you’re telling me that the killer wasn’t a stranger, that it’s someone I could have spoken with.”

  “I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve read that criminals often return to the crime scene, sometimes trying to put themselves into the middle of the investigation.”

  Carney nodded. “It happens. Not as often as it’s portrayed on television, but it happens. I caught a serial arsonist that way a few years back. Couldn’t stay away, wanted to see the results of his handiwork.”

  “Max Revere already has the list of witnesses from the Justin Stanton homicide and the Chris Donovan homicide. Our staff is inputting them into a database in order to expedite any similarities between anyone involved, even on the periphery. It would help if we had your case files as well.”

  “I need to talk to the chief about this,” Carney said. “Give me your contact information and I’ll get back to you.”

  David didn’t know if this was Carney giving him the brush-off or if he was genuinely going to consider the idea. He pulled a business card out of his wallet and put it on Carney’s desk. “I appreciate your time. One more question: do you know if Tommy was on a baseball team? Or if he enjoyed baseball?”

  “Why?”

  “Max wants to know. I would have asked Grant when I met with him if I’d known she needed the information, and now he’s on duty.” He didn’t tell Carney why, but he would if pressed.

  Carney looked skeptical, but nodded. “Played since T-ball when he was four. Was a good little player, apparently. He was nine when he died, but played up with the twelve-year-olds. The kids he played with—they were really shaken by what happened. They all came to his funeral in their uniforms. Broke my heart.”

  “Thank you, sir.”
>
  “Did you say that the feds were involved? They can ask for any information without any problem. I don’t have a problem with the feds. I have a good rapport with the local ASAC, we have lunch once a month, keep each other in the loop.”

  “Max is working with a federal agent, but it’s not an official investigation.”

  “How does that work?”

  “To be honest? I have no friggin’ idea.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Max and Lucy had a pleasant late lunch at a quaint restaurant close to the hotel. Lucy asked questions—smart questions—about Karen’s disappearance and some of the other cases Max had worked on over the years. So when they arrived back at Max’s hotel room, she was surprised when Lucy said she was going to her room to call her brother, the forensic psychiatrist.

  “I’ll let you know if he has additional insight,” Lucy said as she was about to walk out.

  Max had no intention of being shut out by little miss agent Lucy Kincaid, and that’s exactly what this felt like.

  “This is one of the few times I think more heads are better,” Max said. “We should have a four-way conference call.”

  “Four-way?”

  “I have a forensic psychiatrist—retired FBI—who I often consult. I’ve already reached out to him and he has time tonight.”

  Lucy didn’t say anything. It was quite obvious, to Max at any rate, that Lucy thought this was the one area where Max was a complete novice.

  Lucy seemed to be a good cop, but she was still a cop. She would give Max the information she thought was important without the nuances that Max needed to put the whole story together.

  It was clear that Lucy wanted to argue with her. It surprised Max that she relented—however reluctantly—without further comment. Max picked up the room phone.

  “Who else are you calling?” Lucy asked.

  “I’m going to have the hotel’s IT department set up a video conference.”

  “I can do that.”

  “It’s a tech thing.”

  “It’s not a problem. I was tech-savvy even before I married a genius.”

  Max hung up. She’d give Lucy a chance, though Max always believed that when you wanted something done right, you bring in an expert. She didn’t like delays, especially when trying to cut corners or because of incompetence.

  “Arthur is in New York,” Max said. “He teaches at NYU and said to call after seven.” She glanced at her watch, adjusted for the time difference. “He should be home now; I’ll send him a message. Can your brother talk at five our time?”

  “Yes.” Lucy typed on her laptop and opened up a video conferencing program that Max had never seen before. Then Lucy opened the cabinet to the large screen television and hooked up a cable. The program was reflected on the TV.

  “My tech guys in New York have a similar setup in the conference room.”

  “We’re ready to go.”

  “That was fast.”

  “It’s not difficult,” Lucy said. “I have to call my office, but I’ll be back before five.”

  Max wondered if that was an excuse to talk to her brother alone first. But truth was, she had calls to make as well. She walked Lucy to the door, then pulled out her cell phone and called David.

  “Have you heard back from Carney?”

  “No.”

  “We need those files.”

  He didn’t comment. Of course he knew what she needed. “I sent you photos from the crime scene like you asked,” he said instead. “I don’t know what specifically you were looking for, so I took a little of everything.”

  Max sat down at her own computer and pulled up her e-mail. She scanned through all the photos. “This is good. Did you find out about baseball?”

  “Carney said Tommy played on a Little League team.”

  “Do you know which one?”

  “Is that important?”

  “I don’t know yet. Just trying to piece together all the information I can before we talk to the shrinks.”

  “I’m having coffee with Grant in the morning. I’ll ask him.”

  “Why? Does he have more information?”

  “I promised to keep him in the loop. He’s the one who got me the meeting with Carney in the first place.”

  “Fine, just be cautious in what you reveal.”

  “I’m not keeping secrets from the family.”

  “Not secrets. I don’t want any of this leaked out.”

  “You want the story.”

  Max bristled. He made it sound like a sin. “Yes, I want the damn story. If a lesser reporter gets wind of this, they’ll blow it. The entire investigation. It’s happened to me before you joined my team. I’m not going to ruin this, not when it’s at a sensitive stage. What if Lucy is right and the killer is out there, looking for another victim? Right now we have time on our side. We don’t want to tip this woman off.”

  “Hold on, I have a call coming in from the eight-oh-five area code.”

  David put her on hold. She would have been angry, except 805 was Santa Barbara, and that could mean that Carney was giving him good—or bad—news.

  She put her phone on speaker and read over her other messages. Her staff had come through with a rather short list of articles about Rogan Caruso Kincaid Protective Services, which she put aside to read tonight. Ben sent her an e-mail that RCK hadn’t responded to his inquiry, over and above the press packet, and did she want him to press. She told him to hold off for now, but that she might change her mind.

  She still wanted to know about Lucy Kincaid and her husband, but decided that she’d stand down for the next day or two. She didn’t want to give Kincaid any reason to pull out her badge and assume authority. Though somehow, Max didn’t think she’d do that. There was something else going on with Lucy, and Max hadn’t quite figured it out.

  Instead, she sent Ben a message.

  I read the brief info you sent on Dillon Kincaid—I’m having a conference call with him in less than an hour, have you learned anything I need to know?

  David said, “Max?”

  “Still here.”

  “Carney wants Agent Kincaid to request the files.”

  “What? Doesn’t he know this isn’t a federal investigation?”

  “He knows. His chief won’t give the witness statements to the press. It’s a back door he’s taking, Max. He wants to help, but is stuck. He’s already requested the files from archives—it’s a fifteen-year-old case, it may take a day or two.”

  “Dammit,” she mumbled. “Fine. I’ll make it happen.” She hoped, because Lucy wasn’t here as an FBI agent. “Wait, it’s Friday afternoon. Do we have to wait until Monday?”

  “Possibly, but Carney may have pull. The archive is attached to police headquarters, so he may be able to grant access over the weekend.”

  “Road trip—not my favorite thing, but I suppose it wouldn’t save much time if we chartered a plane to Santa Barbara.”

  “Driving through L.A. traffic?”

  Max groaned. She hated traffic. “I’ll let you know. Thanks, David.” She ended the call and read a message that had just come in from Ben.

  Max—I don’t have much on Dillon Kincaid. We’ve spread our research staff thin this week, piling on more assignments while they still have work on their desks. We have to prioritize, and this wasn’t a priority. He’s a forensic psychiatrist. He works from home, but doesn’t see patients there. He consults for the Federal Bureau of Prisons and has served as an expert witness in more than two dozen trials over the last eight years, when he opened his practice in D.C. Prior to that, he was in private practice in San Diego. He’s married to an FBI agent, Kate Donovan, who’s an instructor in cyberterrorism at the FBI Academy in Quantico. If you need more, you’re going to have to wait. I’m off to dinner with the Crossmans and some of our key investors. Don’t call me; I won’t answer.—Ben

  Max was supposed to be at that dinner. She felt marginally guilty—the Crossmans gave her a lot of leeway in her position at NET an
d asked little in return. They had planned to show her off, in a way, let the money people pick her brain. Max didn’t care much for money people, perhaps because she was one of them and knew more than her fair share of philanthropists and sharks.

  She sent Ben a text message—knowing he might not read his e-mail, but he would always read a text.

  If you want me to do a call-in or video chat at the end of dinner, I should be done with Arthur by nine ET.

  Ben responded with a dancing happy face emoji. She rolled her eyes.

  It was close to five before Lucy returned. She’d showered and changed—Max supposed she should have taken the opportunity to relax, but she would relax with a bottle of wine in the Jacuzzi bathtub tonight or perhaps go down to the hotel’s spa and soak in the hot tub.

  “You look refreshed,” Max said.

  “I think better in the shower.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  Lucy was surprised by the question. “Well, I guess I was formulating my presentation.”

  “What presentation?”

  “To Dillon and Dr. Ullman. I know how they think, I want to present our case to them clearly.”

  “You know Arthur?”

  “No, but I know people like him. And I read your book.”

  Max hadn’t considered that. “It’s eight on the East Coast, they should be waiting for us. I have some news.”

  “Good, I hope.”

  “Neutral. Carney from Santa Barbara said his boss will only give us the files if you request them.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “You’re FBI.”

  “No. I can’t—I’m not here officially.”

  “Carney is just covering his butt. We can go up there, you show your badge, and we get them. You can even go up without me.” Max was trying to make light of the situation, but Lucy looked more than a little nervous. Max didn’t understand why … and she became suspicious.

  Was there something Lucy wasn’t telling her?

  “Look, this may be the only way we can get the files because technically the Porter case is still open. If I were there, I’d get them—David plays too nice with cops. I don’t.”