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  If that happened now, after all the cold cases and hot trials she’d worked on as a reporter, she would never have left without finding the truth. Now she feared the truth was unattainable. And Lindy would never see justice done.

  Finally, she asked Jodi, “Did Kevin share any information or theories about Lindy’s murder?”

  Jodi shook her head. “Nothing specific. He didn’t want to talk to me about it. My parents—they had a real hard time during the trial. We moved to Los Gatos, but they were never the same. Kevin moved to San Francisco. I barely saw him while I was growing up. We just reconnected a few years ago.”

  It pained Max how cruel families could be. Not only had Kevin lost friends, he’d been disowned by his family.

  “Though he wouldn’t talk to me much about what he was doing,” Jodi continued, “I know he was researching a lot.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “I don’t really know. He had a lot of legal documents, but he put them away whenever I came over.”

  “Where’s his research now?”

  “I went to his apartment on Wednesday, once the police said I could go in, but his laptop was gone. It was the only thing he cared about, he didn’t even own a TV. He had a file cabinet but—I didn’t look in there.”

  “Did you get a copy of the final police report?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen it.”

  Max suspected she wouldn’t look at it. Jodi was a young, grieving sister and the police report would be a bright and impartial light on Kevin’s last days. She didn’t need to see it.

  But Max did.

  “Where was Kevin living?” Atherton was a small town in the middle of a major metropolitan area. She could be dealing with any number of police departments.

  “An apartment on Roble Avenue.” Roble was nearby, in Menlo Park.

  “On Wednesday,” Jodi continued, “before I called you, I got this in the mail.”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a letter, then hesitated.

  Though Max was curious about what had prompted Jodi to call her, she didn’t reach for the document. She waited and sipped her latte.

  Jodi bit her lip, a nervous habit that was beginning to annoy Max. If it was anyone else, she would have immediately branded them as deceptive or hiding something. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Max was right in picking out lies and diversions. But coupled with Jodi’s overall demeanor and the tragic circumstances, Max suspected Jodi was simply confused and didn’t know what to do with information she had.

  Jodi said, “I need to know that you believe Kevin didn’t kill Lindy Ames.”

  How could Max answer that when she didn’t know what she believed? She said, “When Kevin was arrested, I stood by him. I never believed then that he killed Lindy, because he told me he didn’t. He was my best friend. I postponed college for a year so I could stay here and support him during the investigation and trial.

  “But after the jury came back undecided and the prosecution said that they wouldn’t retry unless new evidence surfaced, and I learned that Kevin lied about his alibi, I didn’t know why. Why did he lie? Why did he feel the need to tell me? I can’t give you what you want. I came to listen, and to say good-bye to Kevin. I can’t promise anything more.”

  In the back of Max’s mind, she asked herself: Where is Kevin’s laptop?

  Tears welled in Jodi’s eyes. She put the envelope on the table, then pulled out her cell phone.

  “On Monday morning, I woke up and had a text message from Kevin. That was before I found out he’d died late Sunday night.” Her voice cracked.

  She pressed a couple of buttons and handed Max the phone.

  The message from Kevin was brief: Call Max. I love you, J.

  Jodi pocketed her phone. “I have to go back to work,” she whispered. “The funeral is at St. Bede’s tomorrow at noon. I don’t think anybody’s going to come.”

  Max took Jodi’s hand. “I’ll be there.”

  Jodi handed Max a key on a Minnie Mouse key chain. “Kevin’s apartment. If you need it.”

  “You’re going to be okay, Jodi. It takes time.” Being okay was one thing; forgetting was impossible. You never forgot the people you lost.

  She watched Jodi leave, her head down. When she was out of sight, Max picked up the envelope.

  It had been mailed on Saturday from Menlo Park, addressed to Jodi in care of the bookstore where she worked. There was no return address, but the initials in the corner were K.L.O.

  Why would Kevin send his sister a letter at her place of employment?

  Max hadn’t asked where Jodi lived, whether with one of her parents or in an apartment or if she had a roommate. Because she hadn’t been investigating Kevin’s death.

  Now she had two questions.

  She removed the single sheet of paper and unfolded it.

  It was an uncertified copy of Lindy Ames’s death certificate. Cause of death: asphyxiation by manual strangulation.

  Max turned over the paper and read the note Kevin had written: Lindy drowned.

  Chapter Three

  The Stanford Park Hotel was among the nicest hotels in the area, though it didn’t look elegant from the outside. Set back from the busy El Camino Real, it looked more like condominiums than a luxury hotel. Max had traveled extensively for both business and pleasure, and the Stanford Park, though small, ranked close to the Biltmore Arizona, the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs, and the Villa in Miami, which is why on the rare occasions she came home, she stayed there. If the clerk recognized her name, he didn’t let on. By now her family would know she was in town. Though nestled at the north end of the bustling, sprawling Silicon Valley, Atherton was a small, close-knit community of seven thousand. She’d met Jodi in a public place; inevitably someone who knew someone in her family would have reported in by now.

  She needed to decompress before facing the family firing squad. They didn’t need bullets to inflict a mortal wound.

  Max sat at the desk in her suite, put her cell phone on the charger, and booted up her laptop. She tried to put Lindy’s death certificate out of her head, at least for the time being.

  She dealt with her e-mails swiftly. She preferred to use her phone for most communication, but if she had to type more than a short paragraph, she waited until she had her computer up and running.

  A message from her current assistant Ginger popped up: You’re impossible to work for. I quit.

  It was simple and to the point. If Max wasn’t so angry that Ginger had quit while she was on the road, she’d have admired the brevity of the statement. If she’d been that succinct while on her personal calls, Max might have tolerated more.

  Max almost called David, but Ginger had cc’d him in the message and he’d know soon enough. She didn’t want to interrupt his limited time with his daughter. He gave her 24/7 anytime she asked, she could give him a week off.

  She opened a browser and ran a quick search on the murder of Jason Hoffman, and clicked on the initial newspaper article dated Monday, December 2.

  CONSTRUCTION WORKER SHOT AT ELITE COLLEGE PREP SCHOOL

  ATHERTON, CA—Late Saturday night, a construction worker was shot and killed at Atherton College Preparatory Academy off El Camino Real in Atherton.

  Jason Hoffman, 23, was found early Sunday morning by school maintenance staff. Atherton Police Department Chief of Police Ronald Clarkson gave a brief statement that the Menlo Park Police Department’s Homicide Squad was taking the lead in the investigation, but Atherton PD would remain closely involved. As of now, the police have no leads.

  “It’s still extremely early in the investigation,” media representative, Officer Donna Corbett, said. “Our department is fully invested in solving this brutal murder and will devote all necessary resources and staff. Atherton Police Chief Clarkson has graciously offered his department’s resources as well.”

  Atherton, a small, wealthy, residential community with no commercial business within its borders, maintains a
large and impressive police force, but defers capital crimes to Menlo Park in a MOI that was recently renewed for three years. Atherton boasts one of the lowest crime rates in California. Hoffman is the first homicide within the town limits in thirteen years. The last murder, the strangulation of high school senior Lindy Ames, also occurred on the ACP campus.

  Hoffman, a lifelong resident of San Carlos, had recently graduated from Virginia Tech with a degree in architecture. He began working full time for Evergreen Construction, a family business owned by his mother, Sara Robeaux Hoffman, and her brother, Brian Robeaux.

  Evergreen is contracted to build the new 80,000-square-foot sports complex, partnering with Cho Architectural Design where Hoffman had interned for three consecutive summers. Because the project was only recently green-lighted, security was not in place that might have prevented or recorded Hoffman’s murder.

  Hoffman was shot twice and according to the medical examiner’s office, he died instantly. A full report will be released by MPPD when available.

  The police had made no public comment regarding the murder other than the usual nonstatement. After skimming the press coverage for the subsequent weeks she determined that the police believed it was a robbery and Hoffman an unfortunate victim. There were no follow-ups by the press, other than a funeral notice. That was often the case with suburban media. Menlo Park didn’t often rate the dailies from San Jose or San Francisco unless it was a major investigation or event; a homicide, though tragic, wouldn’t get play unless it was high profile—or someone like Max came in and pushed.

  This was the point where she wished she had a competent assistant who could pull together the preliminary information about the homicide investigation, Evergreen Construction, the family, Jason Hoffman, and any connection they had with Atherton Prep, including scouring social media for possible angles. Ginger had been the queen of social media—if she wasn’t gossiping on the phone, she was posting pictures on Instagram or pithy comments on Twitter. Max had often wondered how she could condense her incessant chatter into 140 characters or less.

  Ginger’s ability to pull useful data from the Internet was diminished by her social life. But at least she knew how to type and answer the phone. Ashley burst into tears anytime Max looked at her. And Josh? He had been the bane of her existence the three weeks he was in the office.

  Max pushed the whiny, sycophantic, incompetent jackass far from her mind because she couldn’t deny the shimmer of excitement in her stomach, and she wasn’t going to let the loss of yet another assistant keep her from this case. Hoffman’s murder was exactly the type of case she liked to investigate. Almost five months cold. Not so long ago that there couldn’t still be evidence and information to unearth, but long enough that she could move around the investigation without initially irritating law enforcement.

  She had one burning question that hadn’t been answered in any of the press reports: Why was Jason Hoffman at the construction site late on a Saturday night?

  She glanced down at her hands and realized that while she’d been reading the articles about Jason Hoffman, she’d scraped the polish off her left thumb. Dammit, she’d just had a manicure in Miami. She pulled out her nail repair kit, but then David’s name popped up on her cell phone.

  “Did you get the message from Ginger?” David asked when she answered.

  “I might start to like her.”

  David laughed.

  “You talked to her? I thought you were supposed to be the nice one,” Max said.

  “I was. She didn’t like an assignment that might require her working through the weekend.”

  Max had found that to be a problem with many of her assistants. Intellectually, she understood that most people didn’t intend to give up their social life when they took an office management job, but Max didn’t work nine to five. She tried to do her part to give grieving families justice after the horrific loss of their loved ones. The cops sometimes can’t—or won’t—search for answers because they’re too overwhelmed or uninterested. Some cases fall through the cracks—like Jason Hoffman—and someone like her can dig it out and shine light on the evidence once again. Is it too much to ask that an assistant actually work when needed instead of traipsing off for a skinny latte every hour on the hour? Max had made it clear when she hired each of her assistants that the hours would be difficult, but she’d make up for it with generous paid vacations and flexibility.

  She told David, “Call Ben and have him line up interviews for Friday. That’ll give him enough time to weed out the idiots, the criers, and the lazies.”

  “You’ve already decided to stay and help the Hoffmans.”

  He hadn’t asked a question, so she didn’t answer it. She put David on speaker and quickly started working on her nail. She had it down to a science. “Right before Kevin committed suicide, he sent Jodi a copy of Lindy’s death certificate. No explanation. I’m going to the clerk’s office on Monday to pick up a certified copy. There’s something strange about Kevin’s actions the week before he died.”

  Max had been a crime reporter for nine years. She never assumed that any copy of an official document was real.

  “If you need anything before Sunday, let me know.”

  “I’m not going to stomp on your vacation.”

  He laughed.

  “Okay, much. How’s Emma?”

  “It’s not even one, Max. She’s in school until three.”

  She should have realized that.

  “When she gets home, put all this aside. Get ready for your trip. I wish I could go.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to relax on the beach, though you need it.”

  “Like you can?”

  “I’ll be snorkeling, hang gliding, and hiking. Best way to relax.”

  Like her, David was a workaholic. But he also had a kid, and she wanted him to enjoy the rare time alone with his daughter. Max never had a dad, even a part-time dad like David. When she was younger, she would have given anything to spend time with her father. To know him. Of course, she’d have had to know his real name. Her mother never told her the truth before she walked out, leaving her with grandparents who barely acknowledged her existence before they were confronted with her care and maintenance. Max had to admit, for all their faults, her grandparents had never made her feel like the bastard child she was. To them, warts and all, blood always won out.

  “Tell your beautiful daughter I said hi. Don’t say anything to Brittany, because what I want to say wouldn’t be polite.”

  “When has that stopped you in the past?”

  “You’d be surprised how often I bite my tongue.”

  She hung up and finished reading her e-mail while the new polish on her thumb dried. One-handed, she dealt with anything that couldn’t wait until Monday.

  Thirty minutes later, she stood and stretched, then unpacked and stowed her suitcase in the closet. She spent so much time in hotels that she had routines she religiously followed, and that included making the room her home whether she was staying for two days or two weeks.

  A shower would refresh her and wash the travel grime from her body. She hung her favorite turquoise-colored sheath in the bathroom so the steam could refresh the cotton and remove faint wrinkles. She stripped and stepped under the hot spray. Through the glass partition she sighed at the oversized bathtub with massage jets. Pampering would have to wait until her familial duty was complete. By that time, she would certainly need a hot bath and glass of wine.

  She could count on one hand the number of times she’d been home in the past twelve years, and all of them centered around a wedding or funeral. She wouldn’t have come home for any of them, except to honor her great-grandmother’s memory.

  Genevieve Sterling would have expected Max for every important family event, while understanding Max’s need to escape. She’d been a hard but fair woman, loyal to family and friends, generous but not a pushover. Her husband had built his fortune from nothing, with Genie at his side, and when he died young of a h
eart attack, she ran his business with even greater success, seeing the future clearly and investing in technology before technology was considered a viable investment. Max laughed when people said, “I wish I’d invested in IBM.” Genie Sterling had been that kind of visionary.

  Ten years gone and Max still missed her.

  She recognized that her life was filled with loss—her mother, her great-grandmother, her friends—and while she liked to think that she had dealt with each one as it came, today a cloak of melancholy smothered her. Probably because she’d spent an hour talking to a grieving sister and trying not to remember her own grief when Lindy was murdered and Kevin accused of the crime. That year had torn apart every friendship she’d had growing up. One day, they were a close-knit group of privileged kids, all going to college, all ready to take on the world … the next they were divided, angry and grieving and casting blame. They’d been eighteen, hardly ready to take on the world like they thought, and completely unprepared to face the brutal death of one of their own—and the accusations that came after.

  She looked down at her flat stomach and touched the tattoo she’d had since her seventeenth birthday.

  Max’s birthday was on New Year’s Eve. Her mother had once told her she planned it that way so Max’s birthday would always be cause for worldwide celebration. Max would have preferred cake and ice cream.

  But when she turned seventeen, the first birthday that she didn’t receive a card from her mother, Lindy had invited her to go with her family to New York. They had an apartment there because her father traveled often for business, and Max had joined them a couple of times, but never for New Year’s Eve. Lindy told her she had a surprise, and had her driver take them to a tattoo parlor.

  Max had balked at first.

  “I’m not getting a tattoo.”

  Lindy laughed and led her inside. “Of course you are!”