Notorious (5 page)

She left the hotel at three impeccably dressed in her turquoise sheath and a short navy jacket. Accessories matched, makeup flawless, new notebook in her shoulder bag. She had an iPad and a laptop, but most of her research she wrote longhand. In her new notepad, she’d already jotted down basic research on the Menlo Park Police Department—clearance rates, political connections, crime statistics—it was best to be prepared.

The police station, hidden behind established trees and a wide expanse of lawn, bordered an older residential neighborhood. It hadn’t changed much since the last time she was here, when she tried to convince the police that Kevin had a solid alibi and they should try to find Lindy’s real killer. That hadn’t gone well.

Max walked through the public entrance. A small, clean, empty waiting area with a female desk clerk behind glass. Doors, accessed by a digital passkey, were behind the gatekeeper. Soundproof walls cut most noise from the main office, though a faint hum of machines crept through. Everything seemed smaller now than it had when she was a teenager.

She approached the window and slid her business card through the slot. A screen allowed her to speak to the trim, middle-aged woman on the other side. No uniform, likely a civilian clerk. Her nameplate read D. BELL.

“Maxine Revere. I need to speak with the detective in charge of the Kevin O’Neal death investigation.”

All nonattended deaths were investigated, even if it was a cut-and-dried accident or suicide. A suicide would not generally be confirmed as such until after the coroner’s report, even if the initial police investigation ascertained there was no evidence of foul play and the crime scene was consistent with suicide.

Bell picked up her card. “Do you have an appointment with the PIO?”

“I’d like to talk to the detective in charge of the investigation,” Max said.

“All reporters are required to go through the PIO. I’m sure you’re familiar with the process.”

Max couldn’t assess whether Bell was being particularly difficult or simply following the rules.

“I understand, but this is a personal matter, not professional.”

“Officer Corbett will make the decision whether to allow access to our investigators.”

Max could play games and kiss up, or threaten when needed“But you f alcohol, but she didn’t enjoy it. She much preferred straightforward communication. Unfortunately, most people, especially law enforcement and lawyers, expected the games.

Max conceded. “Thank you, Ms. Bell.”

Pick your battles.

Battling gatekeepers was rarely a wise move. Virtually every successful cold case she’d investigated, she’d first befriended the frontline staff—those who controlled information and access.

She stepped away from the window but didn’t sit—she’d done enough sitting on the airplane. She’d also missed her morning run because she’d left Miami so early, which made her irritable. She took advantage of the waiting time to send an e-mail to her producer Ben, explaining that she hadn’t fired Ginger; the girl had quit. She supposed he had a right to think Max had axed her newest assistant—she’d done it to all the others.

You have until Friday to find me someone, Max typed. Or I’ll quit.

It wasn’t a hollow threat. She was independently wealthy and had never wanted to host a cable news show. But Ben Lawson was a visionary. He had a way of making her see the possibilities. He’d sold her on the idea of highlighting specific cold cases and high-profile trials that could impact the criminal justice system, a cause she’d embraced after her best friend in college disappeared during spring break, ten years ago.

“Think an in-depth ‘America’s Most Wanted,’” Ben had said, “focusing on the unknown killer and questions. Investigation. What the cops got right and what they got wrong. Cold cases that you solve.”

It was still the smaller, quieter crimes that she’d pursued for the newspaper before the show—like the murder of Jason Hoffman—that drew her in. The survivors, like Penny and Henry Hoffman, who only wanted the truth so they might have peace.

But, if she was going to be honest, Hoffman’s murder appealed to her mostly because it had happened on her high school campus—the same campus where Lindy Ames had been killed thirteen years ago.

Ben ran the ship and made sure she never had to deal with newsroom politics. As long as she could do what she wanted—investigative reporting in the field and not at a desk—she’d agreed to tape the monthly show. A competent assistant was critical to the part where she wasn’t required to sit at a desk.

Ben hadn’t responded to her e-mail before Ms. Bell called to her through the screen. “Officer Corbett will be out momentarily.”

“Thank you,” she said and pocketed her phone.

Whether Officer Donna Corbett intentionally made her wait, or whether she truly had been delayed, Max didn’t know, but it took another fifteen minutes before the PIO came out. “Ms. Revere?” she asked.

Max bit back a sarcastic reply, considering she was the only person in the waiting room. “Yes, Officer Corbett?”

“I have a few minutes.” She didn’t make any move to bring Max into the main station, but motioned for them to take two chairs in the waiting room.

If Corbett thought the move would intimidate or demoralize her, the PIO hadn’t worked with enough reporters.

Max sat. a nine-thousand-square-foot GU like “Kevin O’Neal is a family friend. The preliminary report indicated he committed suicide, but his sister hasn’t had the closure she needs to accept that. I’d like a copy of the file so I can explain to her what happened.”

“We don’t give out files.”

“I’d like the report. If it’s not an ongoing criminal investigation, that shouldn’t be a problem?”

She didn’t tell the PIO that she already had the initial police report from Jodi. Additional information may have been added—including the all-important coroner’s report. She’d really wanted to talk to the detective, but that could wait because Corbett wasn’t going to make it easy.

“I can do that,” Corbett said. “It’s twenty-five cents a page.”

“Today?”

Corbett glanced at her watch. “It’s four thirty—I’ll see what I can do.”

All she had to do was send the report to the printer. It was all computerized. But Max didn’t say anything because Corbett would make her wait until Monday just to spite her.

“I appreciate it,” she said politely. “If I have further questions regarding the report, I should direct them to you?”

Corbett handed Max her card. She said into her radio, “Jill, can you print a copy of the O’Neal report and bring it to the lobby? Thanks.”

She turned back to Max. “You came a long way to help a family friend.”

The only hint of curiosity. Max didn’t say anything, because she didn’t like open-ended questions. Instead, she switched gears. “I’d also like the initial report of the Jason Hoffman homicide investigation from November. I’m writing a follow-up article on the murder.” That was neither true nor untrue—if there was enough material, she certainly intended to write something about it, even if it was just a couple paragraphs for her show’s Web page. “I read in the initial media reports that MPPD handled the case?”

“It’s an active investigation,” Corbett said.

“Active? You have a suspect?”

Corbett switched gears to full PIO mode. “Currently, the Menlo Park Police Department is in the process of reviewing all cases over three months old to determine if they will remain active or classified inactive pending new evidence. All homicide investigations will remain open until solved, regardless of the status.”

“I’d just like information you’ve already shared with the media.”

“And your interest?”

“I’m a reporter.”

“You’re not local.”

“No, I’m not.” Max left it at that. Corbett had her card, and Max really hated when cops or anyone tried to weasel information out of her without simply asking her. If they were more forthcoming, she’d be more forthcoming. Let them think the national press corps was interested in their small-town homicide investigation.

“I’ll have to get back to you on Monday. As I said, the case is under review and I need to pull together the public information.”

“Can I pick it up at nine Monday morning?”

“I’ll call you.”, but she had fd is

Max would be here first thing Monday morning if she couldn’t track down the detective on her own. She wasn’t going to rely on the PIO to make contact.

A young plainclothes assistant came out and handed Corbett a file.

“What do I owe you?” Max asked, pulling out her wallet.

“Seventy-five cents.”

Max fished out three quarters from her wallet and took the papers. As she was thanking Corbett for her time, the door leading from the squad room opened. A squat detective emerged and glared at Max with small, hate-filled eyes.

“I didn’t believe you’d actually show up here.”

Though Detective Harry Beck had more weight and less hair than when he’d taken the stand during Kevin’s trial, Max recognized him immediately. Then he’d intimidated her with his blunt hatred of Kevin and disdain for her—because she’d taken the stand as a character witness. Today, he didn’t have the same effect. She’d met cops like Harry Beck in virtually every jurisdiction she’d investigated a case. However, Beck could be a problem in her getting information from the department.

“Nice to see you again, Detective.”

He snorted. “What does she want?” he asked Corbett as if Max had already left.

Corbett was slow on the uptake, watching the exchange. Max answered the question instead. “Kevin O’Neal’s death investigation report.”

Beck’s face darkened. “The fucker killed himself. I wish he’d done it thirteen years ago and saved the state a ton of money, but he should never have walked free to begin with.”

Max had many things she wanted to say to the bastard, but she fought her temper and said to the PIO, “Thank you for your time, Officer Corbett.”

She wanted to leave before a confrontation, but Beck wouldn’t let it go.

“You’re not here to dredge up shit? Of course you are,” he answered his own question. “That’s what you are. A shit disturber. I swear to you, Maxine, if you cause any grief for the Ames family, I’ll arrest you. Your privileged ass wouldn’t last a night in prison.”

Max bit her tongue. She wanted to lash out at the brash detective, but she understood the consequences. In her early career, she hadn’t always been so controlled. She’d spent several nights in jail over the years for butting heads with the wrong cop. She survived the ordeals quite well—even wrote an award-winning article about the rights of reporters to protect their sources.

Harry Beck was definitely the wrong cop.

Using all her well-earned—and well-learned—self-control, Max walked out, catching only part of Corbett’s comment before the door shut.

“Why are you giving her ammo—”

Max could predict the conversation. Corbett was young; she hadn’t been with the Menlo Park Police Department thirteen years ago when they caught the murder investigation of Lindy Ames in neighboring Atherton. Corbett may know who the Revere family was; she may in fact know that Max was an investigative crime journalist. But she likely didn’t know that Max had been friends with both the victim and the number one suspect—the only suspect—in Lindy’s murder.

Beck would be giving her an earful">Max raised an eyebrow. . f. And she and either be so intimidated by Beck and his threats that she wouldn’t lift a finger to help Max, or she’d be ticked off that he yelled at her and go out of her way to help Max.

Max, of course, hoped for the latter.

She sat in her rental car, under a magnolia tree, and calmed down. She may have walked out without reacting to Beck, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t affected her.

Harry Beck had been in his late thirties when he was the lead detective on Lindy’s murder. He’d interviewed all her peers, her family, and Kevin. He’d been the one who arrested Kevin and had been one hundred percent confident of his guilt.

Years of experience and meeting hundreds of law enforcement officers in jurisdictions big and small taught Max that when a cop was absolutely confident in his assessment, one of two things happened: he either set out to prove that his theory was right by working evidence that would incriminate his key suspect or he set out to disprove his theory by looking at the case as if the lead suspect were innocent.

Cops didn’t have to believe people were innocent until proven guilty, and rarely did they. Threatened, spit upon, shot at, and dealing with the worst end of the human spectrum, cops were usually jaded. But even the jaded cops, if they were good, focused on dispelling all other scenarios in order to nail their suspect. They didn’t dismiss evidence because it didn’t fit their theory.

Max couldn’t say what Beck did or didn’t do; all she’d seen were his actions toward Kevin. Then after the trial, when she’d told him about Kevin’s true alibi, he’d said unspeakable things. And he’d said ultimately that he didn’t care if there was any evidence that suggested Kevin might be innocent—in Beck’s pea-sized brain, he knew with certainty that Kevin was a killer.

She should pull the transcripts of the trial and—

No.

She wasn’t here to investigate Lindy’s murder. She was here to satisfy Jodi that her brother had killed himself.

She opened the envelope Officer Corbett had given her and read the incident report.

The first two pages were identical to what Jodi had previously sent. Officers Blankenship and Lake were the first responders to the 911 call from Kevin’s apartment manager. His alarm clock was going off and disturbing a neighbor. When the manager, Anita Gonzales, couldn’t reach Kevin by phone or knocking, she’d let herself in and found his body in the bathroom.

He was found in shorts, no shirt, in the bathtub. There was no sign of forced entry. Barbiturates and hard alcohol were found nearby. They interviewed neighbors and friends and learned Kevin had a history of drug use, though he also held down a part-time job at a local coffee shop, and worked part time in construction when there was work. Which wasn’t much lately.

The third page, which Jodi hadn’t had earlier in the week, was the preliminary coroner’s report. Kevin had drowned with a contributing cause of overdose. Essentially, he took enough pills to kill himself, passed out, and drowned in the bathtub before the pills finished the job.