Max always enjoyed these conversations.
Boxer, North, and Associates had the top floor of a high-rise in downtown Phoenix, boasting views of Chase Field. As Max waited for North in the lobby—decorated in subdued desert hues—she wondered why Blair asked that the interview be conducted in her attorney’s office. Blair had expressly said she hadn’t wanted Max to come to her house. Originally, she’d planned to meet with the Caldwells yesterday, but instead John came alone to the Biltmore, where Max was staying, and gave her what she considered a lame excuse for Blair’s absence. They’d talked for several hours, and the anguish in John’s voice was clear.
His son’s death had gutted him and John was desperate to protect his wife. She was innocent, the result of a legal system gone awry, according to John.
“Blair couldn’t kill anyone, let alone our son. But the police couldn’t find a suspect, they twisted everything around, and arrested Blair. They have no evidence. None.”
Max had reminded John multiple times—because he didn’t seem to absorb her meaning—that she would give him the truth, but that maybe a private investigator would be more appropriate than an investigative reporter.
“Blair’s attorney has a private investigator on staff,” John had said. “They don’t care who killed Peter. They only want to prove it wasn’t Blair.”
John was correct, but Max had explained—twice—that she didn’t work active homicide investigations. Cold cases were different because—usually—the crime was more than a year old and the police didn’t have a suspect. The only time she stepped into a hot case was a missing person because a media spotlight could often be helpful.
John was convinced that if Max solved the three cold cases that were similar to Peter’s murder, that she would de facto solve Peter’s murder. Max thought he was stretching. Yet here she was, waiting to talk to Blair and her attorney. John was one of Max’s few close friends. How could she say no? How could she turn her back on a friend when she didn’t have many to spare?
Besides, the three cold cases were more than a little intriguing. Peter Caldwell aside, if her staff had presented her with the cases as a possible investigation for her monthly crime show, Maximum Exposure, she would have seriously considered them.
Her phone rang and she almost sent it to voice mail, but it was a call she’d been expecting. She stepped away from the receptionist and answered.
“Counselor,” she said, her voice warm and smooth, “I’ve been expecting your call.”
“You threatened me, and I’ve had enough.”
She went from cordial to heated in a heartbeat. “I didn’t threaten you, Mr. Stanton. I gave you a courtesy call.”
“Courtesy? That’s what you call exploiting my son’s murder?”
She went from heated to angry in the next heartbeat.
“I said I didn’t need your permission, but I want your help.” Her voice was even but sharp. “You’re the one who has been avoiding my calls.”
“Let me explain something to you, Ms. Revere,” Stanton said. “Without me, you have nothing. No one will speak to you. You step out of line, you will be arrested. My son is off-limits. Are we clear?”
“Your son’s murder is unsolved, and I believe I can solve it.” Why did she say that? She’d never solved a murder nearly twenty years cold. It was next to impossible.
But she was angry, so she didn’t backtrack—not that she would have. Showing doubt, showing weakness, wouldn’t get her what she needed.
“Do you think I haven’t used every legal resource at my disposal to solve Justin’s murder? He was my son, I’m the district attorney, and I have never forgotten.”
Max dialed back her anger. Just a bit. “My track record speaks for itself, Mr. Stanton. I have connected Justin’s murder with two, possibly three similar crimes, but I need more information. Meet with me. Please,” she added, “I’ll explain my theory and share everything I have learned.” Which was very little at this point. “If after we meet you are still adamant about not helping, I’ll respect that.”
“And back down?”
“Of course not,” she said. Obviously the San Diego District Attorney didn’t know her reputation. “I’ll still investigate. I simply won’t include you. I’ll fly to Idaho and speak with your ex-wife.”
“Leave Nelia out of this.” She could hear the venom in his voice. Score one for her—she knew how to ensure his cooperation.
“Justin was her son, too.”
“Blackmail now?”
“Really, that’s what you’re going with? Blackmail.” Max was trying to give Andrew Stanton some leeway because he had lost his son, but the lawyer was making it difficult for her to play nice.
“Nelia has been through hell, I won’t allow you—”
“Stop,” Max said. She spotted who she presumed to be North’s assistant standing by the reception desk looking at her. “You have my producer’s phone number. Call him. He’ll answer your questions and you can feel free to browbeat and threaten him over the phone. Ben lives for conflict. But I will be in San Diego tomorrow afternoon. Either you work with me or you don’t, but you’re not going to stop me.”
She ended the call and took a long, deep breath. She needed to regain her composure if she was going to be on her A game with Blair Caldwell.
Max was digging a deep hole for herself. The four cases—Peter Caldwell’s murder and the three others—had many similarities, but similarities didn’t solve crimes. She’d been pulling together research for the last two weeks, and she still had very little to go on. The police had connected none of the four cases, and proving they were linked would be impossible if she couldn’t access police records and forensics reports. The first two homicides were unsolved; in the third the father was in prison; and the last—Peter—was built on circumstantial evidence.
She and her staff were working several threads, but so far nothing she pulled led anywhere. Max could neither prove—nor disprove—a connection. She needed to be in the field, talking to people who had been there, reading the files, analyzing the data, reinterviewing witnesses and suspects. And even then, she had never tackled an assignment of this magnitude.
Yet, you tell Stanton that you can solve his son’s murder.
She had put her reputation on the line with one angry comment. That deep hole she saw herself standing next to had just gotten a whole lot wider.
“Ms. Revere?” The young man who had been standing at the reception desk walked over to her. “I’m Ron Lee. Mr. North is ready for you.”