Notorious (19 page)

The windows on the barn were better camouflaged; they were all painted black on the inside. There was also a heavy-duty chain on the door. She walked around and found a second entrance in the back; it was locked from the inside.

But this was her only chance of confirming her theory. She found a rock and broke the window next to the door. Though the window here was also painted, a thick curtain had been nailed over the opening as well. She pulled the curtain from the nails and it fell aside.

The barn housed a full drug operation—thick bunches of marijuana hung upside down to dry under low-wattage heat lamps, fueled by the generator that was operating next to her behind the barn. There were tables for cutting and sorting and whatever else they did with the dried pot.

She snapped several pictures with her phone camera, sent them to her cloud server, hoping they went through with the sketchy cellular connection, then pocketed it. She considered crawling through the window, but she’d then be trapped if anyone came. And what she had documented was good enough shook his head. “ almost fd p for the authorities.

Because she was right next to the generator, she didn’t hear anyone coming until a motorcycle had driven up to the barn. She dropped down from the broken window and flattened herself against the back of the barn.

Shit.

She peered carefully around the corner. Behind the motorcycle was a truck with a camper shell. The motorcycle was a black BMW bike, property of DLE and ridden by J. C. Potrero—confirmed when he whipped off his helmet and started yelling at the woman driving the truck. “We don’t have time,” he said.

“You’re being paranoid,” the female said.

“That reporter was in your house. She found me, we don’t know what Dru told her. The cops talked to Becky this morning. We’re clearing out.”

“We still have another crop to cut—” the girl said.

“Dammit, Amy, leave it. If they find this place, they can’t prove we knew anything about it. It’s only Becky’s name on the title, and she hasn’t been up here in years. She’ll deny knowing about it, and no way can they prove she did. And if they don’t find it? We’ll come back in a couple months for the rest.”

The chains on the front of the barn rattled and the doors opened. She didn’t know how long it was going to take for them to clear out; she needed to get the authorities up to the mountain fast. No way could she go back using the driveway—at least not until she cleared sight of the house.

She checked the cell reception on her phone; none. That meant the pictures hadn’t been uploaded either. She’d have to get back up to Skyline in order to call the police.

She didn’t want to wait, but she also didn’t want to get herself killed. She looked around. Behind the barn was a wide, worn path that disappeared down a gentle slope into a copse of trees. She didn’t see where it led—probably to the remainder of their crop. She didn’t much like the idea of trying to get back to Skyline via the mountain side. She had no idea what kind of terrain she was looking at, but it would be uphill most of the way, some of it steep—possibly too steep to walk.

Max had one option that seemed the most viable—walk around the opposite side of the barn and into the trees, keeping to the shade, and going back up the hillside toward Phleger Road. She would be exposed for a short distance, but she didn’t see an alternative.

Ticktock, Max, make a decision.

“J. C. come here.” Amy’s voice was right on the other side of the broken window.

Her imminent discovery made the decision for her. Max moved quickly around the side of the barn and back toward the house. She grabbed her Taser and flipped it on, just in case, and stopped only when the house blocked the view from the barn. She had to wait, hoping they hadn’t seen her.

“How s="TX" aid="I3QQI">She heard commotion at the barn. Max could only make out a few words, most of which had to do with J. C. barking orders at Amy to hurry; he wanted to be out of here with or without the pot.

Then J. C. started toward the house. He unlocked the front door, Max just on the other side, her body up against the wall, making herself as small as possible. Hard to do when you were five feet ten and a half inches tall.

She heard his voice. There must be a landline inside, because Max still had no service on her shook his head. “. She ou> cell phone.

“No, it wasn’t a fucking tree branch. The curtain was pulled out,” J. C. said. He was standing inside the house, right on the other side of the wall.

As much as Max wanted to listen to the conversation, she knew this was her best chance to get to the tree line and escape while there was still time to bring the police in to stop them.

Staying as low as possible, she ran toward the trees and up the slope.

J. C. spotted her.

“Stop!” He shouted behind her. She didn’t stop; she ran as fast as she could up the hill, her hamstrings burning.

Please don’t have a gun, please don’t have a gun.

She heard a gun go off. Of course he had a gun. But she still had distance in her favor, and she appeared to be in better shape than her pursuer. She hoped. He was ten years younger.

The slope was too steep for her to keep going in a straight line; she began to slide backward, losing ground. She turned and went up at a diagonal, using the trees to brace herself as needed. She spared a glance back and couldn’t see J. C., but there was another gunshot and Max didn’t slow down to figure out where it came from. She didn’t see the bullet hit anything around her. Was he shooting to scare her? Had he recognized her?

Max kept going at a brisk pace, even though she didn’t hear anyone pursuing. Her lungs and calves burned. Then, in the distance she heard a motorcycle, and that’s when she stopped and gave herself a minute to catch her breath.

She willed herself to control her racing heart. She took out her water, drank half of it, and bent over, taking long, deep breaths. She was light-headed and dizzy, but knew that would fade. While her run had been steep and treacherous, she’d run much longer in marathons. Too bad she hadn’t been in the middle of training for a marathon, she’d probably have been able to take the mountain with no problem. But it had been years, and it showed.

The echo in the mountains made it difficult to gauge the direction of the bike, but she guessed he was on the driveway going from the house to the road. Either he was making a run for it, or he was attempting to intercept her.

She used the sound to help her with direction. Soon she found the trees she’d marked when she first left the road, then she went through the broken fence. She no longer heard Potrero’s bike, but she sat behind a tree and listened for several minutes before she felt comfortable leaving her hiding spot.

She walked briskly up the road, toward where she parked her car, and pulled out her cell phone. She had one bar. She tried calling Santini, but the call wouldn’t go through. Instead, she sent him a text message, knowing it was easier to get one through than a call.

On Phleger Road in Woodside, heading toward Skyline Boulevard where I left my car. Found a pot farm and drying facility at Rebecca Cross’s property. They’re clearing out now. They spotted me, but I lost them. Get the authorities up here before they disappear with the evidence.

She then forwarded him the photos that she’d taken. They were going through very slow, and she pocketed her phone.

She walked fast instead of running, because if she spotted J. C., she needed to be able to sprint.

Like you can outrun a motorcycle. Just don’t be spotted.#at fd p

She could see the headline now: INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER MAXINE REVERE FELL TO HER DEATH AFTER UNCOVERING A MARIJUANA FARM.

She pushed the macabre thoughts of dying from her head as she approached the gate that led to the main road. It was closed, which meant he had gone east, or he’d taken the time to lock it behind himself.

She hopped the gate and turned toward the restaurant where she parked her car.

That’s when she saw J. C. Potrero’s motorcycle partly hidden behind a thick tree.

Earlier, cars had passed her intermittently on Skyline Boulevard. Right now, Max saw and heard no one, and a killer was waiting for her.

She looked around, her Taser in hand. There was a house up the road in the other direction, but the chances that someone was home in an area that was mostly weekend cabins was thin. She didn’t

Chapter Sixteen

Max ordered a second glass of wine as the Menlo Grill waiter took her plate away.

The police had taken J. C. Potrero into custody and found Amy Benson still at the house with a truckful of marijuana. The evidence was solid. Rebecca Cross was being interviewed, and the detective in charge—not Santini—said that Amy was talking, and they should know in short order how the entire operation worked.

Not bad for a day’s investigation.

Nick Santini hadn’t spoken more than two words to her when he first arrived. They were, “Explain. Now.” She did. He wrote everything down and walked away. At least she didn’t need to call her lawyer. Arresting a reporter was never a good idea—she would be able to control the public message.

No one—J. C. or Rebecca—had admitted to Jason Hoffman’s murder or the attack on Dru Parker, but it was clear that Rebecca Cross’s car was the one that had nearly hit Max in the parking garage. Max hoped that the multiple jurisdictions didn’t mess with the case—the most important thing, from her point of view, was finding out who killed Jason Hoffman and why.

She hadn’t picked up on much of anything—after taking her statement, Nick and the other cops had stayed away from her—but she overheard Nick tell someone on the phone that Dru Parker was cooperating. Max was pleased—she thought the girl was remorseful and she could use a fresh start. Punish her, but not where it would ruin her life. Her efforts to help catch her attacker and Jason’s killer would go a long way with a jury and judge. Max hoped she had a good attorney. She might be able to help with that. At least get her someone good, who wouldn’t put the girl in debt for the next decade.

She didn’t think that Dru knew or even suspected that J. C. or Rebecca killed Jason until recently. Max liked to believe that Dru would have come forward, even though it was plausible she might have remained silent out of fear. Max certainly hadn’t pushed her hard this morning at the hospital for information, though nearly dying might have had something to do with her willingness to talk.

The problem, Max realized, was that she had doubts that the drug money laundering scam was the root of Jason’s murder. Dru had seemed nervous around Roger Lawrence, the general manager of the Evergreen project, and Lawrence had been the one to send her on a worthless errand when Max started talking to her. Max wouldn’t have been surprised if Lawrence had been the one to knife her—that it was someone completely different, shook his head. “, g questions.” with no apparent connection to Evergreen, made Max skeptical that the two cases were connected.

She didn’t want to be skeptical. Skeptical meant that she still had questions that hadn’t been answered. Questions she couldn’t even guess at.

She couldn’t forget what Dru said on the phone. That strange things had been happening at Evergreen the week before Jason’s murder. And later Dru talking about holes and trees. And since the farm had nothing to do with the construction company—at least from what Max could tell so far—these “strange things” might not be related to the drug money, either.

She needed to talk to Dru again. But not tonight.

Max signed the check and went upstairs to change into her swimsuit. She needed to decompress. Her muscles were already so sore she could hardly walk up the stairs; the spa would work wonders to loosen her up and help her sleep.

She changed into her blue one-piece suit, pulled on a hotel robe, and grabbed a towel. She swung by the bar for another glass of wine, this one in a plastic cup for the pool, and went outside. The night had cooled off substantially and steam rose from the spa. There was a couple enjoying the warmth but Max had no problem slipping in and relaxing. She said a polite hello, then closed her eyes and put her head back. A few minutes later she heard the couple leave, and then she put her feet up on the seat. The cold wine went down beautifully and for a few blissful minutes, her mind was completely clear.

Then her thoughts drifted back to Lindy’s murder and the key she’d found in Kevin’s apartment. Jason Hoffman’s case was far from closed, but she’d handed everything over to the police. Though she still had some questions—that she hoped Dru could answer—she didn’t have another angle to follow. And while the pot farm had been a big distraction, Lindy and Kevin hadn’t been far from her mind.

Though Kimberly Ames had kept Max from talking with Gerald Ames on Saturday, she wouldn’t be at Gerald’s office tomorrow morning. Max would ask him point-blank whether he’d left the message for her at her hotel. And then, depending on the answer, she’d ask for his blessing. Lindy had problems with her parents—what teenager didn’t?—but she’d truly loved her father, and Max wanted to give him peace of mind.

She considered her motivations. Was it Gerald Ames she cared about or herself? Did she need to know, regardless of who else wanted the truth? Would she continue pursuing answers even if Lindy’s father wanted her to stop?

She wouldn’t know until she asked him.

Max heard someone approach and opened one eye to find Nick Santini standing over her. She smiled; he frowned.

“Detective,” she said.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

She closed her eyes again. “You can go,” she said.

“Not until you explain yourself. Risking your life for a damn story?”

She sighed. “I’m trying to relax. Don’t yell at me.”

A chair scrapped along the tiles and Nick sat down. He said in a low voice, “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“You’re a cop. It’s part of your job.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“Until I took the host position with “Maximum Exposure,” I was an undercover a nine-thousand-square-foot om3 investigative reporter. I sometimes got into scrapes that were hard to get out of, but aside from a broken arm a few years back, and the occasional bumps and bruises, I’ve been fine. Going out to Cross’s place on Phleger Road brought back all the reasons why I love my job. Besides, no cop could have gone where I did without a warrant.”