Poisonous: A Novel (13 page)

And that was find out who killed Ivy.

“Tomorrow morning, can you meet with me before school?”

He nodded.

“I’ll take you out for breakfast, my treat. What time does school start?”

“Eight fifteen.”

“How about seven?” She glanced around. There was a diner at the end of the strip mall they were in. “Over there?”

“Okay.”

“Bring Tommy. I need to talk to both of you.”

“Fine.”

Max got up, then turned back and said, “What do you tell your mom when you leave the house early and come home late?”

Austin shrugged. “Whatever I want. It’s not like she cares.”

Chapter Eleven

Max had three hours before dinner with David.

She knew he’d spent most of the day going through the thick binder of Ivy Lake’s Internet activity—her social media pages as well as the blog she used to have. The explosion of social media had really just begun when Max was finishing college; now kids in elementary school had access to sharing anything they wanted with the world. In a decade, the world—and growing up—had changed, and was still changing exponentially.

David was good with research and had the patience to review the documents. Max had started it on the plane, but David was carefully combing through it again, making sure they hadn’t missed someone whom Ivy had gossiped about online. He was analyzing every account of people connected to Ivy to see if there was someone they hadn’t considered who might have motive. Time-consuming work, but it had to be done—and by someone intelligent enough to see connections that might not be obvious.

Max sent David a message about her meeting with Tommy and Austin—leaving out Emma’s role. She’d give Emma a chance to tell her dad the truth. Max added that she was going to Travis Whitman’s house.

It had taken her well over a year of working with David before she adjusted to having a partner. Technically, David worked for NET and was assigned as her personal assistant, but that title didn’t do him justice. He’d originally been hired as a bodyguard after there had been threats on her life while she covered a murder trial in Chicago; they had not liked each other. Neither she nor David expected him to stay after the trial. Yet in those few weeks, Max had grown to depend on him and when she asked if he would consider a permanent position—as more than a bodyguard—surprisingly, he agreed. He’d once told her that he didn’t like her then but respected her, and she accepted that. A lot of people felt the same way. As they worked more together, she wanted his friendship as well as his respect.

She didn’t have many close personal friends. Dr. Julia Mendoza, the forensic scientist—but Max rarely saw her, even though they’d worked together long distance on several of Max’s cases. Detective Sally O’Hara in New York was a good friend—but even with Sally, there was an emotional distance. And though they both lived in New York, they rarely got together unless one of them needed a favor. That wasn’t a good foundation for a friendship. There was, of course, her producer Ben who she’d met long ago in college. They, too, had disliked each other but became friends because they both loved Karen. They stayed friends, perhaps, to honor her memory.

David had become her closest friend, her confidant, the one person she could share anything with. She hated the cliché of the single New York career woman with the gay best friend, but that’s exactly what they were. Only they weren’t typical.

David had made it clear that if she didn’t keep him in the loop he would walk. She believed him. Now sending him messages about where she was going and what she was doing had almost become second nature. Hence the text telling him she was going to Travis Whitman’s house.

*   *   *

Travis Whitman’s family lived in an older home on a narrow lot near the Corte Madera Creek that fed into the San Francisco Bay. The view was worth more than the house, which had been built in the late seventies and matched half of the neighborhood—slightly in disrepair, small yard, sagging porch. A few completely renovated homes made their neighbors’ older homes look even shabbier and more tired.

Max had originally wanted to be confrontational with Travis, but had decided to change her approach. She knocked on the door. Almost immediately, a trim, petite older woman answered. She was pleasant-looking with dark graying hair pulled into a neat bun on the back of her neck. “May I help you?”

“I’m Maxine Revere with NET news. I’m in town to interview Paula Wallace about the murder of her daughter, Ivy Lake, in the hopes someone might recall seeing or hearing something the night she died. I’m speaking with many of Ivy’s peers to talk to your son Travis.”

The woman blinked a couple of times. “You’re a reporter?”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you Travis’s mother?”

She nodded once. “And why do you want to speak with Travis?”

“I’m talking with everyone who knew Ivy Lake. Is Travis here?”

Max knew he was; Travis owned a small pickup that currently sat in the driveway.

“I suppose it would be all right.” Mrs. Whitman unlocked the screen door and let Max inside. Max handed her a business card. “I’ll go up and get him,” she said. “Please have a seat.” She motioned toward the living room.

The house backed up to the wide creek. The drought had left the water ten feet lower than normal, according to the watermarks. Each house had a dock and the channel appeared deep in the center. Across the creek was another newer neighborhood. A biking path edged the creek and went farther than she could see, down toward the bay. It would make for a nice jog along the waterfront.

Max didn’t sit. She turned slowly from the backyard view and assessed the Whitmans’ home.

From photographs hanging on the walls, she saw Travis was the younger of two boys. His brother looked about ten years older, and was now married with two small children. A graduation picture showed he’d earned honors at UC Berkeley, but she couldn’t tell with what degree. Travis’s photos were primarily of him playing sports, baseball and football. What appeared to be a recent prom photo had him with a pretty redhead. With her cell phone, Max quickly took a snapshot of that picture. If it was taken during the most recent prom, that was roughly five months ago. Travis and the redhead may still be dating; she might have some insight into Ivy as well.

Travis was one of those all-around good-looking guys and by his smile and poses, he knew it. According to Grace Martin’s notes, Travis wasn’t a great student, getting mostly Cs with a few Bs, no honors or AP classes, but he was an all-star athlete, the star quarterback for the last three years.

Mrs. Whitman came down the stairs. “Travis will be right down. He just came back from football practice and was in the shower.”

“I’m not in a rush.” Max motioned to a family portrait that appeared to have been taken recently, since the two small children were in the photo. “You have a beautiful family, Mrs. Whitman.”

She beamed. “Thank you. My son Greg is an engineer at JPL in Pasadena. He worked on the Mars Rover project, have you heard of it? They sent a robot to Mars.”

“I’ve read about it. An exciting project.”

“That’s where he met Jill. She works with the software. I don’t understand exactly what she does, but she’s very smart, too. That’s Johnny, he’s three, and Sarah, she’ll be two next month. I wish they lived closer. When my husband retires, we’re thinking of moving south to be nearer to them. UCLA offered Travis a full-ride scholarship to play football. Two other schools may offer as well—Arizona and San Diego State.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“That boy loves sports. Always has. If he put as much energy into his schoolwork as he did into football, he’d be a straight A student.”

“What does your husband do?”

“George is a CPA, a partner with his firm. He loves his work, but I’m hoping he’ll retire soon. At least work part time. I’m retiring from the school district in June—I’ll only be fifty-five, but thirty years teaching elementary school is enough. I love the kids, but I’m ready to leave full-time teaching. Maybe substitute on occasion. With Travis going away to college, we’re going to fix up the house and sell it, then travel—at least when it’s not tax season.”

Two smart parents who valued education and hard work. And a son who didn’t do well in school. She felt a surprising empathy toward Travis—Max knew a thing or two about disappointing family.

“Did you know Ivy Lake?” Max asked.

“Not well,” Mrs. Whitman said, her voice significantly cooler than when she was talking about her family.

Before Max could press her for more details, Travis came down the stairs. His hair was damp and shaggy and he wore gray sweatpants and a thin white T-shirt. He was tall and broad-shouldered. Max could see why teenage girls gravitated to him.

“Mom said you’re a reporter?”

“Maxine Revere. You can call me Max.” She handed him a card.

“May I get you anything?” Mrs. Whitman asked.

“No, thank you,” she said.

“I’ll let you two talk. I’m going to start dinner,” she said to Travis. She patted his shoulder as he sat down on a worn leather couch.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said. “I’ll help in a minute.”

“Take your time.”

Max sat in a chair across from him. Though the furniture had seen better days, the chair was comfortable.

She said, “I’m in town to interview Paula Wallace for a segment of ‘Crime NET,’ a weekly cable show that highlights crime in America. I’m looking into the death of Ivy Lake, as you may have guessed, and I’d hoped you could help me by answering a few questions.”

When he didn’t respond, she continued. “You and Ivy had a yearlong relationship that ended two months prior to her death. According to police interviews, you said that you’d broken it off. Yet Ivy’s mother said Ivy broke it off. Before Ivy died, she posted a photo of you and your girlfriend—not the redhead,” she added with a nod toward the photo, “smoking pot under the bleachers at school.”

“She nearly got me cut from the football team. And it wasn’t me. I mean, it was me, but I wasn’t smoking anything. I don’t do drugs.” He glanced toward the kitchen, then said in a quieter voice, “I’ve never smoked pot. Never. You probably don’t believe me because half the kids I know have toked, but I don’t. Ivy and I got in a major fight because she refused to tell me who sent her that stupid picture. Ivy didn’t have the kind of skill to fake a photo like that. I mean, she was good with computers and posting photos and stuff like that, but she didn’t know how to make something fake look so real. I had to jump through hoops to prove to my coach I wasn’t smoking weed. I had to take two drug tests.”

“You were angry at Ivy.”

“Duh. Wouldn’t you be? There’re people who think I gamed the system, that I had someone else pee in the cup. I told the coach he could watch me pee if he didn’t believe me. It sucks, having that hanging over my head.”

Max said, “You told the police that you had no idea who might have killed Ivy.”

“I don’t. I mean, she pissed off a lot of people, but no one would
kill
her. That’s just—ridiculous.” He frowned. “I still think the whole thing was an accident.”

“By accident do you mean that Ivy was up at the preserve at one in the morning and fell to her death? Or by accident do you mean that someone
accidentally
pushed her off the cliff?”

Travis opened his mouth, then closed it. He shifted positions and didn’t look her in the eye. Was he hiding something or remembering something? Why had Grace Martin thought he was guilty? Max didn’t get the killer vibe off Travis Whitman. He wasn’t overly bright. If he’d accidentally pushed Ivy off the cliff, would he have been able to cover it up so well?

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t there. I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry she died—I really am. But Ivy was bad news. She was bad for me. I totally fucked things up my sophomore year because of Ivy. She got me to do things I would never have done.”

“Like what?”

“Like none of your business.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You broke up with Ivy. Why?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Max held open her empty hands. “I’m trying to get a sense of who Ivy was, and what happened in the days leading up to her murder. Where she might have been during the hours before her death—time that is unaccounted for. Ivy’s mother said she broke up with you, but she didn’t know why.”

“I don’t know what Ivy told her mother, I don’t really care.” Travis glanced at the wall where all the family pictures were grouped. “I broke up with Ivy because I didn’t like who I was becoming when I was with her.”

“Something must have happened,” Max said quietly.

She glanced over to where Travis was looking. His brother. He looked up to his brother, respected him. Smart, older … Max could see something his brother may have said sticking with Travis. Changing him. Getting him to think about who he was—and who his girlfriend turned him into.

“Have you ever said something to someone and wished to God you’d never said it?” Travis asked, but Max didn’t think the question was directed at her.

Max was always conscious of what she said, understanding that there would be consequences to some of her opinions, questions, and comments. Yet, there were a few times when she wished she’d been more tactful.

“You hurt someone you cared about,” she prompted.

“It doesn’t matter. It was my fault, not Ivy’s, not anyone but me. But I knew that I would be better off if I shed her. It took a while.” He shook his head as if clearing his mind, then said, “Look, lady, I appreciate you want to help Mrs. Wallace find out who killed Ivy. But I think the police are wrong and it really was an accident.” He got up. “I have to help my mom. She has real bad arthritis and I hear her cutting vegetables.”

“I appreciate your time, Travis,” Max said. “If you think of anything that may help in this investigation, call me.”

“Yeah.”

He wouldn’t call. If Travis knew something, he wasn’t going to share with Max or anyone. There was more to his story. She wanted to know what.

Mrs. Whitman came into the living room. “Travis, would you please take out the garbage for me?”