Poisonous: A Novel (17 page)

Only time—and money—will tell. And apparently, Maxine Revere has plenty of both.

Max’s hand was shaking as she handed David back his phone.

She would destroy Lance Lorenzo.

“Now you see what I’m dealing with?” Grace said. “Why the hell did you talk to him? I told you he was an asshole.”

“I didn’t say any of that. Not in those words,” Max added.

“A taste of your own medicine?” Grace said.

Max glared at the cop. “This is not how I work. If you read any of my books or articles you’d know that.”

Grace didn’t apologize, but said, “The chief called me at five this morning about Lorenzo. I’ve been dealing with it ever since.”

With San Francisco in view of Corte Madera, Max had felt she was in a bigger place but clearly she wasn’t. Small town, small-town politics. She had to remember that she was an outsider.

Lorenzo’s bias was clear: the police protected the wealthy. And maybe Ivy Lake deserved to die. It wasn’t what Lorenzo wrote, but the sentiment was between the lines.

Max didn’t care if this case took weeks—or months—to solve. She would remain in Corte Madera as long as necessary. Lorenzo had called her out. And she was not going to back down from a bully who used the Internet as a weapon.…

“Maxine,” David said, his voice low.

She glanced his way.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“You do not.”

Lorenzo was the same as Ivy Lake, only he was older and should know better. Worse, he used his position as a reporter—someone who was supposed to be fair and unbiased—as a crutch to say whatever he damn well pleased.

Grace said, “I can’t help you anymore. I’m sorry. I wish I could, I like to think I was right about you, but I can’t help—not when Lorenzo is looking for any reason to cause problems in our department.”

“Why is he doing it?” Max asked. “Reporters don’t generally stir the pot unless there’s a reason.”

“Because he’s an asshole? Because he hates cops? He joined the paper two years ago and our department has been on edge ever since. This was shortly after the Police Authority was created, and while most people in the community believe combining three small police forces into one larger, better-funded police force was beneficial—both in saving resources and adding benefits—some people have agitated that we don’t treat all areas of Central Marin the same. Which is BS, but people will believe what they want, regardless of the evidence in front of them. At least in my experience.”

David asked, “Is it true that the coroner’s report ruled Ivy’s death as suspicious and not a homicide?”

“Yes, the evidence was inconclusive. Death from jumping or falling or being pushed is hard to determine. But we still believe she was murdered. Someone else was there in the preserve with Ivy—why would she be out there alone in the middle of the night? And why would that person not come forward? She had cuts on her arms not caused by the fall.
That’s
the information I didn’t give Lorenzo, and if you had spilled that to him I really would have been raked over the coals. Any less seniority and I could have already been relegated to desk duty.
That’s
how pissed my chief is.”

Still angry, Max tried to control her temper because ultimately, Lorenzo was to blame, not Grace. “Ivy’s last tweet was about revenge. A subtweet—directed at someone specific, but without naming them. But she said someone didn’t show when she expected them to. Do you know who that is?”

“How do you know about that? We pulled down all her social media accounts immediately after we learned about them.” Grace put her hand up. “No, don’t answer. I can’t help you anymore. Have NCFI contact my chief directly.”

“Grace,” Max said, “I promised you I wouldn’t write a word without talking to you first. But I am interviewing Paula Wallace this morning, and there will be a show tomorrow night aired nationwide about Ivy’s murder. I would very much like your cooperation.”

“Shit,” Grace muttered and ran her hands through her short hair. “I can’t—I really need to talk to the chief. He’s going to fucking bite my head off.”

She must be angry, because Max couldn’t remember Grace swearing during their conversation Monday evening.

“We don’t know who Ivy was talking about in that tweet,” Grace said after a moment. “My guess is that she thought she was meeting someone. That person never came forward, and we asked everyone we spoke to about that night. We have no way of knowing who she directed the tweet to, and no one responded to it. But the one thing I can point to is that we never told Lance Lorenzo about the three hours we can’t account for in Ivy’s last night. That came from you.”

“No, it didn’t.” Max thought back to what she’d said to Lorenzo, and to everyone else involved. There’s no reason Austin would talk to Lorenzo, but she would certainly ask the kid. Most likely … “It came from Travis Whitman.”

“Lorenzo didn’t mention Travis in the article.”

“No, but I talked to Travis, and we discussed that time block, as well as what Ivy called Travis about shortly before she sent that tweet. Grace, I know you’re angry, but we need to work together.” Max decided to go for it, what the hell. “I’d like to watch the police interview with Travis.”

“Shit, Max! I can’t—”

“I’ll watch it here, I won’t take notes, I won’t record anything. I need an impression of who he was last summer. When I spoke with Travis yesterday, he seemed to have a decent head on his shoulders. But you didn’t like him, and cops who’ve been doing this a while like yourself tend to have good instincts about people.” What Max said was true, and at the same time she hoped it would soothe Grace enough to give her access.

“I don’t know,” Grace said. “When is NCFI coming in?”

“This afternoon. I’d really like you there.”

“I’ll see. Text me the time and place, and I’ll talk to my chief. No promises.”

“Thank you, Grace.”

They left the police station before Grace could change her mind. David said, “I really didn’t think it remotely possible that she would give in.”

“She hasn’t.”

“She has. I guess sometimes you really do manage to charm people. She’s going to bat for you with her chief.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. And if you were getting enough sleep at night, you would have seen it, too.”

“Don’t start.” She pointed to a drive-through Starbucks. “Coffee. Please.”

David pulled in. While waiting for the coffee, David brought up the directions to the Brock house and thankfully didn’t mention her insomnia again.

She looked up the name and number of Lance Lorenzo’s editor. She had a feeling that Lorenzo was freelance, but his blog was hosted by the newspaper servers, and they were responsible for ensuring that his information was accurate. He may claim his blog was simply his opinion, but he would be legally forced to remove the false quotes he’d created for her.

She called Ben on his cell.

“I’m sending you an article—”

“I’ve seen it.”

“You didn’t call me.”

“I didn’t feel like being yelled at this morning. I’m buried in work right now.”

“I don’t yell.”

“I didn’t want to be lectured this morning,” Ben said. “What?”

“I want a retraction.”

“Don’t call the editor,” said Ben.

“That’s why I’m calling you, sweetheart.”

“Dammit, Maxine, I don’t have time for this.”

“That jerk Lorenzo made up the quotes. I’m sending you a list of all inaccuracies. You’re the diplomat—go be diplomatic with his editor. I want this resolved. This is my reputation, Ben, and my reputation directly impacts NET.”

“Send me the bullet points. Laura will take care of it. If they don’t correct it, I’ll deal with it.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“Not yet.”

Chapter Fifteen

The Brocks lived in the hills of Corte Madera, not far from where Tommy Wallace lived with his mother.

“Lorenzo doesn’t know what hornet’s nest he’s stepped in,” Max said in the passenger seat. She’d read the blog again and had grown even angrier.

“He’s not worth your attention,” David said. He glanced in the rearview mirror and then switched lanes.

“He’s causing problems in my investigation and that’s going to stop today,” said Max, glancing out the car window. “After Mrs. Brock, let’s go see him.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“He put words in my mouth. He insulted me. He’s screwing with my ability to do my job.”

“And yet, you’ll do the job and find out exactly what happened to Ivy Lake
in spite
of anything Lance Lorenzo does or doesn’t do.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

“It’s well placed. Let it go.”

“Jerks like Lorenzo don’t stop. He’ll get worse if I don’t do something. I want you to follow him.”

“You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“It would be a mistake if I did. Lorenzo has an agenda. What that is will determine how I deal with him, but I don’t have time to work the Ivy Lake case
and
figure out what that twerp’s up to.”

David nodded once. He wasn’t happy with the assignment, but he’d do it—and Max was confident that by the end of the day she’d know exactly what Lance Lorenzo was planning. Maybe he just wanted to stir the shit and see what happened. In short order, he’d find out, and he wasn’t going to like the result.

“He has a relationship with the Brocks,” Max said, partly to herself. “He’s a couple of years older than Justin Brock, but they could have known each other. He has a younger sister in college…” She sent a message to one of the research staff at NET to dig around into Lance Lorenzo’s background and find out everything about him, his sister, and his family—and specifically any overlaps with the Brock family. “I may ask the Brocks, if it somehow comes up,” she said.

“But you sound like you think his attack on the blog is personal.”

“It
is
personal. But is Lorenzo’s animosity because of a personal relationship with the Brocks or because he doesn’t like me? Or doesn’t like the police? Or has a reason to dislike the Wallace family?”

“Maybe he hates everyone,” said David as he parked in front of the Brocks’ modest home in an exclusive neighborhood. Very typical of Marin County—the houses were older, well-built, and small … but it was all about location. High on a hill, the Brocks had a million-dollar view of the San Francisco Bay.

Max and David walked up the steep driveway, then up several stairs to the front door. She knocked. A moment later, a tall woman in her fifties wearing slacks and a lightweight sweater opened the door. “May I help you?”

“Mrs. Brock, my name is Maxine Revere and I’m an investigative journalist. This is my assistant, David Kane. I’m airing a crime show about the Ivy Lake murder, and I’m asking for the public’s help in finding out who killed her. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Mrs. Brock stared at her, her mouth a tight, thin line. “Absolutely not.”

“I can assure you that I will treat your daughter’s suicide with the utmost respect. I’m planning a series of articles about cyberbullying and how it impacts young people and their families. Ivy Lake is just one small component of my series.” Max hoped that worked, because she was stymied. She couldn’t be too aggressive or too strong because the Brocks were only loosely involved in this case.

“I don’t care to help you. Please leave.” Mrs. Brock glanced at David as if she recognized him. “Kane? Your father—is he Doctor Warren Kane?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Brock looked perplexed, and David continued, “I work with Ms. Revere, and I personally promise we’re not out to make light of your tragedy. We hope to help others who may be in a similar situation find ways to get help.”

The woman hesitated, then said, “I appreciate your sensitivity, Mr. Kane, but neither my husband nor I care to be involved in your interview in any way, nor can we discuss the civil suit, as per terms of the settlement.”

Settlement?
Max’s ears perked up. Who had told her the case had been dropped? A settlement was different than dropping a case.

“I’m terribly sorry but you need to leave.” Mrs. Brock closed the door. If it was anyone else, Max might have stuck her foot in, but this time she held back.

Max turned and walked back to the car. “You didn’t expect another outcome, did you?” David asked.

“I’d
hoped
for more cooperation, but I’m not that surprised.”

“Are you really writing those articles?” David turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

“Yes, for the wire. I’ve been researching cyberbullying, finding cases with horrific, sometimes violent outcomes. But that series will be after solving Ivy’s case. I won’t be bringing Heather’s situation into the interview. I need to make sure that Ivy is seen as the victim, not the perpetrator.”

“Good luck with that,” David said.

“Ivy was a spoiled, immature teenager, but she didn’t deserve to die. Whoever killed her got away with it. Doesn’t matter if it was a premeditated crime or if it was spontaneous, this person—now emboldened—could snap again and kill someone else.”

“I see your point.”

“I didn’t know your father was a doctor,” she said, changing the subject. “I thought he was career military.”

“He was an officer in the army,” David said, “and went through medic training. When he got out of the service, he went to medical school and became a surgeon.”

“You wanted to come with me today because Dr. Brock must know your father.”

“My dad is fairly well-known in this area,” David said. “I thought the connection might help ease the conversation.”

“She was definitely friendlier after realizing who you were,” Max said. “What else don’t I know about your family?”

When David didn’t respond, she said, “I’m looking forward to meeting your dad on Sunday.” Max looked at her watch. “And right now we have just enough time before meeting Paula Wallace to talk to Bailey Fairstein’s mother.”

*   *   *

Pilar Fairstein and her daughter Bailey lived in the exclusive Richardson Bay neighborhood near the Mill Valley–Corte Madera border. David’s research hadn’t yielded much: Pilar was a widow, came from old money, and was not employed. She volunteered extensively for nonprofit charities as well as serving on two boards, one for an art museum and the other for a theater company.