Poisonous: A Novel (20 page)

“Then the interview is off.”

“Fine.”

Max wasn’t going to beg. She wasn’t going to capitulate. She would do this with or without Paula Wallace. But
damn
if she was going to jeopardize this investigation to feed into Paula’s delusions about who her daughter really was.

Paula stood up and looked down her nose at Max. “I’m sorry that you won’t help, but I’m not surprised.”

Max stood and forced Paula to look up at her. “Your interview may be off, but I’m running the segment. I have more than enough information without your involvement.”

Paula’s eyes widened. She said, “I will sue you.”

“Good luck with that.”

Max walked out.

David followed, and when they reached the car he said, “You held back far longer than I thought you would.”

“I’ve had it. Someone killed Ivy, someone who knew her, and it was directly or indirectly related to
something
she posted online. I will find the truth.” Max slammed the passenger door shut. She’d faced grieving parents, shocked children, sorrowful spouses. Some victims were more saint than sinner, some more sinner than saint, but they all deserved justice.

Max didn’t care what Ivy did or didn’t do. She had acted like a bitch, but she’d been a sixteen-year-old mean girl. She could have changed. She should have had the
opportunity
to grow up. Someone stole that from her.

David slipped into the driver’s seat and drove off. “Charlie just landed. He’ll be at the hotel in an hour.”

“He knows what to do. I’m not holding back any more punches. I haven’t forgotten about Lance Lorenzo. You need to find out what he’s up to.”

“And where are you going?”

“It’s time I meet Tommy’s mother, Jenny Wallace. I have enough information at this point. Let’s drive back to the hotel. I’m sure the manager will let you borrow one of the company cars again. I’ll take the rental.”

“Better yet,” said David. “I’ll get you a driver for the rest of the day.”

“I’m not in the mood, David.” Max didn’t have a good track record with rental cars. Sometimes the damage wasn’t even her fault, but tell that to the insurance company. Still, she loathed being teased about it.

“Then don’t argue with me,” he answered.

Chapter Seventeen

Before David, Max had always hired drivers, especially in New York City. But she’d become spoiled having David in the chauffeur’s seat. She could bounce ideas off of him, talk through theories while generally enjoying his company. The driver he hired for her today was thin and wiry and didn’t speak much. His name tag read: Richard.

Max sat in the back and reviewed her notes while Richard drove her to Jenny Wallace’s workplace. Max’s staff had pulled up most of the information last week, and the rest she’d filled in since she’d arrived in Marin County.

Jennifer Heston had met Bill Wallace in grad school. They’d dated three years while Bill was studying law at UC Berkeley after getting his degree at UC Davis. The year before they married, Jenny had received her master’s degree in architectural history. She was originally from Los Angeles, Bill from Piedmont, a wealthy suburb of Oakland close to Berkeley. They both found jobs in San Francisco—Jenny restoring historic buildings and Bill as a lawyer for a prestigious civil law firm. When Jenny became pregnant with Tommy, they bought and renovated a house in Corte Madera. She’d won awards for her work on many projects, and shortly after the birth of her daughter, Amanda, who was two years younger than Tommy, Jenny became a partner in a San Rafael architecture company that specialized in historic renovations for both businesses and private homes.

Max had a copy of their divorce settlement—some people were stunned to find out that nearly every legal filing was available to the public unless sealed by the court. Jenny retained the house—which had more than quadrupled in value since they purchased it—and Bill retained his 401K. Jenny had custody of the two kids, Bill had liberal visitation rights.

Though the settlement seemed amicable on paper, it was the initial filing that was the most interesting. According to Jenny’s statement, Bill had been having an affair with Paula Lake for nearly two years. He’d been traveling to Seattle often, ostensibly for work, but a chance encounter with one of his partners resulted in Jenny finding out the Seattle project had ended months before. After Jenny hired a private investigator, she learned about her husband’s affair with Paula Lake. At first, there was extensive animosity—hence the initial rash and revealing filing—but on paper during the settlement, it seemed that they’d resolved their differences.

Once a cheat, always a cheat.
Max couldn’t imagine that Bill Wallace didn’t have another mistress or two around the country. Why change his behavior? He’d already lost custody of his children—though there was no record of him fighting for them. In fact, there was no record of him doing much of anything other than agreeing to the terms of the divorce decree. He didn’t counter Jenny’s claims and didn’t argue that he hadn’t had an affair.

As far as Max was concerned, he was a cheating, lying prick who didn’t deserve what Jenny had given him. Perhaps that was unfair.

But it wasn’t unfair, Max decided after giving the situation a minute of thought. Bill allowed his new wife to banish his son from his house. Whether it was because he wasn’t around enough to argue with her, or because he was complicit, Max didn’t know and frankly, she didn’t care. The end result was that Tommy felt ostracized and unwanted.

Nonetheless, she wanted to talk to Bill Wallace, even if she didn’t expect it to go well. Maybe, if she was being honest with herself, she wanted a good, old-fashioned confrontation. She was in that sort of mood after speaking with Paula that morning.

She called Justin Brock at Stanford a third time; no answer. She left another message, ending with, “I would prefer to speak with you directly rather than stating that you and your family have no comment.” It was hardball and she almost felt bad about it, considering what happened to Justin’s sister. But there was a killer in Corte Madera.

And, she didn’t like being ignored.

If Max needed to go to Stanford to see Justin Brock, she might be able to stop and see Nick. They wouldn’t have a weekend, but one night might satisfy her.

Nick’s voicemail picked up. She frowned, then left a brief message to call her.

She was making little progress. Two full days and she’d pissed off the detective, made an enemy of a local reporter, and lost the support of the victim’s mother.

And she couldn’t even talk to the man she called her boyfriend.

“Win-win all around,” Max sarcastically muttered while pulling out the file David had created of Ivy’s photos and posts.

Something Travis had said yesterday was bothering her, so she went back over the timeline. Ivy had Instagram accounts under two names—one for four years, and one for less than six months, the latter started shortly after Heather Brock committed suicide. There had been no claims that any of the photos Ivy had posted were fake, except the photo of Travis smoking pot.

One rather tame example was a photo of a jock with his arm around a cheerleader. The comment:
Interesting. Carl dumps ugly smart Gina Dole for the pretty dumb Ashley Adams.

A distant photo of a blonde on her knees giving a blow job to a guy. Nothing explicit could be seen, but it was obvious what she was doing. The guy’s face was clear; Max didn’t know who he was, but anyone who knew him would. The girl wore a distinctive blue sweater with white stripes, but it didn’t matter if she was recognizable in the photo: Ivy outed her.
Whoops! Tish caught with something in her mouth under the bleachers.

A photo of a science test in someone’s backpack. It meant nothing to Max until she read the caption:
Now we know why Vince gets As in science.

On closer examination, the test was in fact an answer sheet.

The comments mostly piled on to whatever Ivy had written. Some people were angry—including Vince who wrote:
Bitch. You’ll be sorry.

Hmm.
Who was this Vince and why hadn’t David flagged him? She sent David a note and asked.

It only took him a minute to respond.

Vince Gustafson graduated the month before Ivy’s murder and enlisted in the marines. He was in basic training in North Carolina when she died.

That explains that. She needed to remember that if there was something to see, David usually saw it.

“We’re here, Ms. Revere,” Richard said from the front seat. “Would you like me to wait for you or escort you inside?”

“You can wait here, thank you, Richard.” Max said. As she got out of the car, Graham Jones from NCFI sent her a text message.

I’m on the road with Ruby and Hunt. Will meet you at the crime scene at three, provided traffic isn’t hell.

She responded:
I’ll be there. FYI: There may be a problem with the locals, but I’ll fix it.

When he didn’t respond right away, she worried he was going to pull out. Graham didn’t like working without the support and permission of the local police. A minute later he texted:
Don’t know what you did, but I have everything I need. Detective Grace Martin e-mailed me the crime scene photos and measurements, and I received the autopsy report from you. Is there a new problem?

Max immediately told him
no problem
and wondered how and why Grace had a change of heart.

She entered Jenny Wallace’s office building in San Rafael, only fifteen minutes from Sausalito. Jenny was a partner in an architectural design firm located in a contemporary building featuring attractive sculptures and elegant furnishings. It was a pleasing blend of old and new, likely an example of the type of work done by Jenny’s company.

The firm took up the top two floors of a six-story building. Max took the elevator to the fifth floor and checked in with the receptionist. Fortunately, she didn’t have to jump through hoops. A few minutes later, Jenny came out to the reception area and said, “Ms. Revere? I’m Jenny Wallace. How may I help you?”

Max handed her a business card. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”

Jenny looked at the card a moment before she said, “Sure, my office is right this way.” She glanced at her watch. “I have about fifteen minutes before a meeting.”

“I won’t be long.”

Her business was spacious, sparsely decorated, and each staff member had a large work area. Jenny’s office was in one corner and included two desks, a drafting table, and a wall of blueprints to famous buildings. She was a minimalist, but her desk had three framed pictures: one of her with her two kids taken when Tommy was about thirteen, and one each of Tommy and Amanda, both recent shots. While Tommy looked more like his father, with blond hair and light blue eyes, Amanda’s brown hair and dark blue eyes resembled her mother.

Jenny looked younger than her forty-seven years. She wore little makeup and had the long, skinny frame and movements of someone who rarely stopped moving. “When Crystal said there was a reporter here, I was surprised. Usually I would have you make an appointment through our media rep, but I had a few minutes.”

“I’m not here about your business, though I’ve read up on some of your historic renovation projects—what an interesting career. Long ago, I wanted to work at a museum. I love art, and so many historic buildings are works of art.”

“I can’t imagine doing anything else. I only get to work about half my time on historic structures, but they’re my favorite.” She paused, smiled, curious but not suspicious of Max’s motives. Max’s gut first impression was that Jenny had a lot of nervous energy, but she was generally open, friendly, and trusting.

“I’m the host of an investigative crime show. We’re running a segment on the murder of Ivy Lake, and I’ve been talking to everyone who knew her.”

Jenny blinked. Her voice was flat. “She’s my ex-husband’s stepdaughter. I rarely saw her.”

“But your children knew her well. They were over at your ex-husband’s house often. I’m trying to get a sense of how well you knew her, what you think might have happened, where the police should have been looking.”

“I have no idea,” The light had gone out of Jenny’s eyes. She no longer was curious. She just wanted Max gone.

“Your son and Austin Lake are close,” Max continued.

“How do you know that?”

“I spoke with them yesterday.”

“You have no right to talk to my son without my permission.”

Tommy was eighteen, and even if he were a minor, there was no prohibition with him talking to the media. There were ethical rules about publishing photos or interviews with minors, but Tommy was neither a suspect—nor a child.

Max wanted to tell Jenny about the letter Tommy had sent her, but decided to hold back for now. Instead, she said, “Though the police ruled out Tommy as a suspect, Paula Wallace has a different opinion. Do you know why?”

“Out.”

Max didn’t budge. “I’m trying to see the big picture.”

“By accusing my son of a heinous crime? Just because he’s a little slow?”

What a leap. “I didn’t accuse Tommy of any crime. I’m asking why Paula Wallace banned him from her house. It seems harsh, considering the police had no reason to think Tommy had anything to do with Ivy’s murder.”

“Paula Wallace is a lying, manipulative bitch, just like her daughter.”

Wow. Jenny had gone from friendly and sweet to full-on attack.

“You need to leave,” she continued.

“With or without your cooperation, I’m running a segment tomorrow night. Without any evidence, Paula seems to think that Tommy killed her daughter, and—”

Jenny cut her off. “Paula thinks Tommy isn’t
perfect
. She doesn’t want anything
imperfect
to touch her
perfect
life.”

“Mrs. Wallace, please—I’m trying to help your son.”

Her voice rose. “Tommy doesn’t need your help!”

Max had been prepared for animosity, or denial, or cooperation … but blatant hostility was over the top. And Jenny wasn’t listening.