Poisonous: A Novel (32 page)

“Are you back?”

“Almost. What happened?”

“Travis Whitman is missing. The last time anyone saw him was yesterday morning. He left the house early to go running with a friend.”

“And?”

“We talked to the kid, who said he had no plans to go running with Travis. Travis’s phone is missing and it’s off—we haven’t been able to track the GPS. We put an APB out on his car. He didn’t show up at school, but no one was suspicious until last night when he didn’t come home. His father called this morning—they had a late night, and he had a message from the coach that Travis wasn’t at practice or at school, wanted to make sure he wasn’t sick.”

“Did he bolt? I looked for him yesterday morning—but didn’t find him. I wanted to get him on camera.”

“If he reaches out to you, contact me immediately.”

Max hung up and only a few minutes later arrived at the Madrona. David had brunch waiting for her in her suite where he was working. “How’d you know I was starving?” she asked.

“When you’re hungry, you’re even crabbier than usual.”

She picked up a croissant and took a bite, then poured coffee. She told him about Travis Whitman.

“Maybe he got scared something would come out on the show,” David said.

“Why leave before it was even cut? It makes no sense.” She shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do about him now. Let me listen to the call you flagged. And did you follow up with the neighbor of the Wallaces?”

An elderly neighbor of the Wallaces had called the hotline and insisted on talking only to Max.

“I set up a time this afternoon to talk,” David said. “I don’t know what she knows—she was emphatic that she wanted to talk to the ‘no-nonsense redhead in charge.’”

“I like that—no-nonsense. It’s way better than
bitch.
”

David cracked a smile as he cued up the flagged call on his laptop. “Nothing else panned out, but New York is still weeding through calls. We had over a hundred—most were worthless—and a few more are coming in today.”

“Hang ups?”

“Yes, they’re running a report for you.”

Max’s ex Marco Lopez had told her about a case years ago where the killer had made contact through an anonymous tip line the FBI had running on one of Marco’s cases. He called and hung up three times, each time staying on the phone a little longer, listening to what the operator was saying. By the time the fourth call came in, the operator had alerted Marco and he picked up the call and talked to the guy. At first, the guy said nothing, but Marco kept speaking. Eventually, the caller gloated about the murder, revealing details that hadn’t been released to the public, thinking that the police couldn’t track him. He didn’t realize that an anonymous tip line wasn’t truly anonymous—that the 800 number logged each caller’s number. The killer had called from his cubicle at work. Because of Marco’s case, Max always wanted a hang-up list.

“This call came in twenty minutes after the West Coast show aired,” David said. “From San Rafael.”

“Crime NET hotline, this is John Rutgers,” the operator answered on the recording. On Thursday nights—the first airing of “Crime NET”—most of the operators who answered the hotline were retired law enforcement or trained counselors. The hotline received 90 percent of their calls within four hours of the first broadcast.

Max knew John well. He was sixty-two, a retired beat cop from the Bronx. He and Max didn’t get along—he despised any and all reporters. Why he came in every Thursday to man the phones, Max didn’t know—it couldn’t be for the modest stipend the show paid—but he was one of the best they had. Every time she asked him anything about his career or his personal life, he’d only glare at her and stomp away. Ben told her to leave it alone, but being naturally curious, she couldn’t. Max would get him to talk to her. Eventually, everyone did.

A female voice on the other end said something indistinct.

“Ma’am?” John said. “I didn’t hear that.”

“Is Maxine Revere there?” The voice was youthful—not a child, but a teenager or maybe a college student.

“I’m helping Ms. Revere answer the phones tonight. How can I help you?”

Silence.

John asked, “Are you calling about the ‘Crime NET’ show that just aired?”

“Yes,” the girl’s voice whispered.

“Would you like to tell me your name?”

In person, John was huge—six feet four, two hundred twenty pounds. But on the phone he didn’t sound scary. He sounded like a kind but firm grandfather.

“Do I have to?”

“No, you don’t. What would you like to tell Ms. Revere?”

“I really wanted to talk to her.”

“I understand. I might be able to make that happen. I work with Ms. Revere and I can get her a message, and she may call you back. But she’ll want to know what you want to talk about.”

He was good. That’s exactly what Max wanted the operators to say. No promises that she would call, but the assurance that it was a possibility. The more information the operator could elicit from the caller, the more efficiently they could separate the wheat from the chaff.

“I—I knew Ivy.”

“How did you know her?”

“School.”

“You were in her class?”

“No, she was a year older than me. And it was a long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“I changed schools. I had to.”

“Why did you have to change schools?”

After a pause, the girl said, “Can you just tell Ms. Revere that I think whoever killed Ivy sent me a letter?”

John’s voice took on a cop edge. “Do you know who killed Ivy?”

“No!” Too quickly? Or fast because she was surprised at the question? Or because she expected the question? “But—never mind. I’m reading too much into this. I just—”

“Honey,” John said, his voice soft, “you called for a reason. Even if you don’t think it’s important, you must have a reason to think that Ivy’s killer reached out to you. Do you believe that you’re in danger?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I think—it was just—nothing. I’m reading too much into it. My dad says I overthink everything. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“You won’t get anyone in trouble.” Smartly, John changed the subject. It was easier to get someone to talk if you made them comfortable. “You said you knew Ivy in school. When was that?”

“When she moved to Marin. It was the middle of the year. She was a grade older than us.”

“Were you friends?”

“No, no—she didn’t like me. I stayed away from her. But—” She stopped.

“But what?”

“Look, I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. I gotta go.”

Click.

Max jumped up. “Do we have her number?”

“Yes. It belongs to Stephen Cross in San Rafael.”

“A parent?”

“Good guess. He has two daughters, Madison and Kristin. Single dad, wife died ten years ago.”

“Is that when they moved?”

“I went through property records and Stephen and Anne Cross were married in San Francisco twenty-two years ago. They bought a house in Larkspur nineteen years ago. According to Anne’s obituary, ten years ago her daughters were six and five.”

“How did she die?”

“Car accident. Weather related—fog. Her daughters were in the car at the time, both in car seats in the back, and survived. Mom didn’t.”

What a tragedy. Were the girls too young to remember? Max remembered quite a bit from when she was five and six. Not everything, but sometimes she wished she could forget what she did remember.

“Madison or Kristen … one or both of them knew Ivy. When did they move to San Rafael?”

“The summer before Ivy was killed,” David said. “At least, that’s when Stephen Cross purchased the house in San Rafael and sold his house in Larkspur.”

Max strode over to her timeline. Ivy moved to Corte Madera nine years ago … that put her in fourth grade, as Bailey had said. Under that year, Max made a note:
Cross
. Then two years back from today—the summer before Ivy’s murder—she wrote
Cross moved
.

The girl had said they had to move. Why? Family? Or Ivy?

Heather Brock changed schools at the beginning of her sophomore year in an effort to stop the cyberbullying.

Bailey Fairstein changed schools after Heather’s suicide to get away from Ivy and her shenanigans.

Rick Colangelo moved out of state after he was outed by Ivy.

Max turned to David. “Did you ever talk to Colangelo?”

David nodded. “Spoke to him last night. Straightforward. Rick and Travis had been friends since early childhood, and Travis was one of the few people who knew that Rick was bisexual. Rick was blunt—he said he’d experimented as a freshman, started liking guys. Travis picked up on it, said he’d keep it secret.”

“This is twenty-first-century California. You’d think being gay or straight wouldn’t be a big deal to most people.”

David shook his head. “It’s a double standard, Max. Gay athletes usually keep quiet. Same with the military. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Sometimes it’s better that way. It’s not perfect but, dammit, we just want to do the job and not have our personal shit get in the way.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I understood where Rick was coming from. He was furious with Travis because he’d betrayed that trust by outing him to the school’s biggest gossip—his words. When Ivy posted the information, he said most people were cool, but a few big mouths created problems for him. He wanted a clean start so went to live with his grandparents. Seems to have his life in order. A hell of a lot better order than I did as a high school senior. He visited his parents this summer and Travis reached out. Rick said he forgave him, but had no desire to be friends again. He hasn’t spoken to Travis since.”

“You believe him.” It was clear to Max that David took what the kid said at face value.

“I didn’t ask if he killed Ivy, but unless he lied about being in town that weekend, he couldn’t have.”

Maxine mentally checked Rick Colangelo off her suspect list, pending confirmation of his alibi. Grace Martin might have already done so.

“I can see why Rick’s parents let him move away,” Max said. “Changing schools like Bailey and Heather did to get away from Ivy would be relatively easy. But the Crosses moved lock, stock, and barrel out of town. The family—both families, the Crosses and the Wallaces—must have known
something
about why. A kid can’t just go to their parents and say, ‘Hey, quit your job let’s move out of town.’” She turned to David. “I need to talk to the Cross girls.”

“They’re minors. We’ll contact the dad first.”

David was right, especially in light of the fallout from her quoting Austin—which she still believed was right.

“Okay, but if he says no, I’m going to track them down anyway.”

“Of course you are. But we’re going to try it this way first.”

Max looked at her timeline. “Madison is a year younger than Ivy, Kristin two years younger. Either of them could have been the caller—they’re now fifteen and sixteen. Knew Ivy, didn’t like her—sounded scared of her almost.” She frowned. “No, that’s not right. She said Ivy didn’t like her and she didn’t know why. Do you think the killer really contacted her?” As she said it, Max shook her head. “This girl thinks that Ivy’s killer contacted her, but she didn’t sound threatened. There’s a reason for that. We need that letter. She didn’t pull the idea out of thin air. Maybe she hadn’t thought about it at all—until she saw the show.”

David nodded. “Something she heard or saw sparked her memory. Or reminded her of the letter.”

Max glanced at her watch. It was already well after the lunch hour. “I want to talk to her today.”

“Stephen Cross teaches math at a private high school in San Rafael. I’ll call the school first. If he doesn’t call me back, I’ll call his cell phone.”

“You tracked down all that information today?”

David just cracked a smile. “As soon as John flagged the call.”

“This girl knows something.” Max stared again at her board. “Austin might know about her. Or Tommy. Or Bailey Fairstein.”

“How did the conversation with Brock go?”

“Better than I thought. With the change in time of death, if Laura Lorenzo is telling the truth, then he’s not the killer. And after meeting him, I don’t think he did it. He’s a grieving brother who is worried about his mother and how Heather’s suicide affected her. Justin also told me that his parents hired a private investigator who was let go when they settled. He was gathering information about other people Ivy bullied in order to bolster the civil case.”

“And you have those names.”

“Not yet. He’s going to talk to his father.”

“And where does Lorenzo fit in all this?”

“To convince the public that Ivy’s murder was an accident to protect Justin.”

“Because he thinks Justin killed her?”

“Maybe Lorenzo knows something, maybe he doesn’t. Or what he thinks he knows isn’t accurate. The guy is an ass, and he high-jumps to conclusions. He thinks Justin snapped and to Lorenzo it’s justifiable, but Justin would lose his scholarship, lose a future as a lawyer, lose his girlfriend and his freedom. So Lorenzo, in his own way, was trying to protect him.”

David raised an eyebrow.

“He’s playing with fire, and he’s wrong, and he lied about me and to me. He’s not getting away with it. But I have my own way of dealing with him now.”

“We can’t assume that Lorenzo’s sole motivation was to protect Justin because he thinks Justin killed Ivy.”

“I’m certain that’s not the only reason. I suspect he has an ax to grind with the police, though whether it’s simply because of his own authority issues or if it’s specific to this department, I don’t know. Send me the photo you have with him at the bar and with the cop. I’m going to give them to Grace.”

“They’re already on your phone.”

“You’re so good.” She smiled and forwarded both photos to Grace. No caption required on the first of Lorenzo chatting with the cop; on the second she added,
Do you know this man?

It may have nothing to do with the Ivy Lake investigation, but Max wasn’t going to take any chances.

*   *   *

Austin had PE right after his lunch break. He changed into his gym uniform and was there for roll call, then said he needed a bathroom pass. His PE teacher barely remembered his name, wrote out the pass, and Austin headed for the gym. He went through the gym and out the back doors, then ran across the soccer field toward the high school. The high school was about to start their lunch break. Austin crossed over to the trailers where Tommy’s classes met.