CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Hi, you’ve reached Cheryl Reid!”
A brief giggle followed, and Marcus winced, remembering the morning she had recorded that message.
The giggle came when Marcus whispered “Damned right you are, Mrs. Reid,” into her ear.
Thankfully, her voicemail hadn’t caught that or Marcus could have heard his own voice filled with the certainty that she would be Mrs. Reid forever. How things changed and how quickly.
“I’m not available now, but leave a message, and I will be eventually!”
The tone beeped, and Marcus took a deep breath and reminded himself to just be calm and direct. “Cheryl, it’s me. Call me back. Okay? I’m not trying to hide from you. I’m working, and there’s a lot going on, but I want to talk. I want to do this right. Just… call me.”
He hung up and said aloud, “Yeah, real smooth, genius. Way to go. Calm and direct, my ass.” He pushed the phone into his pocket and left his hand there, moving the other hand to the respective pocket on the other side. “Fuckin’ wonderful.”
He looked around and found himself in a slightly seedier area of the city.
It wasn’t run-down yet, but the difference between the gleaming skyscrapers of city center and the gray-russet concrete high-rises found further from the bay was notable.
According to Kyle Maxwell’s yellow page listing, his office was within one of these older high-rises.
Kyle Maxwell was a private investigator. In Marcus’s experience, P.I.s were mostly failed cops who made a living verifying insurance claims and spying for paranoid spouses. Given their killer’s apparent motive, Marcus leaned toward the latter.
Maybe he was looking for me, Marcus thought drily. Maybe Cheryl’s caught on to me and Kate, and she sent him to get proof.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. He’d probably messed that one up too. What was it with him and being absolutely dogshit with relationships?
You lack courage. You never divorced Cheryl and never took the next step with Kate.
The voice was that of Master Chief Orrin Santana, the fiery Spanish-Irish SEAL who had taken Marcus under his wing when he first joined the Navy’s most elite unit. He’d never once accused Marcus of cowardice in real life—the opposite, in fact—but it was a fitting claim to make now.
Why? What was he afraid of? He didn’t love Cheryl anymore. He wasn’t sure if he loved Kate—romantically anyway—but he wanted to find out. What the hell was stopping him?
He reached the sign for 1090 Navarro Street. This was Maxwell’s building. Marcus’s personal life was going to have to wait.
He stepped inside to find an interior that reminded him so much of a residential building in Brooklyn that it was almost comforting.
The floor was off-white vinyl tile with dark blue vinyl baseboards and peeling wallpaper featuring vines with flowers that had probably once been lavender but were now gray.
The ceiling was the good-old asbestos popcorn that someone had eventually figured out was the cancer-causing sort roughly around the time Marcus’s parents were born.
To his left was a mail room, to his right, a directory. K. Maxwell, Private Investigator, was located in office 2012 on the twentieth floor, the second one from the top.
He took the elevator and exited into a squat, narrow hallway.
A window on one end offered a view of the more pristine sections of downtown by the bay.
The offices were staggered across from each other, the plain dark green doors sporting peepholes and small placards with the names of their residents.
Now that Marcus looked, he was pretty sure this was a residential building. It had probably been converted to office space when the owner declined upkeep required to pass code for a residence in favor of opting for the slightly looser commercial codes.
Well, maybe the building would collapse, and then Marcus wouldn’t have to worry about confronting his relationship problems.
He reached 2012, the sixth door to his left, and turned the handle. It opened, and he walked into what was definitely a one-bedroom apartment reorganized as the office of a down-and-out gumshoe making the best of not quite enough skill to hold down his police job.
Easy on the grumpiness, Marcus. Focus.
He pushed his preconceived notions aside and stepped to the desk that greeted him in a foyer that used to be a dining nook.
No one sat behind it, but Marcus still peered over the twin stacks of papers to make sure someone wasn’t hiding behind them.
The room carried a smell of old tobacco and stale ink.
When no one volunteered to greet the person who had just walked into the office, Marcus called, “Hello? Kyle Maxwell?”
“Ocupado!” a voice called from behind the door that led to the living room/main office.
A moment later, the door opened, and a short, barrel-chested guy with short spiky black hair and a friendly smile underneath sharp, beady eyes stepped through. He offered a meaty hand to Marcus, who took it reluctantly, expecting it to be clammy. He was pleasantly surprised to find the palm dry.
“Just came out of the restroom,” Maxwell volunteered.
Marcus was no longer sure if the dry palms were a good thing. He wiped his own palm on the leg of his pants and accepted Maxwell’s offer to sit. The swivel chair creaked ominously when Marcus lowered himself into it but held for the moment.
Maxwell collapsed into his own chair with a satisfied sigh and folded his pudgy hands-on top of the desk. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’m Special Agent Marcus Reid,” Marcus informed him.
The moment he did, Maxwell’s affected affability vanished. His face hardened, and his body stilled. Marcus had no trouble in that moment imagining the P.I. as a killer. “Ah. Nice to meet you, Special Agent.”
"I understand you were at the office of Dr. Patricia Hammond recently."
Maxwell didn’t say anything, just held Marcus’s gaze.
“May I ask why?”
“May I ask why you’re asking me?” Maxwell replied.
Marcus grinned, affecting the same affability Maxwell showed a moment ago but keeping his eyes flinty. “Sure. She was found dead by her receptionist last night.”
Maxwell showed the first sign of real emotion, a flash of something that looked more like disappointment than fear but had elements of both. “Well, shit. That’s not good.”
“Definitely not,” Marcus agreed. “I don’t suppose you have an alibi for last night?”
Maxwell shifted in his seat. “No, unfortunately I don’t.
I was working another case, and that involved not being seen so I could take pictures of a certain individual.
Legally,” he quickly added. “It was in a public place. But yeah, if I’m going to make money at this job, it’s important that most people don’t know where I am.
” He smiled, trying for sheepishness. “Kind of sucks when I need to prove I didn’t kill someone. ”
“Yeah, puts a damper on things,” Marcus said. “Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“Figured you’d say that. So, what were you doing at her office?”
“Investigating her.”
“For what?”
“A client.”
Marcus kept his smile but hardened his eyes a step further. “As you alluded a moment ago, Mr. Maxwell, you are a person of interest in three murders.”
Maxwell flinched. “Wait, what? Three murders?”
Marcus studied the man's face carefully.
His surprise seemed genuine, but another skill a good P.I.
had to possess was the ability to lie. It was hard to tell if Mr. Maxwell was telling the truth right now or just demonstrating his prowess.
"That's right. Dr. Patricia Hammond, Richard, and Vanessa Carlton. "
A flicker crossed Maxwell’s face at the mention of the Carltons’ names. He flattened it immediately and leaned back in his chair with a whistle. “Wow. That is pretty crappy.”
“Yeah, most people aren’t big fans of getting killed.”
“I can imagine not.” He folded his hands on the desk again, still meeting Marcus’s eyes. “I’m not sure how I can help you though, Special Agent.”
“Can you tell me where you were Saturday night?”
Maxwell chuckled. He lifted his hands and let them drop. “I was home.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“No.”
“Hmm.”
“Where were you Saturday night?” Maxwell challenged. “Can anyone verify that? Or where billions of other people who don’t feel a need to record their every waking moment were on their nights off of work?”
“Fair enough. How did you know the Carltons?”
“I didn’t.”
“Sure, about that?”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going to keep repeating myself, special agent. I’ve already answered that question.”
Marcus watched him for a moment. He held Marcus’s gaze, and the flicker Marcus saw earlier didn’t reappear. Marcus wasn’t going to worm that out of him right now. “All right. Tell me why you were investigating Dr. Hammond.”
“No.”
Marcus frowned. “You sure that’s how you want to play this?”
“I can’t release that kind of information.”
“You can. You should. You have to, since this is now a murder investigation.”
“If I’m subpoenaed, I have to, and if I’m subpoenaed, I can tell my client I had no choice.”
“Your client…” When Maxwell didn’t say anything, Marcus chuckled and asked, “Who is your client?”
“Can’t say that either. Word gets out I’m narcing on my clients, I’m done.”
“So, you admit there’s something to narc on them for.”
“Sure. Not murder, but people don’t pay me to spy on other people for no reason.”
“And you’re not going to tell me the reason?”
“Nope.” He lifted his hands in a what can you do gesture.
“And you realize that your unwillingness to cooperate upgrades you from person of interest to suspect.”
Maxwell chuckled nervously and looked at the top of his desk for a moment.
“I mean, come on, man. I want to get paid. Now that Hammond’s dead, I only clear the thirty percent up front plus a few days of expenses.
That’s enough to keep the lights on, but my meals for the next week will be on credit.
I’ve got no reason to kill the subject of a paying investigation. ”
“Unless, of course, you despised them. I did some background into Dr. Hammond on my way over. Pretty crazy stuff, right? Polyamory, open relationships, claiming that cheating is sometimes good even in monogamous relationships.”
“Yeah, well, people are shitty. Ninety percent of my business is finding out that the loving family man, husband of twenty years, is sneaking off to the Marriott every other weekend to bang his college-age secretary while his wife invites her son’s friends over to see her new lace panties for the half-second they remain wrapped around her legs.
I didn’t care for Dr. Hammond, but she has a point. People aren’t good at marriage.”
Tell me about it. “What about you? You any good?”
“Hell no,” Maxwell replied. “Divorced twice. Second one only lasted six months.”
“Hmm. Your partner cheat?”
“Sure. So, did I. Like I said, people aren’t good at marriage.”
“Must be hard to hear people advocate for infidelity, though. If Dr. Hammond ever told your wife that she should sleep with another man, I’m sure that would piss you off.”
“Sure. Except that never happened.”
“Not to you. But your client, maybe.”
Maxwell smiled benignly. “Nice try, Special Agent. Give me a court order, and I’ll be happy to comply.”
Marcus nodded. “I might do that.”
“Be my guest. You’ll find I’m not devious, just shrewd.”
“Did you know those two words are synonyms?”
“I know they aren’t.” Maxwell sighed. “Look, Special Agent, I’m not going to mourn Dr. Hammond’s death. She wasn’t a nice person whether she was right about monogamy or not. But I’m not stupid enough to think I’m smart enough to get away with killing someone, especially… someone I’m investigating.”
Marcus caught that hesitation. “And the Carltons? Sure, you didn’t know them?”
“A court order, Special Agent. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
“You will,” Marcus said, getting to his feet. “Don’t leave town.”
“Why would I leave paradise?” Maxwell replied.
Marcus couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. He couldn’t tell much about Maxwell other than that he was clearly hiding something. Either he was their killer, or he had a good idea who their killer was. Whatever the answer, Marcus was going to find it today.