Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2) Read online

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  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  For my father-in-law, Larry Brennan (1925–2014), who passed away last year while I was writing this book. Larry lived a wonderful life, raising five children, enjoying eleven grandchildren, and befriending all. But what I’ll remember most about Larry is how every dog he met became his best friend. It’s as if dogs sensed his kind heart—and the treats he carried with him everywhere! God bless you, Larry. I’ll bet every dog you’ve ever owned—and all the strays—are following you around in Heaven.

  Acknowledgments

  Many people assist in the creation of a book. The author creates the story and the characters over hundreds of hours of writing and rewriting. The editor reads the draft, asking the hard questions and pointing out weak spots in both the writing and the story. Then the author goes back, armed with the editorial notes, and spends another hundred hours or so rewriting the story to make it the best it can be.

  I have been truly blessed to have found a fantastic editor in Kelley Ragland at Minotaur. Or, rather, I should thank my agent, Dan Conaway, for putting us together. Our process may look messy to outsiders, but it works for us, and I’m grateful that Kelley understands my chaotic writing method. Or maybe she’s just humoring me!

  There are many others at Minotaur/St. Martin’s Press who are instrumental in the publication process, and I want to thank especially Andy Martin, Jennifer Enderlin, Elizabeth Lacks, Sarah Melnyk, and the amazing art department. Plus, the brilliant copyeditors who find all those pesky mistakes I miss even after proofreading the book a dozen times.

  As always, there are people I call upon to help me with my research. If I get something wrong, it’s not their fault, it’s all mine. A special thanks to Dr. Doug Lyle, FBI Special Agent Steven Dupre, and fellow author Alafair Burke. Alafair probably forgot she let me pick her brain about the New York courthouse and legal process, but I’ll never forget her generosity of time and patience.

  There are a real Jim and Sandy Palazzolo, friends of the family who were so kind and generous during the time my father-in-law passed. So when Sandy said she wanted to be a character, I asked would she mind being dead? She didn’t, and I thank Jim and Sandy for lending their names to my missing persons (who are much, much older than the real-life Palazzolos!).

  The Sacramento Public Library Foundation hosts a fund-raising dinner every year to benefit the children’s reading program, a cause near and dear to my heart. I was thrilled that Sally O’Hara generously donated to the program and allowed me to use her name. Originally, she was going to be a murder victim, but I loved her name so much that she became an NYPD detective and, I hope, a continuing character.

  And finally, I must always acknowledge my family—my husband, Dan; my children, Katie, Kelly, Luke, Mary, and Mark; and my mom, Claudia. Without them I would get a lot more writing done—but I’d have no one to love and play with. You make my life complete.

  Prologue

  NINE MONTHS AGO

  Sweat beaded on Adam Bachman’s forehead. He told himself the lights up ahead were just emergency vehicles because of the accident. No one cared about him or this car.

  But it wasn’t his car.

  He had another problem. The girl was starting to move in the trunk.

  Everything had gone wrong from the beginning, but he didn’t see it right away. Because he was focused on her, the pretty blonde. The way she looked at him and he knew she was worthy. When she looked over at him at the bar, she smiled a little smile as if they shared a secret.

  Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe he’d made a mistake picking her. Why had the drug worn off so quickly?

  Except it wasn’t quickly. He’d been stuck in this traffic jam for thirty minutes. Only one lane was open, and cars were backed up. It was summer, people wanted to get out of town, but it was Tuesday, not the weekend, and so the accident must be pretty bad for them to only allow a couple of cars through at a time.

  The girl kicked the trunk as the car rolled closer to the emergency vehicles. Then Adam noticed the two cop cars. They must be here for the accident.

  If it was just a terrible accident, why was his heart pounding?

  Be quiet, girl. Just. Be. Quiet.

  The drugs usually kept them out for two hours. Enough time to drive to his secret spot. To revive them. To watch them die. Sometimes, it took hours. Preparation and practice to get everything just right. There was a fine line between life and death. Uncovering that exact moment, right before their very last breath, wasn’t science. It was art. Every person was unique. It’s what made his process so interesting, so provoking. If he made movies, he’d win awards for his precision and care.

  He’d made mistakes, but he’d cleaned up his mistakes. The last two had been perfect. First the boy, then the girl. And he’d thought this girl would be just as satisfying. More perfect.

  He rolled closer to the police cars. They waved cars through, barely glancing inside.

  Okay. Good. Stop sweating.

  Why would they be looking inside at all? Did they suspect something? Habit because they were cops and all cops were suspicious by nature?

  There was no way these cops knew anything about the girl in the trunk. He’d only grabbed her forty-five minutes ago. No one even knew she was missing. His process was perfect; no one had ever been reported missing until they were already dead.

  This girl had been very chatty at the bar. She lived in Baltimore. She’d come to the city—alone—to visit her boyfriend. She stayed with him one night, but nothing was the same between them.

  “People aren’t who you think they are,” she’d said.

  He had agreed. She’d read his mind.

  She stayed in a hotel on her daddy’s credit card for a few days while she figured out what she wanted to do with her life. Enjoy the city. Visit a couple of museums. Eat good food.

  He couldn’t lose. Not after five perfect murders.

  The trunk was silent, but he still didn’t relax. Three cars remained in front of his. They each slowed to a roll, were waved through, and then disappeared onto the bridge.

  He rolled, slowed, and one of the cops waved him through. He pressed the gas pedal.

  A piercing scream came from the trunk.

  He froze. He wanted to press the gas to the floor, find a hole to drive through, keep going until he drove off the bridge. Ending his life, and the life of the girl in the trunk.

  Maybe they hadn’t heard her.

  He glanced at the two cops. They were walking quickly toward him. Their guns were already in their hands.

  “Sir! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

  Instead of fleeing, Adam put his hands on the steering wheel and forced himself not to cry.

  Chapter One

  PRESENT DAY

  “Tenacious bitch!”

  Maxine Revere stood in the doorway of Ben’s office while he finished his conversation with the New York City district attorney.

  Max took the D.A.’s verbal attack as a compliment. After all, she had a love-hate relationship with him. In fact, she had a love-hate relationship with most of the people in her life.

  “Yes, she is.” Ben caught her eye and put his finger to his lips as he leaned over his speakerphone.
“I’ll give her the good news. Thank you, Richard.”

  He pressed the off button before the D.A. could change his mind—or Max could give him a piece of her mind.

  Ben’s huge grin threatened to swallow him. He jumped out of his chair and squeezed her arm as he grabbed his blazer off the coat rack.

  “I don’t know what you said to him, Max, but it worked.”

  “It was as much you as me,” she told her producer. She’d played hardball with Richard and Ben played Mr. Nice Guy; between them, they got exactly what she wanted. An interview with Adam Bachman, the twenty-seven-year-old bartender on trial for five murders.

  “You’ll have twenty minutes,” he said as they walked to the elevator. The Maximum Exposure offices occupied half of the eighteenth floor of a Seventh Avenue skyscraper, south of Times Square. “Make them count.”

  She didn’t respond to his comment, too energized about this interview to be irritated over Ben’s habitual lecture. She’d been maneuvering for time with Bachman ever since she figured out that the missing person’s case she’d been investigating since last summer followed the same pattern as Bachman’s killing spree.

  Max was covering the trial for the station’s news programming. She’d been NET’s on-site reporter for several high-profile trials. NET wasn’t CNN or Fox, but it was making a name for itself. It had exclusively been an Internet news show until three years ago, one year before Max joined the team. Now, while 75 percent of its schedule related directly to up-to-the-minute news, it featured several original daily, weekly, and monthly programs including Max’s true crime show Maximum Exposure, which Ben produced. She liked that NET was independent and run by a close-knit family with good business sense.

  “No cameras,” Ben said as he pounded the down button several times, as if the repeated motion would make the door open faster. “But you can record it.”

  “And that makes you mad,” Max said. Max didn’t care half as much about the visual, not with this case. She’d been fighting for this interview for too long to quibble over the details. Months of talking—with the D.A., the defense lawyer, cops, the victims’ families, everyone she could get access to, but not the killer himself.

  Until now. Exclusive. One-on-one. Pen, paper, and an audio recorder. An old-fashioned interview. Because, as the D.A. had said, she was a tenacious bitch.

  “Get him to agree to go on camera after the trial,” Ben said. He peered at his reflection in the shiny metal elevator doors and adjusted his tie. Such a yuppie, she thought. “A follow-up after he’s convicted.”

  Max glanced at Ben as the doors opened and interrupted his preening. “Innocent until proven guilty,” she said as they stepped inside the empty elevator. The doors swished closed behind them.

  “You don’t for a minute believe that bastard didn’t kill those people.”

  She’d seen some of the evidence, enough to believe the prosecution had a solid case. But she was a reporter first; she wanted the truth out, no matter what. And while her instincts told her New York’s Finest had caught the right guy, anything could happen.

  “He’s not going to admit his guilt to me the morning his trial begins,” she said. “I’ll push for the follow-up, but these twenty minutes were hard-fought.”

  “If you wanted it you could get it,” Ben mumbled.

  She laughed. “I love that you have such confidence in me.”

  “NET will be set up to do a live interview with you during the court’s lunch break,” Ben said. “What happened the first morning of the Bachman trial, yada yada, then again when court recesses for the evening. They’d like you to post comments on your Twitter feed.”

  “No can do—I told you the judge’s rules.” Judge Tarkoff had met with lawyers and reporters Friday afternoon about trial conduct. While court was in session, there would be no social media posts from inside the courtroom or the reporter would be banned for the duration of the trial. Commentary would be allowed only during official court breaks. “No electronics inside at all. If you need me, call David or Riley.”

  “Where is Riley?” Ben asked. He sounded irritated, but it was his usual demeanor when he couldn’t immediately order someone to do something. Though he hadn’t liked Riley Butler when Max first hired her last month, the Columbia grad quickly earned her way into his good graces. Ben cared about two things: competence and speed. He expected the job to be done well, and to be done fast. Riley had picked up on that immediately and ingratiated herself with Ben in less than a week. A new record.

  Max just wished her right-hand man David felt the same.

  “I sent her on an errand. I’m picking her up on the way to the courthouse.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Isn’t that cutting it close?”

  “It’s important.” She had Riley doing a bit of undercover work with Bachman’s former friends and neighbors. She didn’t want to share details with Ben because he didn’t like that she’d been sending Riley out into the field. Ben felt an office assistant should be in the office assisting. Max countered that an office assistant should be assisting in whatever needed to be done. If said assistant could take care of basic footwork that gave Max more time with research and interviews—and more time to write.

  The elevator doors opened. They stepped out and headed toward the exit. Voices echoed in the cavernous lobby, so Ben lowered his voice. “Are you going to ask him about the partner?”

  “Of course.” She caught Ben’s eye. “Why?”

  “I kind of told Richard that you weren’t pursuing that line of inquiry,” he said as he cleared his throat.

  “Why the hell would you say that? You know that’s the primary reason I wanted this interview.”

  “I thought you wanted to find out if he killed the Palazzolos.”

  “I know Bachman was involved; I want proof. And you damn well know that I’ve been working on this killing pair theory for months.”

  “When you’re not flying down to Miami to annoy your ex, or flying off to California to screw your lover.”

  “Screw you,” she said. Sometimes, Ben acted like the little brother she never had. “You had no right telling Rich I’d dropped that theory. I’ll ask Bachman whatever I damn well please.”

  Ex–Army Ranger, personal assistant, and sometime bodyguard David Kane approached them. She had never wanted a bodyguard or a personal assistant, but after threats during a trial nearly two years ago, Ben had insisted. Now David was not only indispensable, he was her closest friend and the only person she trusted explicitly. He’d earned it. Largely because he hadn’t quit on her, though she’d given him ample opportunity. And he seemed to be the diffuser of wars waged between Ben and Max.

  Truth was, she wasn’t the easiest person to work for.

  “David, I e-mailed you a revised schedule,” Ben said, ignoring Max’s glare. She was not dropping it. And he knew it. So why would he tell the D.A.—her friend (sort of)—that she would?

  David nodded once. “We have to go, Max. I’m parked illegally.”

  “Ben will pay for the ticket,” Max said. She patted him on the cheek, still angry that he was playing games with her interview. “Won’t you, Benji?”

  He reddened. “Just—watch yourself.”

  “I didn’t make that ridiculous promise.”

  “The D.A. is an asset to NET. Don’t blow it.”

  “Let me handle Richard Milligan. And never make a promise for me that you know damn well I won’t keep.”

  “Max, this is a great case for you.”

  “Meaning, don’t blow it?”

  “Stop trying to piss me off. Your interview is going to be picked up everywhere. Just—well, do what you do best.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Antagonize people?”

  “Find the truth.”

  She relaxed. She and Ben butted heads often, but she respected him. “That I can do.”

  “You always do.”

  She strode through the lobby, David at her side.

  “Ben never liked
your theory,” he said. David was one of the smartest people Max knew, and she rarely had to explain anything to him.

  “He’s playing games with my reputation. I can make or break my own reputation.”

  David tipped the security guard who’d ensured his car didn’t get towed, then opened the passenger door for Max before she could reach it. “You’re not my chauffeur,” she grumbled.

  He shut the door without a response, then slipped into the driver’s seat, and pulled away from the curb. “I drive because you’re the definition of a distracted driver,” he said.

  “He jokes,” Max said.

  David smiled, as much as his half smiles were.

  “I’m right about this,” she continued.

  “I don’t doubt you.”

  She glanced at him. “But you aren’t convinced.”

  “I’m convinced that if Bachman has a partner, you’ll prove it.” He stopped at a light. “You rarely surprise me, but I didn’t think this was going to happen.”

  “I can’t believe you doubted me,” Max said with mock hurt. Then, “I knew Bachman wanted to talk to me—I have his letters to prove it—but his attorney and the prosecutor were two stubborn roadblocks. So I went around both and talked to Milligan directly.”

  David grunted.

  “The important thing is that it’s happening. I’ve been planning for this interview for months—I have a number of directions I can go, depending on his answers, but he’s going to slip up and I’m going to confirm my theory.”

  “I don’t have to tell you to be careful with him,” David said.

  “He’s in custody. He can’t hurt me.”

  “Don’t be cocky, Max. If you are right, that means there’s another killer still walking free. And you know that.”

  “And that’s why I have you, dear David, by my side.” She smiled, trying to lighten the conversation, but David stared straight ahead, expertly weaving through traffic.