Playing Dead pb-3 Page 11

  “There were no footprints or fingerprints on or near the window,” Steve said. “He could have opened the window and made it look like an intruder. Put the gun down because he heard his daughter come in.”

  Mitch was off and running now. “C’mon, Steve, don’t you think that it’s odd there were no fingerprints on the windowsill? Like it was wiped?”

  “O’Brien could have easily wiped it to set up his story, or maybe his wife was one hell of a housekeeper.”

  “How could O’Brien get to his gun in his night-stand-where both he and his daughter testified he kept it-without the lovers seeing him?”

  “He moved it beforehand.”

  “That was the prosecution’s argument.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “What if the killer was in the house when the wife brought in her lover? Retrieved the firearm and waited for them to get naked, then killed them?”

  “O’Brien could have done the same thing. Maybe he knew about the affair, was following her, was in the house-didn’t expect his daughter to come home.”

  “But he talked to Claire on the phone. While he was in the house killing her mother? He planned it all out, but didn’t give himself an alibi? Now that is stupid. You have to look at the photos. It looks like an execution.”

  “The work of a cold-blooded killer,” Steve countered. “A man who can kill his wife and her lover while his daughter waits for him down the street.

  “The job is still the same,” Steve continued. “We apprehend O’Brien and put him back in prison. We’re not the judge, or the jury, or the appeals court.”

  “He’s out of appeals.”

  “And the Western Innocence Project dumped his case, too. They must have realized there was nothing to it.”

  “And Oliver Maddox, the law student working on it, is dead and has been since before the earthquake, if the autopsy goes like I think it’s going to go tomorrow,” Mitch said. He sat ramrod straight, looking at his nearly empty pint of Guinness. He’d been in front of the Office of Professional Responsibility so many times it was almost a joke. Disobeying orders or not following established protocols. He had friends in high places, though they’d only protect him for so long. But every rule he broke was because he was searching for the real truth in the cases he worked. Professional? Maybe not. Responsible? Mitch didn’t see any other option.

  The truth may not have mattered to “Hang ’Em High” Rod Bianchi, but it mattered to his son.

  Steve looked at his friend. “I agree, the way you laid it out I’d be interested in digging deeper. Okay, this is what I’ll do. I’ll look the other way while you play undercover neighbor with the daughter. I can’t get close to her anyway, she knows I’m a Fed. I’ve done the routine stop-bys and talked to her a couple times. I got the impression that she wouldn’t be very receptive if her father does make contact.”

  “I appreciate it-”

  “But-” Steve interrupted. “You can’t play the maverick. We’re in this together or not at all. I went to the mat for you with Meg. Though I’ll be damned if I can figure out your relationship with that woman. She goes ballistic when she thinks you screwed up, but then tells everyone that you’re an ace investigator, one of the best.”

  He and Meg had always respected each other’s abilities. “We’ve always been friends. That was sort of the problem with our marriage-we liked each other, but you know, that’s not really the foundation a marriage needs.” He shifted uncomfortably. He’d never talked about his past relationship with Meg to anyone, especially someone from the office.

  Steve nodded. “If Meg finds out that you’re that close to Claire, you’ll be on a plane to Quantico before you can pack a bag.”

  “Fair enough.” Mitch nodded. “And if we do take Tom O’Brien into custody, we keep him in our custody. No locals. Federal holding.” He glanced again at his watch. 8:40.

  “I think I can work that. I’ll do what I can.”

  “That’s all we both can do. Thanks.”

  “Now tell me the truth-why do you keep looking at your watch?”

  Mitch could have lied, but after bringing Steve over to his way of thinking he needed to lay everything out on the table.

  “Claire is meeting me here at nine.”

  Steve nodded, as if he knew the complete truth.

  “Then I’d better get the hell out of here.”

  Nelia was sitting at the table in the dark when Tom walked in with fast food he’d grabbed at a nearby drive-through. He put the food down and said, “Hi.”

  She just stared at him with her large eyes, darker in the dim artificial light filtering through the creases in the blinds.

  He turned on a light and saw that her eyes were bloodshot. His stomach flipped. The last person he wanted to hurt was the woman who had saved his life, who believed in him.

  “You’re angry because I went to Claire’s without you.”

  She tilted her head but remained silent.

  “You’re angry because I left in the first place.”

  Nelia dipped her head in acknowledgment.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No you’re not.”

  He sat across from her. “I had to go. I had to see how Claire lived. I had to be near her.”

  “I understand that, but we had an agreement. You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie-”

  “You planned all along to go on your own. Don’t make it worse by repeating the excuses you thought up on your way back here.”

  “You’re right. But you’ve risked so much to help me. I can’t have you risk anything more.”

  “That isn’t your choice, is it?”

  “I couldn’t live with myself if you got in trouble-or hurt-because you helped me. Nelia, you have to understand that! I’m an escaped convict. They’re not going to play nice if they spot me. To me or anyone with me.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. But this is bigger than you and me, this is about the truth. I never knew the truth about what happened to Justin. Never! His killer was never caught. The police never even had a suspect. There were no similar crimes in the area, nothing in the state, nothing in the damn country that they could find. It was as if some phantom killer walked in, killed my baby, and disappeared. I never knew why. Why Justin? Why me?”

  “Nelia-”

  “Now I have the chance to find the truth for someone else.” She slammed her fist on the table. “For you. You were a cop. You know the first person they look at when a child disappears? His parents. Andrew and I were under investigation. They had to clear us before they seriously started looking at other potential suspects. For days the police looked at me as if I had killed my son. As if I had something to do with it. And Andrew. Either separately or together. They tried to get me to tell them that I knew my husband had killed Justin, implying that I was protecting Andrew. Then in that stupid good-cop/bad-cop game, a vile detective flat-out said we’d conspired to kill Justin. Why? Why would I kill him? But they didn’t care why, they figured if I’d confess they’d uncover the motive later. Maybe I was just crazy.

  “Andrew and I didn’t love each other, but I never believed he could hurt Justin. But for a while, after all the questions, after Andrew’s affair became public, after the police showed me the ph-photos-” Her voice cracked and Tom wanted to wrap his arms around her, but Nelia had never talked of this. Tom doubted she’d spoken to anyone about what happened during the weeks after her son was murdered.

  “I thought maybe. . and then I thought about my sister. She was babysitting for me that night. What if she had a boyfriend over? Was protecting him? What if she was part of it?” Nelia’s voice trembled. “I blamed everyone. I know Andrew didn’t kill Justin any more than I did, or Carina, or a phantom boyfriend. But when I saw-” She rubbed her face roughly, squeezed her eyes closed, and sank into the chair. Tom took her hand. She was shaking.

  “The crime scene photos.” Her voice was barely a whisper, the anguish in every breath. “
And.” She cleared her throat. “For a minute, I looked at Andrew. As a killer.” She opened her eyes, stared at Tom. “I knew he wasn’t. He was far from perfect, but he loved Justin with his whole heart.”

  “I hate that you went through that.” Even though Tom understood it all too well.

  “I was a suspect because I didn’t have an alibi,” she said. “I was working alone at my office.”

  “No one believed-”

  “Yes, they did. Strangers believed. People who didn’t know me. And for a while, I thought my family-”

  “They didn’t think you’d killed your own child.”

  She sighed, some of the pain and anger escaping. “No, but for a while they questioned just like I did. Because there were no suspects, there was no one else, and it came down to why? Why would someone randomly break into a house and steal a child and kill him? It wasn’t a pedophile, he wasn’t abused that way.” Her head fell to the side, downcast, tears streaming down her face.

  Tom stood and pulled her up and into his arms, holding her tight. She clasped her arms around him, her body shaking with silent sobs.

  Several minutes later, as Tom stroked her hair and murmured soothing nothings in her ear, Nelia said, “I know the pain in your heart, having someone you love think you are guilty. I believe you, Tom. I want Claire to believe you, too.”

  Tom found her lips with his, kissed her, tasted the tears caught in the crevice of her lips. His hands fisted in her hair and he gently pushed her down to the bed. The love, the trust, the faith this woman had in him undid him. He didn’t deserve it, but he would protect it with everything he had, including his life.

  “I love you, Nelia.”

  She whispered in his ear, “You’re the only person who has ever been able to dull the pain in my heart, pain I’ve lived with for twelve years. You saved my soul, Tom. I love you.”

  TWELVE

  Claire drove to the Fox amp; Goose after changing at her house. The conversation with Dave had depressed her, making it clear that there was no one on her side in this situation. She wished she could confide in Dave, but he was a cop first. Yes, he cared about her, and he had once been close to her father, but she still didn’t expect him to forget that her father was a fugitive. She couldn’t.

  But. .

  Oliver Maddox’s death couldn’t be a coincidence. She wished she had been thinking clearer when her father cornered her that morning, asked him more questions, like what exactly did Oliver Maddox know?

  She swallowed thickly. She had been in no frame of mind then to ask anything coherent. If only she had a way of contacting him, finding out-

  Wouldn’t Oliver have kept records? Files? Notes on his thesis? Something where she could pull out threads to follow on her own? But where to start?

  She was no longer a scared high school freshman who’d had her entire life blown up. She’d be thirty this year, she had a career, she was smart. She should be able to look at the evidence on her own, dispassionately, to see if maybe there was something-anything-missed the first time around.

  What did Oliver see that no one else saw? Where did the Western Innocence Project fit in? Or Professor Collier?

  Tomorrow, she’d catch up with Collier in his office bright and early. She didn’t think she’d learn anything by hitting Oliver’s house-the police would have gone through it after the missing person report was filed. But she’d go by, see if something stuck out to her. Talk to Tammy again, ask more questions about Oliver’s thesis and whom he had spoken to. Though she said she hadn’t known any details, Tammy probably knew more than she thought. It was all about asking the right questions. Then Claire would head into the Rogan-Caruso offices and use their vast computer resources to search for more information. Investigation was legwork and questions. And more legwork and more questions until the truth emerged. That she could do. She felt better having a game plan.

  In the bar’s parking lot, she turned off the ignition. She wished she had canceled her date with Mitch. Not because she didn’t want to see him-on the contrary, she’d been looking forward to it all day-but because she was so twisted inside that she knew Mitch would ask her what was wrong. He was unusually perceptive, and while she appreciated his attentiveness in conversation, she didn’t like being the brunt of anyone’s scrutiny.

  Still, she needed to unwind. She couldn’t do anything more about Oliver Maddox tonight. A pint of stout, a little dancing, and Mitch. It sounded like just what she needed.

  It was a quarter to nine when she opened the door of the pub. She saw Charlie and the Finnegan’s Wake band setting up and was about to say hi when she saw Mitch.

  He sat at a table near the back, looking tense, while another man loomed over him, hands on the table.

  Claire recognized the bastard harassing Mitch. FBI Special Agent Steve Donovan. He’d come by several times since the earthquake to threaten her about her father. As if she would harbor a fugitive, especially after what her father had done.

  What are you doing now, Claire? You’re keeping your mouth shut about seeing him, aren’t you?

  Donovan had also harassed Charlie and the band and even talked to her boss at Rogan-Caruso, further embarrassing and enraging her.

  Had he been following her? Did he know about her relationship with Mitch?

  She stomped over to them, insinuated herself between the cop and the writer. She pushed Donovan in the chest. “Didn’t I tell you after you harassed my friends”-she jerked a thumb toward the band-“to leave me and mine alone? I told you I’d call if I heard from my father.”

  Donovan glanced at Mitch, then said, “I’m just following up, Ms. O’Brien. I told you I’d be checking in periodically.”

  “Just go away.” She blinked back what she feared were tears. She didn’t want to tell Mitch about her father, but now she had no choice. What must he think of her keeping such a big secret? Not that she’d done it on purpose, it wasn’t typical conversation to open with, “Hey, my father is an escaped killer, wanna go dancing?”

  “I’m leaving,” Donovan said. He nodded to Mitch, then left.

  Claire turned and looked Mitch in the eye. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She slapped her hand on the table. “It’s not okay. I don’t like talking about it, okay? I hate it. I just hate it.” She swallowed. “I’ll tell you everything.” She walked over to the bar, hoping Mitch would follow at the same time she wished he would just tell her, “Sorry, I don’t like complications.” It was so much easier not letting anyone inside. Sharing her pain made it more real.

  Mitch followed, sat next to her. She motioned for a pint of Guinness for her and Mitch and waited for the bartender to serve them before saying, “That damn Fed probably told you everything.” She took a long swallow.

  “Not really. Just enough-”

  “To make you think I’m a liar.”

  “You’ve never lied to me.”

  “By omission.”

  Mitch took her hand, squeezed it. That quietly intimate, sweet gesture had Claire’s heart. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I still like you. A lot.”

  As if to prove it, he kissed her softly. Sweetly. She stared into his eyes. He possessed a deep-seated aura of compassion, in contrast to his square-jawed, rugged appearance.

  “Fifteen years ago my father was convicted of murdering my mother and her lover,” Claire said quietly. “He escaped from San Quentin during the earthquake. That guy who talked to you is with the FBI. He’s been coming by now and again to make sure I’m not keeping my father locked in the basement.”

  “Somehow I don’t see you doing that.”

  She shook her head. “I was there,” she whispered.

  “Where?”

  “At the house. Right after-I saw my father leaving the bedroom where they were dead and-shit!”

  “It’s okay, Claire.”

  “You shouldn’t have had to hear about this from that man. What did he say to you anyway
?”

  “Not much. Just wanted to know when was the last time I saw you and if I had seen a man. He showed me a photo. A mug shot.” He stared into his beer. Claire feared this situation bothered Mitch more than he was saying.

  “My father?”

  “Told me it was Thomas O’Brien, a fugitive. He didn’t tell me about the earthquake, but I’d heard about that on the news. I put it together.”

  “I’m sorry, Mitch. I really thought it would be over by now, but. .”

  “But what?”

  “It’s never going to end until they find my dad. And I’m scared.”

  “That he’s going to hurt you?”

  “Me?” She shook her head rapidly back and forth. “Hell no, he’d never hurt me. I’m scared that they’ll kill him. He’s a fugitive. He escaped from prison. But did you know he captured nine of the other escapees? Or led the police to their capture? I didn’t know anything about it until a reporter cornered me outside the Rogan-Caruso office and asked if I’d heard anything about my father tipping off the police about one of the escapees. Then I talked to Bill-he was my guardian-and he looked into it. Found out my dad was a hero, then the media broke the story. He’s still my father-and I never visited him in prison. Not once. I never wrote to him, or answered his letters to me.”

  Why was she talking like this? She’d never told anyone about the letters, she tried to never think about them. She’d read them, of course she had to, she was too damn curious by nature. All were the same. How are you? I love you. I’m innocent.

  She’d hardened her heart against her father because she couldn’t handle the emotions that battled within, the guilt, the fear, the anguish, the betrayal. And the love. She had loved her father so much. .

  And now she had hope. That’s where all this was bubbling up from, a new idea that she might have been wrong for half her life.

  Mitch wrapped his arms around her in a hug. At first Claire stiffened. She hadn’t been hugged-not like this-in longer than she could remember. Protected. What a silly thought. Mitch was a writer-sure, he was physically fit-but she had far more self-defense training than he had. She had no reason to feel protected or anything else with him.