Playing Dead Page 21

  “You’re no better. You knew he was lying to her. You two give law enforcement a bad name. Would you do anything to close a case? Including destroying a fragile woman?”

  “Claire is anything but fragile,” Steve said.

  Mitch wanted to tell him to shut up. Claire was tough on the outside and braver than most anyone Mitch knew, but inside? Kamanski was right. She was fragile. She harbored pain and guilt and regret and grief so powerful it controlled her life.

  “Back off, Dave,” Mitch said.

  “Me? You set her up. You couldn’t just keep an eye on her, you had to date her? Lead her on? And it’s been going on for months. Months! You think you can just throw her dad back in prison and walk away and she won’t care?”

  Kamanski looked like he was going to hit Mitch again and Steve stepped forward. Mitch straightened and said, “If you care about Claire, you’ll keep an eye out for her. She’s in the middle of a dangerous situation.”

  “Tom killed his wife under extreme emotional duress. He wouldn’t hurt Claire for the world.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” Mitch moved his jaw back and forth, spit out blood-tinged saliva. It hurt, but there was no permanent damage.

  “Are you threatening me? Are you threatening Claire?”

  Kamanski made a move toward Mitch, and Steve put a firm hand on his chest. “You got one freebie. Next time I’ll arrest you for assaulting a federal officer.”

  Kamanski barked out a laugh. “That’s rich. You fucking Feds.”

  A group of patrons walked out of the club and suspiciously eyed the three men before quickly crossing the parking lot.

  “Claire is investigating Oliver Maddox’s death. He was murdered, Dave,” Mitch said quietly. “That puts her at risk.”

  Kamanski glared. “That’s none of your concern. I’ll keep my eye on Claire. You stay the hell away or I’ll file charges.” As he said it, he realized it was a dumb thing to say. “Just stay away from her.”

  Mitch knew Kamanski was right. Claire was none of his concern. He’d lied to her, and she’d found out in the worst way possible. If only he could take it back. If only he could have told her himself. But what good would that have done? The truth was still the truth, and Claire wasn’t going to forgive him.

  Mitch couldn’t forgive himself. The pain of losing Claire, from I love you to the betrayal on her face . . . Mitch wouldn’t sleep well tonight, or any other night.

  Steve said, “O’Brien is in Sacramento.”

  When Kamanski didn’t say anything, Mitch knew the cop suspected the same. “Have you heard from him?” Mitch asked.

  “No. If I did you know damn well I’d bring him in. I’m not harboring a fugitive, or helping him, and neither is Claire. You obviously don’t know her as well as you thought.”

  Mitch shook his head. “You don’t know her as well as you thought.”

  “Stay away from her.”

  “You need to go now,” Steve said seriously.

  Kamanski turned and stormed off. Mitch watched him drive away. Was his rage justified? Was it brotherly love . . . or something more? Mitch squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his temples.

  Steve slapped him on the back. “Let’s get out of here. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

  Claire pulled herself up from the floor and staggered like a drunken old woman to her bathroom. Her entire body felt bruised and sore, as if she’d had the toughest workout in her life, but without the adrenaline of a good hour at the gym.

  The physical pain of Mitch’s betrayal stayed with her as she turned on the shower. She looked at her pitiful reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and red. When was the last time she’d cried over a man? She couldn’t remember when . . .

  Yes, she did. Her father. When she believed he’d killed her mother. She’d cried then, too.

  But none of her boyfriends until now were worth crying over. Claire might have been angry, upset, or relieved when a relationship didn’t work out, but she’d never been so shattered.

  You fell in love with him. You fell in love with a lie.

  The tears flowed again and Claire clenched her fists, slamming them on the vanity. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to feel anything. She wanted to forget she’d ever met Mitch Bianchi. She wanted to harden her heart and keep the pain out.

  “Dammit, Claire! Get a grip. So he lied to you, manipulated you. He fucked you.”

  She’d slept with him. God, she’d slept with him and remembered feeling over the moon about it. She’d thought they’d had a connection, that they’d taken an invisible step toward something real and permanent.

  You told him you loved him.

  Her mirror steamed in the heat of the shower and she could no longer see her reflection. Good. She didn’t want to look at her pitiful self. She’d prided herself for years on being able to detect liars and frauds, but she was only deluding herself.

  Stripping off her clothes, she stepped under the hot, pulsing spray. A flash of her and Mitch in this shower last night hit her and she gave into the hurt one last time. Here, in the shower, alone. She let it out. She had to finish with it. She had a job to do. Prove that her father was innocent. That’s all that mattered now.

  Forget everything else.

  She had to. For herself, and her dad. Later there’d be plenty of time to deal with her hurt feelings about Mitch.

  By the time she stepped out of the shower, she’d put on her armor. She remembered an old Bible verse from catechism. Putting on the armor of God. She didn’t know where God was in her life, but the armor was useful. She mentally brought up her shield, donned a helmet, held her sword.

  Not to attack, but to protect herself.

  On autopilot, she dried her hair. She stared at her body, saw a faint hickey Mitch had left on her left breast. Stared at it. Remembered how it felt when he kissed her. Remembered how he looked at her.

  She closed her eyes and bent over the sink, nauseated. She was normally so good at controlling her emotions, blocking out the pain, why was it so hard to do it now?

  Put on the armor, Claire. Dammit, he can only hurt you if you let him!

  So not true.

  She brushed her damp hair and went through the comfortable ritual of cleansing her face and rubbing in moisturizer. Circular motions. Over and over. Forget Mitch. Forget him. Focus on Oliver. Her dad. The truth. Mitch had nothing to do with any of that.

  Claire left the bathroom and pulled on panties and an oversize Stanford T-shirt that fell nearly to her knees. She should go to Isleton . . . but it was already nine.

  Neelix wound himself around her feet until she picked him up. He purred against her face and she breathed in his clean, soft fur. “Sorry, kitty. I know what’s important. You and the boys.”

  Animals didn’t lie. When they were hungry, they jumped on you and whined. When they were happy, they wagged their tails or purred. When they were startled, they barked or hissed. They were innocent as children, and gave affection freely. No strings.

  Yoda started barking and Claire turned toward the back door, when the front bell rang.

  “Who now?”

  She didn’t want to answer the door. The idea of pretending no one was home came and went. She walked to the front door and through the peephole spied an unfamiliar tall woman in her forties. A neighbor? Claire wasn’t sure.

  She opened the door without taking off the chain. “Can I help you?”

  “Claire.”

  She frowned. She didn’t know this woman. Yoda had gotten Chewy and the stray dogs barking up a frenzy. She didn’t want her neighbors to complain. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Nelia Kincaid. I know your father.”

  Nothing could have surprised her more. She didn’t know what to say.

  “Can I come in? I promise I won’t stay long.”

  Claire was reluctant to let the stranger in, but she was intrigued. She closed the door, undid the chain, and reopened the door. “We haven’t m
et.”

  Nelia Kincaid shook her head. “But I feel like I know you. Your father has told me a lot.”

  “I don’t know how. He doesn’t know me.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She whirled around. Her father was standing right behind her. She felt trapped and scared and hated that feeling. She backed down the hall two steps, then stopped. “What are you doing?”

  “We have to talk, Claire.”

  “You can’t be here. The FBI could be watching the house. They could—”

  “They’re not. Believe me, I’ve become very good at spotting surveillance.”

  She remembered when he’d told her yesterday morning that the Feds were watching her. He’d been right, and she’d thought he was being paranoid.

  Her dad looked tired. Worn down. Defeated. She glanced at the woman. Who was she?

  “I heard about Oliver on the news tonight,” he said, his voice thick and troubled. “I had to see you. One last time.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m getting close, Dad. I can feel it.”

  “Close?”

  She swallowed her emotion. She’d spent all her tears on Mitch, and she wished she hadn’t. Her father deserved more of her pain than a lying FBI agent.

  “I am so s-sorry.” She stuttered and swallowed. “I should have believed you. Then. But I know you didn’t kill Mom.”

  His face twisted in surprise and hope. “Who did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you know I didn’t?” He sounded skeptical.

  “Yes. If I had only listened to Oliver Maddox when he came to me in January, he might still be alive, and you would be truly a free man. I should have known in my heart that you were innocent. And now . . . I’m sorry I needed something more than your word. I don’t know why, I don’t know how I let it come to this, but—”

  He stepped toward her and she stumbled into his arms. “Daddy.”

  He held her for the first time in fifteen years. Her father. She felt like a little girl again. She clung to him. “Please forgive me.”

  He stroked her hair. “There’s nothing to forgive, Claire.”

  He held her and Claire breathed in the familiar—and unfamiliar—scent. He was her father, but time had wedged between them. She stepped back. Looked at Nelia Kincaid again.

  “Nelia saved my life. She found me in Idaho after Aaron Doherty—another escaped convict—shot me and left me for dead.”

  Claire didn’t know what she could say.

  “I’ve been in Idaho for the better part of four months. I was in no condition to come back here. In some ways, I wish I hadn’t, but I’m glad I did—just to see you again.” He touched her face. “To know that you believe I’m innocent. You’ve given me my life back, Claire. And I mean that. I came back to Sacramento for you. I couldn’t face my own death with you believing I was guilty.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Don’t talk that way.”

  “I’m surrendering tomorrow.”

  “No! Why?”

  “When I heard that Oliver Maddox was dead and had been for months, I realized he had to have been killed because he was helping me. Helping prove I was innocent. When he first visited me in Quentin, I—”

  “Why were you even at San Quentin in the first place?” she asked. “You were supposed to be at Folsom.”

  “I wrote to Bill about it.”

  “Bill?”

  “Bill and I corresponded regularly. He told me everything about you. Everything that I wished I’d seen for myself.”

  “Bill?” she repeated. He’d never let on. How could Bill have kept something so important from Claire?

  “I told him not to tell you. You didn’t want to hear from me. I understood that. Hated it, but understood it. I guess I’d hoped that Bill would find a way through that thick head of yours.” He laughed, but the joke fell flat.

  “You’re like me, Claire,” Tom said. “I was so certain of everything back then. I was positive that I would be exonerated. Because I was innocent. I was cocky for the longest time, worried more about how I was going to get my job back and take care of you. It took me a long time to realize that I was going to stay in prison until they killed me.”

  He looked around, motioned toward the couch. “Let’s sit.”

  Nelia said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

  “Tea,” Claire and her father said simultaneously.

  Nelia smiled. “Tea.” She went to the kitchen.

  “Who is she?” Claire asked quietly.

  “The woman I love. She saved me in more ways than one, Claire. I want to live now. But I don’t know that it will happen. But what I won’t do is be gunned down in the street like a criminal. This has to end. I didn’t realize until yesterday that I was putting you in danger. Risk, yes, of being prosecuted as an accessory, but I figured that with the backing of Rogan-Caruso and the sensitive situation of you being my daughter, you’d get off with a slap on the wrist. But I never imagined that you would be in physical danger.”

  “I’m not—”

  He ran his fingers through the ends of her hair. “Yes you are. Please. No more about it, okay?”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Nelia is an attorney. She’s going to arrange for my surrender. I’m going to turn myself over to the FBI.”

  “The FBI? Why them?”

  “I believe that if I go into state custody my days are numbered. Someone wants me dead. I’m hoping that the FBI will listen to what I know.”

  “You can’t trust them. You can’t trust anyone, Dad. Except me. I’m working on this. I already know so much more than you did yesterday morning. Stay away. I’ll figure it out, I promise.”

  Nelia came in with a tray of teacups. She put it down and sat on the armrest of the chair Tom was sitting in. He absently took her hand. The simple sign of affection wasn’t lost on Claire.

  “Frank Lowe died in a fire the night after Mom was killed,” Claire said.

  “That’s not possible. Oliver said he’d tracked down Frank Lowe and that he had the key to what happened.”

  “Lowe died in a fire, but Oliver told Bill that he thought he was alive. I don’t see how—it’s actually hard to fake your own death. Disappear? Much easier.”

  “Oliver must have had a reason to think Lowe wasn’t dead.”

  She frowned. “Maybe. I do know that Lowe’s boss at the time now owns a bar in Isleton. Oliver was returning from Isleton when he went into the river.”

  “Stop. Stop looking into this right now,” her dad said.

  “I’m going to find out who killed Mom and Chase Taverton.”

  “Dammit, Claire!” He took a deep breath and turned to Nelia.

  “Claire,” Nelia said, “if anything happened to you, Tom wouldn’t be able to live with it. You have to step back.”

  Claire shook her head and looked at the ceiling. “You might think you know me, but you don’t.” She looked from Nelia to her father. “I’m not the naïve fourteen-year-old who was in shock during your trial. I’m a trained private investigator. Oliver Maddox found Chase Taverton’s personal day planner. He had a copy of it. That disappeared, and so did the original. Taverton’s sister gave it to a cop who claimed he was from the Sacramento County Superior Court.

  “A friend of mine at the morgue told me Oliver swallowed a flash drive. The FBI has it. Something important was on there. Something that might prove you’re innocent. And there are other things. Like your transcripts are missing from the county archives. There are no coroner’s reports on the murders.”

  Her dad leaned forward, a stern look on his face. “Don’t you see? Someone powerful is calling the shots.”

  “What powerful person would want Chase Taverton dead? To the extent that he would frame an innocent man, destroy government records, and kill a law student?”

  “Someone with a lot to hide, and even more to protect,” Nelia said softly.

  Tom and Claire turned to her.

  Nelia said, �
�You two are so much alike. If the situation weren’t so dire, I would laugh. Stubborn. Determined. Smart. Temperamental. But we know that Tom is innocent. That he was framed. That someone else killed two people, but we don’t know the motive.”

  “It was about Taverton,” Claire said.

  Nelia nodded. “Prosecutors make enemies, but usually they leave a paper trail. Something to follow that shows what they were working on.”

  “Wouldn’t they be working only after an arrest?” Claire asked. “I mean, isn’t their job to prosecute those arrested for a crime?”

  “Usually,” Nelia said, “but sometimes they are involved in sting operations. Or they arraign a petty criminal who has information to take down a bigger fish.”

  “Frank Lowe,” Claire said. “He was a petty thief. He was arrested two weeks before he died in a fire. It’s too big a coincidence that Lowe died about the same time Taverton did. What happens after someone is arraigned?” she asked Nelia, who seemed to know more about legal issues than she did.

  “He’s a thief? So he was caught robbing someone. He was arrested, put in jail, and then arraigned within seventy-two hours—that’s usually the case. Could have been out on bail pending trial. An investigation would continue. That’s when the district attorney would go through the case, making sure he had everything he needed for a conviction. There could be a plea agreement between the D.A.’s office and the defense. Often for a lesser charge or lighter prison term.”

  “Are you a prosecutor?” Claire asked, suspicious.

  Nelia shook her head. “I used to be a corporate attorney. My ex-husband is a D.A.”

  Claire glanced at her dad, but he wasn’t concerned. He looked at Nelia as if she were a goddess.

  Claire pulled her gaze away. “What if Tip Barney, Lowe’s old boss, knew what Lowe and Taverton knew?”

  “Then why is he still alive?” Nelia asked. “If Barney had information that would have hurt someone, he would have been killed. That follows this pattern.”

  “He could be part of it, Claire,” her father warned. “I don’t want you going down there. Leave it to the FBI.”

  She jumped up. “They’re not going to even try and prove your innocence. All they care about is putting you back in prison!”