Playing Dead Page 6

  “I might have a home for the Lab mix,” Dr. Jim said.

  “Really?” Claire glanced into her small backyard where the year-old stray was chasing his tail. Yoda, a rather serious beagle, watched the visiting mutt with what she could only think of as a look of disdain. Yoda simply didn’t know how to have fun.

  “Family with three boys. I had to put their shepherd down after a hit-and-run last week. They were devastated, of course, but I think they really want another dog as soon as possible, and they’re good people.”

  “They can come by anytime. Just let me know when and I’ll be here.”

  “Still nothing about the terrier?”

  She shook her head. “I put notices up in all the usual places, with the pound, all over the park. I went to every house in a four-block radius. No owner, and no one recognized him.”

  “He’s a smart dog.”

  She smiled. “You want him?”

  “I have four dogs, three of which I took from you. April will shoot me if I bring home another. Besides, I think he’s more your style. Even Yoda seems to like him.”

  True, Claire thought. “We’ll see what happens. It’s only been two weeks. Maybe his owners went on vacation and the house sitter lost him.” She could hope. But the truth was a lot of people simply abandoned their dogs and cats when they moved, or when the pet became too much work. She wanted to strangle those people. Instead, she found good homes for the animals, no matter how long it took.

  “Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?” Jim asked. “April is making lasagna.”

  Claire liked Jim and his wife, but she always felt like a third wheel. They’d been married for years, but still acted like newlyweds. It reminded Claire that no matter how many guys she dated or friends she went club-hopping with, in her heart she felt isolated and alone. Until Mitch.

  “I have a date, but thanks for the invite. Tell April I said hi.”

  Claire watched Jim drive off, then closed the door and walked down the hall to her office.

  Facing the rose garden in McKinley Park, her Tudor-style house wasn’t large, but it was charming. She kept her dogs outside, though they had access to the enclosed sunroom. Neelix, her orange and white cat, had the run of the place. It was because of Neelix that she’d met Dr. Jim in the first place. She’d just bought the house in McKinley Park four years ago when she’d witnessed a teenage boy throwing rocks at a stray cat in the park. The cat was shrieking. Claire had wanted to chase down the punk, and she’d certainly had enough adrenaline to get in a few good licks, but the poor, undernourished injured cat was lying there, trying to get up, dazed. The cat’s back leg was broken. Claire picked saving his life over revenge.

  She didn’t always choose so wisely.

  No one claimed Neelix, so she’d kept him. Nursed him back to health. He went from a six-pound skeletal feline to a thirteen-pound fat, lazy cat.

  Neelix opened his eyes, not moving from his spot at the end of her bed when she walked in. She scratched him behind the ears, then turned into her office, a converted walk-in closet. Her bedroom originally had two closets—a large walk-in, and a smaller closet. She had taken the doors off the walk-in, removed the shelves and poles, and turned it into her office. It fit a desk, a small file cabinet, and a short bookshelf. Comfortable and functional.

  She flipped on her computer screen and Googled the Western Innocence Project. Nearly every state had an “Innocence Project,” which was generally affiliated with a law school where lawyers and students took on criminal appeals pro bono if they felt that the convict had been unjustly convicted. Many of the cases came from DNA evidence, often older cases where new forensic technology enabled them to extract DNA from a rape or murder and match it—or not—to the individual convicted of the crime.

  She didn’t know what she was looking for. She’d talked to the director, Randolph Sizemore, Esq., once before when he had told her that Oliver Maddox wasn’t an employee of the Project nor was the Project working on the O’Brien case. However, it might be worth talking to him again. Maybe he knew where Maddox went. Maybe she hadn’t asked the right questions.

  Spontaneously, she dialed Sizemore’s direct line. She’d uncovered it after speaking to him in January, but hadn’t had cause to use it.

  “Randy Sizemore.”

  “This is Claire O’Brien. I’m calling about Oliver Maddox.”

  Silence at first, then, “Hello, Ms. O’Brien. How can I help you?”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Of course. I made a note of our conversation in my journal. You claimed that Oliver said he was working with my institute on behalf of your father.”

  “That’s what he told me, but I know that he was an intern last summer.”

  “True. I have no new information.”

  “Do you know that Oliver Maddox is missing? He’s been missing since January 20.”

  There was silence on the other end. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “I spoke with his girlfriend. She said that he came to you last summer and asked if you would look into my father’s conviction. You didn’t tell me that the first time I spoke with you.”

  “That’s not exactly what happened. Hold on. I remember talking to him about it, but . . .” Claire heard pages flipping in the background. “Oh, right. Yes, O’Brien. It was over five years ago that we put together that file. The file was reviewed by a practicing attorney and it was determined that we had no cause to believe Mr. O’Brien didn’t get a fair trial or was wrongfully convicted. The file went to archives.”

  “And you told Oliver this?”

  “Of course. I have so many cases on my desk. I have three full-time attorneys working for me, plus many others who work pro bono. We give a thorough look at the case file, court transcripts, evidence. If there’s anything at all that we can sink our teeth into, we file a motion. Put it on the record, even if we don’t have the time or resources to pursue it.”

  “Did Oliver tell you why he thought the case should be looked at again?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention. That was a busy time, and I had a half-dozen serious cases I was working on, all with legitimate problems. I didn’t have time to revisit a case that had been vetted by an attorney I thoroughly trust.”

  “Who was the attorney who originally looked at the file? Maybe Oliver spoke to him.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.” His sympathetic tone had Claire on edge. She hated when people pitied her.

  “Do you believe your father is innocent? In your heart, what do you think?”

  She hadn’t expected the question. But in the months since Oliver claimed he could prove her father was framed, she’d been thinking about it, and after seeing him this morning . . . She said honestly, “I don’t know. Up until I saw my mother’s body I would have said he’d never kill anyone. But Oliver was so convinced he was innocent.” She didn’t mention “The Perfect Frame” to Sizemore. “I want to see what he saw and draw my own conclusions.”

  “Don Collier.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Professor Collier does pro bono work for me, and he reviewed the case. He had been a criminal defense attorney before he started teaching at Davis.”

  “Thank you.” Her head was spinning at the information, but she asked, “Can I get a copy of the file?”

  “It’s in archives. I let Oliver make a copy, but I made sure the original was appropriately refiled. It might take me a day or two.”

  “That’s okay. I really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll have my secretary call you when it’s ready.”

  She thanked Sizemore and put down her phone, wondering what was going on. Having gotten Collier’s name from Maddox’s girlfriend, Claire had already left a message for him, but he hadn’t returned her call.

  She tried digging deeper into Oliver Maddox, but there was very little about him. He had a paper posted in the archives of the UC Davis newspaper website. As an alum—
even though she’d never graduated—she could access it using her former student ID. It was a paper on the criminal justice system, more than twenty pages. She skimmed it to see if it mentioned her father’s case. It appeared to be an indictment against the current appeals process. She didn’t see anything related to her dad, but she printed it out to read over more carefully later.

  Claire’s father had been convicted because of opportunity and motive. His gun was used, but there were no prints on it. It had been wiped clean, which the prosecution claimed was O’Brien’s attempt to cover up the murders. There was GSR on his hands, but he’d been at the gun range earlier that morning. The prosecution claimed he’d premeditated the murders, and therefore made sure that he had a good reason to have gunshot residue on his hands.

  Other than the timeline, there was no other hard evidence. The jury, like the prosecution, didn’t believe that anyone else had the means or motive to kill two people at that exact time. No one had seen anyone else—stranger or friend—in or near the house.

  Claire had trusted the prosecutor, Sandra Walters. Ms. Walters wanted justice for her mother and Chase Taverton. She’d been kind and supportive from the beginning, treating Claire with kid gloves both on and off the witness stand. Dave and Bill Kamanski, whom she stayed with during the trial, made sure that Claire was treated well. Everyone seemed overly nice to her then, but those months were a blur.

  Bill hadn’t wanted her to come to the trial at all, but Claire had to. She had to hear everything, to try to understand how her father could have killed two people. How he could have killed her mother.

  Claire didn’t remember the specifics of the trial. It was as if she’d listened to every word, and imprinted the transcript in her mind, but when she tried to recall details of testimony they were fleeting, just snippets of conversation here and there.

  Two weeks before she started her sophomore year in high school, her father had been convicted. The trial had only lasted eight days, but it had taken nine months to build the case.

  Three days after the conviction, the judge sentenced Thomas O’Brien to death.

  In the courtroom, her father had turned and stared at her, his eyes haunted.

  She’d run to the bathroom and dry-heaved.

  “I’ve told the truth.” Her father’s flat plea bounced in her head. I’ve told the truth. I’ve told the truth.

  She could not accept it. Who else? Who else could have killed them? And why?

  Her father had never admitted that he killed Lydia O’Brien and Chase Taverton. Even fifteen years of prison time and a half-dozen appeals hadn’t changed that.

  And today, he’d said the same thing.

  Oliver Maddox had found something. At one time, the Western Innocence Project had been interested in the case, otherwise why would they have had the files in their office?

  Still, maybe Maddox was just trying to grandstand and come up with some brilliant thesis, or get himself some press, but he had to have a reason to tell his girlfriend that he had proof of “The Perfect Frame.” He had to have a solid reason to come to Claire and tell her he believed her father was innocent. He had to have something to convince her father that proof of his innocence was attainable.

  She owed her dad—Claire owed herself—the truth. If not now, when? When her father was dead? When it was too late?

  Tammy said Oliver was supposed to meet with his advisor, Professor Don Collier, that Monday. The missing person report would have been filed with the Davis Police Department. She needed to talk to the detective in charge and see if she could get copies of his reports—who he talked to and what they said. She didn’t know if it would help, but it might give her another path to travel.

  Right now, all she had was the advisor. She’d left a message for him after talking with Tammy. She tried his number again, but when voice mail picked up, she immediately hung up.

  She glanced at the time in the lower right-hand corner of her computer screen. Damn, she had to put this aside and go to her interview with Ben Holman, the owner of the warehouse that had burned down. She turned off her monitor, washed her face, and reapplied the light makeup she wore during the day.

  She left in her Jeep and just as she merged onto the Business 80 toward Roseville, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was Dave Kamanski’s cell phone number. Normally she loved talking to her “brother”—the son of the man who’d taken on guardianship duty when her father had been sent to prison. Dave was ten years older than her and had been a rookie cop when she’d moved into Detective Bill Kamanski’s house. Dave had trained under her father and they’d been friends. Tom’s actions had hurt him nearly as much as they had Claire.

  But now . . . Claire didn’t dare tell Dave her dad had contacted her. He was still a cop, a solid cop, and he’d insist she report it.

  “Hi,” she answered.

  “Kings game, seven o’clock, my house. Phil, Manny and Jill, Eric. Phil’s cooking.”

  “I sure hope so,” she teased.

  “Think Jayne is free tonight?”

  Jayne Morgan was the computer expert at Rogan-Caruso and the closest thing Claire had to a best friend. She suspected that Dave had a crush on Jayne, but sadly it wasn’t mutual.

  “I can ask, but don’t count on it,” Claire sidestepped.

  “But you’re game?”

  “I don’t think I can.” Mitch was picking her up at eight. She hadn’t introduced him to her “family.” That would necessitate her explaining to Mitch about her father being a killer—and a fugitive. Not to mention that Dave and Phil Palmer, his longtime partner, always gave her boyfriends a hard time. Mitch could probably hold his own, but they’d jab at him about being a freelance writer with no visible means of support, and no real job.

  “Okay, ’fess up. What are you doing?”

  “I have a date.”

  “Bring him by. Someone we know?”

  “No.”

  “New guy?”

  “Sort of.” She’d been seeing Mitch for a few months.

  “Well? Doesn’t he like basketball?”

  “He likes to play, not watch.”

  “You’re dating an athlete now?”

  “No, though I’d bet he can beat you at racquetball.”

  “Bullshit. Your boyfriends are all wimps.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You should date someone who’s your equal, Claire, not someone you can mentally and physically run circles around.”

  “Yeah, yeah, tell me something new.”

  “So you’re not going to bring him?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t told him—well, I just like things the way they are, okay?”

  Dave softened. “Claire, if you want to talk about your dad—”

  “No,” she said quickly. Too quickly? She cleared her throat. Oliver Maddox had also talked to Bill, but Claire hadn’t wanted to listen to what they’d discussed. But now she needed information . . . Would they realize something was up if she started asking questions? She’d have to tread carefully. Dave, Phil, and Manny were all smart cops. She needed to get Dave’s dad Bill alone. Bill had a soft spot for her. She didn’t feel good about exploiting him, but right now she needed all the information she could get.

  “How about if I come by for the first half?”

  He snorted. “Your date won’t mind?”

  “No need to be snide, David.”

  “Ouch. You must be pissed to call me David.”

  “Later. I have an arsonist to interview.”

  “The West Sac warehouse fire?”

  “Yep.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  She hung up and pulled off the freeway, then turned into an upscale development in Roseville, a sprawling suburban city with over one hundred thousand residents, halfway between Sacramento and the quaint Gold Country town of Auburn.

  Before walking up to pound the final nail in Ben Holman’s proverbial coffin, she dialed Mitch’s ce
ll phone number. Though she didn’t have time to talk, she hoped he’d answer. She loved his voice. No matter what mood she was in, talking to Mitch always made her feel good.

  Voice mail picked up.

  “This is Mitch Bianchi. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  He sounded far more formal on tape than in person. She said, “Hi, Mitch. It’s Claire. Slight change of plans. I need to make a stop tonight and it’ll take me awhile. I’ll meet you at the Fox & Goose about nine. Sorry. Call me if there’s a problem or . . .” if you just want to talk. That would sound stupid. “Or whatever,” she finished lamely. “ ’Bye.”

  She pulled together her file and clipboard, checked her weapon, and walked up to interview Holman.

  SEVEN

  The assassin was anxious and excited. He’d be seeing Claire tonight. In the flesh.

  When he came off duty he rushed home to shower and change. He didn’t want to be too early, so he tried to calm himself. He poured a glass of wine and sat on the edge of his bed, a towel around his waist. He turned on the television via remote.

  The TV in his bedroom wasn’t connected to cable or an antenna; instead, it was hooked up only to his DVD player where he had one special disk. A compilation of the secret tapes he’d made of Claire. A “Best of Claire” movie.

  He savored every moment. Every movement Claire made was burned into his mind; her every sigh, every word vibrated between his ears. It didn’t matter what she was doing as she lay in her bed. As long as he could see her, he was happy.

  He’d had to be careful, play it cool, make sure that if the camera was found, it couldn’t be traced back to him.

  When she’d been living in the apartment downtown, it had been much easier to tape her. It had been an old apartment with high, ornate ceilings. He’d planted the camera in the attic, a small hole drilled through an edge in the molding. It was perfect: virtually undetectable. The camera equipment had been expensive, but well worth it—and he had the money, considering he killed annually for the blackmailers.