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  “So you were alone, and everyone on duty or with a police-band frequency would know that you were signed out for lunch.”

  “You think that someone in my department-no. I can’t believe that anyone I knew then had anything to do with Lydia’s murder.”

  But the seed was planted. Who hated him so much that they’d frame him for murder?

  “Maybe, or maybe it was just someone who knew a lot about Chase Taverton and enough about police procedures and codes to monitor police frequencies. You were on break and everyone knew it. The killer could have been waiting to kill Taverton and your wife while you were unavailable.”

  “But if Claire hadn’t called me, I would have been at lunch and-” He stopped.

  “Right. You were eating alone and everyone knew, or could have known. No big secret.”

  “You’re making a lot of leaps, Maddox. You’re making the leap that someone knew about Lydia’s affair, and my studying over lunch, and they knew that Lydia would be home with her lover during the same time as my lunch break? A jury didn’t buy my defense, which was along the same lines-that I just happened to come home within minutes of my unfaithful wife being murdered by someone else. I’m surprised you do.”

  “You testified that you saw your personal firearm on the wrong nightstand in the bedroom when you walked in and saw the bodies.”

  “Yes.”

  “My dad was a cop. He put his gun in the same place every night. He checked it religiously. He kept his in a holster attached to the side of the bed. He would never have put it in the wrong place. Ever.”

  “I could have been in a rush,” Tom said, using the prosecution’s argument. “I was in a rage. Not thinking. Heard Claire come in. Or, as in the closing statement, was trying to cast doubt that I was the killer.”

  “Cops and their guns. . no, you wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave it there. You would have either disposed of it or put it back where it belonged. But even more likely, you wouldn’t have used your own gun.”

  “They call them crimes of passion for a reason,” Tom said. “The killer usually isn’t thinking.”

  “Even a crime of passion-I just couldn’t picture you being so stupid. Your daughter calls you, you go home and kill two people? It doesn’t make sense to me, but yeah, on the surface, it was an easy prosecution. One of their own was killed and they jumped all over the most likely suspect.”

  Oliver stared him in the eye, leaned forward and whispered, “I think it’s all about Chase Taverton. I think he was the target, and I’m going to prove it. I have a lead. I just wanted to meet you, see if you were who I thought you were.”

  “And?”

  “You pass.”

  Oliver hadn’t visited him again, but they set up a weekly phone call so Oliver could ask questions and tell Tom what he’d uncovered. On that last call, two weeks before the earthquake, Oliver was excited.

  “I think I have it, Tom,” he said. “I don’t want to say much over the phone. But I have Taverton’s personal journal. Everything is in here-everything he was working on. Details. Some of it is in Taverton’s own cryptic notes, but I’m working on it. There’s a guy, a criminal informant, Taverton was working a plea deal with the week he was killed. Frank Lowe. Know him?”

  “No,” Tom had said.

  “He’s the key. I feel it. I think this is a conspiracy, Tom. Based on his notes, I think that Taverton was using Lowe as a witness against someone very, very big.”

  “Who?”

  “I have ideas, but I don’t want to say right now. Not until I find Lowe and do some more research into this. If I’m wrong, it’ll be even worse for you. But if I’m right. . let’s meet again. I’d rather tell you in person.”

  They arranged to meet on Monday, January 21. But Oliver never showed, and the day after, Tom was moved to Section B.

  Tom couldn’t retrace Oliver’s steps, and even knowing now that Oliver had lied to him about his position with the Western Innocence Project, Tom had hope that there was truth in what Oliver had uncovered. That Taverton had been the target and Tom had been deliberately framed.

  If Claire believed him, she could bring in the power and resources of Rogan-Caruso. The security company was the best in the business. With them behind him, Tom might finally learn the truth. More important, Claire would.

  He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He glanced at Nelia, still sleeping. He’d told her the truth-he didn’t deserve her or her trust. But without it, he would be lost, or dead.

  He loved her.

  He prayed she’d forgive him.

  Tom pulled a piece of notepaper from a small stack and wrote:

  Nelia,

  You’ve already gone above and beyond for me. I’m not going to jeopardize you further. I’m taking the letter to Claire, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.

  I love you.

  Tom

  NINE

  When Claire arrived at Dave’s house on the far side of his father’s rural property off Bader Road in Elk Grove, she was still fuming over her interview with the warehouse owner. Holman had lied through his teeth, but she took down his statement verbatim.

  Now her real work began. Holman insisted he had nothing to do with the arson. She already had the report about the medical supplies on the streets, but Holman was right about one thing-she couldn’t prove someone else hadn’t stolen and distributed them.

  Liars and thieves like Ben Holman pissed her off.

  She frowned, thinking about her conversation with Oliver Maddox’s girlfriend earlier in the day. Was Claire no better than Holman? She’d misled Tammy Amunson about why she wanted to find Oliver. True, she hadn’t really lied, it was more a sin of omission. She really did want to find Oliver and she was concerned about his disappearance. She did have a private investigator’s license. But she’d never used it deceptively before.

  Did a good reason justify her dishonesty?

  Dave bent over to hug her when she walked through the unlocked door. He was nearly as tall as Mitch and broader. Claire didn’t know why her friend Jayne didn’t like him; Dave was both a good guy and good-looking.

  “You’re late.” He messed up her hair.

  She wrinkled her nose at him and grabbed his beer, finishing the rest.

  “I hate it when you do that,” he said.

  “I know. Where’s your dad?” She’d hoped to pull him aside and ask about Oliver Maddox. She knew Bill had talked to the college student back in January, but at the time she had been too raw to discuss the conversation in depth. Then the earthquake hit and they both had other things to think about.

  “He’s at the game. An old buddy of his got some prime tickets.”

  “Good for him,” she said, though she was disappointed she’d have to wait until tomorrow to talk to him. Dave might know something. . if she could get him alone. “Who’s all here?”

  “The usual-Manny and Jill, Eric, Phil.”

  Claire tried to rid her body of the day’s tension. She rolled her shoulders, said hi to everyone, grabbed a beer from an ice bucket. These were her friends, she reminded herself. Why did she feel so uncomfortable, like an outsider? She always tried, but never felt like she quite fit in anywhere.

  She pushed aside her father’s haunted expression.

  Her lies to Oliver Maddox’s worried girlfriend.

  Her growing confusion over her father’s guilt.

  A timer went off, and Phil jumped up. “Hey, Claire, have a second to help?”

  “Sure.”

  She followed Phil into the kitchen. He popped open the oven and took out a delicious-smelling Mexican dip, then popped in garlic bread and adjusted the temperature.

  Phil tossed her a bag of tortilla chips. “Go find a bowl.”

  Also a cop, Phil was a few years older than Dave and his friends, but he was a fixture in the group. Especially after he saved Dave’s life during a domestic disturbance call the week before Claire graduated from high school. If Phil hadn’t intervened at the ri
ght moment, Dave could have been dead. The bullet ended up grazing his arm, but it was only inches from his heart. Bill called Phil his adopted son.

  Claire rummaged around the cabinets. Dave was not organized.

  “Dave says it’s getting serious with your new boyfriend.”

  “Dave has a big mouth.” She found a big bowl and dumped the chips into it.

  “He’s just concerned because you haven’t introduced him. You usually aren’t so secretive.”

  Eric came in as Phil spoke. Eric was Dave’s age and they’d been close ever since Eric joined the force more than ten years ago. “Yeah, and I think this is a record. Dave said you’ve been seeing him for a couple months. Long time for you.”

  She rolled her eyes, but she was getting irritated at the interrogation from the cops. Dave, okay, he was practically her brother. But Phil and Eric?

  “Okay, a week from Friday, the Kings are playing the Lakers in L.A., we’ll all meet at my place and I’ll invite Mitch, okay?”

  Dave walked in. “Is this the Mitch Bianchi you have yet to introduce to Dad and me?”

  “Oh, stop,” she said. “I didn’t think you cared.”

  Dave squeezed the back of her neck. “I’ll always care about who you’re dating.”

  Claire felt claustrophobic with Dave’s overprotective, brotherly attitude, and Phil and Eric’s intrusiveness. “Get over it,” she said, trying to sound light, but her tone was flat.

  Dave dropped his hand and grabbed the plate of chicken off the counter. “Game’s started, we’re down six already.”

  “Dave, I’m sorry, I-” Claire frowned as he walked out. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she ended lamely.

  “He knows,” Eric said, rubbing her shoulder. “I’ll take this tray-anything else?” he asked Phil.

  “The bread has a few minutes. I’ll wait for it.” Eric left, and Phil took up rubbing her shoulder where Eric had left off. “Dave just worries about you. He wants you to be happy. So is it serious? You and this Mitch Bianchi?”

  She shrugged. “The usual.” That was such a lie, she realized as she said it.

  “So it is,” Phil stated.

  “What? Please. I don’t have time for serious relationships. Worry about Dave. He’s a lot older than me, he should be thinking of settling down.”

  Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the number. Mitch.

  “Go ahead,” Phil said. “I’ll take care of this. Grab the bread when the timer buzzes.” He took the bowl of potato salad from her hand and left the kitchen.

  “Hi,” she answered, feeling giddy when she heard his voice.

  “Change of plans?”

  “Yeah. I need to make an appearance at this thing. I hope it’s okay that I meet you at the Fox amp; Goose.”

  “I’ll be miserable the entire hour you’re late, but I’ll manage as long as you don’t cancel on me altogether.”

  “No chance. I missed you this morning.”

  “Ditto. Coffee doesn’t taste the same without you.”

  She laughed. “I highly doubt that. So nine is okay?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  She hung up, a rush of anticipation running through her veins. She considered leaving now and catching up with Mitch before he left his house, but decided against it. She’d been practically ignoring Dave and his friends since she’d been seeing Mitch, and Dave would be ticked if she bailed earlier than she planned. Plus she had to make it up to him for jumping down his throat earlier.

  The timer went off and she took out the garlic bread. She decided one beer was plenty, and started a pot of coffee. That’s what it was: She was worn down from today and the stress of the confrontation with her father. A cup of coffee or three and she’d be back to her old self and ready for a night of dancing.

  Dave walked into the room. “I’m sorry,” Claire said to him, glad they were alone for a minute.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Dave walked up to her, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Yes. But I could tell something was bothering you from the minute you drove up. Want to talk about it?”

  She glanced at the doorway. Everyone was in the great room, the television loud enough to drown out their conversation.

  “Do you remember a few months ago, before the earthquake”-she preferred to say “earthquake” rather than “when my father escaped from Quentin”-“when we had dinner with your dad, and I told him about my conversation with the law student Oliver Maddox?”

  Dave tensed and straightened. He went from friend to cop in a split second. “Yes. Dad had a visit from Maddox as well.”

  “Right. And I was too angry and upset to listen to him.”

  “I remember that, too.”

  “But I need to know what they talked about.”

  “Why now?”

  “I-” She couldn’t tell him about her father. Not yet. “I found his card in my desk this morning and it’s been on my mind. He told me he was close to finding proof that my father is innocent. I didn’t believe anything he said then, especially when I found out he lied about who he worked for. But now-”

  “Now what?”

  She said, “I just need to know what he meant; if there’s anything he found out that might, I don’t know, confirm my father’s guilt or give me something new to look at, maybe-”

  “Are you buying into Maddox’s theory?”

  “I don’t even know what his theory is, not completely, which is why I wanted to talk to Bill.”

  Dave stared at her flatly. “A bulletin came into the station today from the sheriff’s department. Oliver Maddox is dead. His body was found this morning in the Sacramento River near Isleton.”

  Claire couldn’t have heard that right. “Dead?” she whispered.

  “His identity hasn’t been confirmed, but it was his car and a body in the driver’s seat, badly decomposed, but it’s likely Oliver Maddox.” Dave watched her closely, too closely, like a cop viewing a suspect. “So I ask you again, Claire, why are you interested in Oliver Maddox now?”

  “I haven’t been able to sleep,” she said, not completely lying. She’d had problems sleeping ever since her mother was killed. “It’s been worse since the earthquake.” Again, the truth. “And I’ve been thinking about what Maddox said, and wondering if I should have listened to him. If maybe he knew something that. . that proved my father is innocent. What if it’s the truth? What if I ignored Maddox because of my own guilt?”

  “Guilt? For what?”

  She laughed without humor. “What? You know damn well that I called my dad that day and told him about the man in bed with my mother. I set in motion the entire chain of events. For fifteen years I’ve believed that I ignited my father’s fuse. He may have pulled the trigger, but I baited him. What if I’m innocent?”

  “Claire, you are innocent. What your father did had nothing to do with you-”

  She interrupted. “It had everything to do with me. And my dad. And my mother. But if my dad has been telling the truth all along, no matter how crazy it sounds, it means that someone else did kill my mom and that prosecutor. And Oliver Maddox was onto it. He must have known something, otherwise why would he come to me-and your dad-” She paused. “How did he die?”

  “I don’t know,” Dave said. “The autopsy is tomorrow and the investigation is ongoing. I heard the FBI is involved, but this isn’t a Sac PD case. I don’t have any details.”

  She looked him in the eye, asking without words.

  He nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He took both of her hands in his and squeezed, his face stern. “Don’t get your hopes up, Claire. This probably doesn’t mean anything. Your father was convicted. The evidence was solid.”

  “It was largely circumstantial.”

  “He had a half-dozen appeals, every one of them a failure. No one thinks he’s innocent. And”-Dave implored her with his expression-“I don’t want you throwing away your life helping him.”

 
Tom sat in the park across the street and watched Claire’s house.

  She wasn’t home, but he had no idea what her schedule was. In the few days he’d been back in Sacramento, he’d only learned that she had no regular habits except hitting Starbucks every morning.

  She could be home any minute, or not for hours.

  He should have listened to Nelia and not come here. He’d seen Special Agent Bianchi twice; he was obviously watching Claire at least periodically. But Bianchi didn’t appear to be anywhere nearby now, and Tom wore a fairly decent disguise. He’d been using a rinse to hide the silver, making his hair browner than its natural black. He also took Nelia’s suggestion and didn’t crop it short as he’d worn it both before and after going to prison. She’d trimmed it into what she called a conservative businessman’s cut. The day’s growth of beard-though coming in threaded with silver-helped hide the shape of his face. And Nelia had bought him a pair of gold rimmed glasses to wear. He had a newspaper under his arm, and wore sneakers, jeans, and a black polo shirt. At first glance, no one would suspect that he was Tom O’Brien, the last fugitive from San Quentin. But if Claire or a cop saw him, the disguise wouldn’t buy him much time.

  He sat on the bench and watched. Nelia would have woken up by now and be worried about him. Or be angry. Probably both. He didn’t want to upset her, but he’d already decided that if she were caught helping him, he would tell the authorities that he’d threatened her. Forced her to help. Confuse them enough that maybe they wouldn’t push it. It also might help that Nelia was on decent terms with her ex, a district attorney in San Diego.

  The park closed at sunset, and Tom didn’t want to chance hanging out there long after. Patrols increased in the evenings, primarily as a deterrent to juvenile crimes like vandalism and graffiti and petty theft.

  Being back in Sacramento had shoved the past right under his nose. He’d brought Claire to this very park when she was not even three, an inquisitive toddler who enjoyed feeding the ducks. He remembered when one of the mallards had nipped her finger. Instead of crying or chasing the bird, she’d lectured him, pointing that hurt finger at the duck.