“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.
“That was not nice. I fed you already, let the other ducks have a turn.”
While in prison, Tom tried to remember the good times, but inevitably he’d see Claire’s young, stricken face when she cast her eyes on Lydia’s dead body.
Traffic in the area diminished as the commute ended. Claire still hadn’t returned home.
Tom didn’t need a lot of time. Go in, leave the letter, get out. Hell, he could leave the letter in her mailbox. It would be safer that way.
But the truth was he wanted to see how she was doing, and a person’s house said a lot about how they lived. Five minutes. Go in, put the letter on her refrigerator, glance around, leave. The dogs might bark, but he wouldn’t be there long enough for the neighbors to call the police.
Just as he was about to get up from the bench, Claire’s Jeep pulled into the driveway. She jumped out, ran into the house. That had been close. He wasn’t ready for another confrontation.
He’d put the letter in her mailbox after she went to bed. Hope she checked it early. He could call her, tell her it was there.
Less than ten minutes later, Claire emerged from the house once again. She’d changed from her slacks and blazer to black jeans and a lacy tank top. As she walked to her car in spike heels, she pulled a purple T-shirt over her head. She drove away, speeding through a yellow light and turning onto the on-ramp of the freeway a block over.
Now. What are you waiting for?
He crossed the street, trying not to walk too fast or too slow. His heart pounded. She was his daughter, but she also believed he was a killer. He had to accept the fact that she might turn him in or set him up.
He expected that she’d have an alarm, and was surprised when he didn’t encounter one. Maybe she didn’t have one because of her animals. Perhaps he could stay a little longer.
The dogs in the back barked. There were three or four. A golden retriever gazed through the glass pane on the back door, tongue hanging out, looking as if he’d much rather lick an intruder than attack him. Claire always had a soft spot for animals. Lydia had been severely allergic to dogs and they’d never had one.
An orange and white cat wound around Tom’s legs and he bent to scratch the animal behind the ears, tears burning behind dry eyes.
Bill Kamanski, a detective and the father of a good rookie cop Tom had trained, had become Claire’s guardian. Tom didn’t want to go to prison and leave his daughter with anyone. He’d wanted to be her father, dammit! He’d raised her, he loved her. He hadn’t killed anyone . . .
After sentencing, but before Tom was transported to Folsom Prison, Bill met with him in lockup. Reality had finally hit Tom. He was going to be in prison for the rest of his life—until he was executed. He had appeals, but for the first time since he was arrested, he realized he might never be free again.
“Tom.” Bill sat across from him, his face hard but his eyes compassionate.
“What do you want?” he’d asked. This man already had his daughter. Tom was no longer a father to Claire; the court had given—with Tom’s reluctant approval—custody of his only child to a virtual stranger.
Not completely true. Claire had known Dave Kamanski for three years. Tom liked Dave, but he was too young to accept the responsibility. His father Bill was a widower, owned a home, and was a respected member of law enforcement.
There really had been no other choice. Lydia had never gotten along with her sister Joyce, who lived three thousand miles away in Boston. How could Tom send Claire cross-country to an aunt she’d seen maybe three times in her life?
“I wanted you to know that I’ll take good care of Claire,” Bill said. “I’ll do everything I can to protect her from the media, to give her as normal a life as possible.”
Tom said nothing. He wanted to hit someone, rage against the injustice of being sent to death row an innocent man. But he couldn’t. No one had believed him during the trial, no one would
believe him now.
He had wanted desperately to testify on his behalf, but he knew that would have been foolish. The D.A. wanted him on the stand, and anything he said they’d twist and turn to set his temper off. That’s what they wanted to do, his attorney insisted. And Tom became convinced his attorney was right. Now, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would have made a difference. He’d never know.
“This is hard for you,” said Bill. “No matter what happened, I know you love your daughter.”
Tom’s voice cracked. “Don’t—don’t talk about me to her. She already believes I’m guilty. Don’t rub it in.”
“I won’t say anything negative about you to Claire, Tom. I promise.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
“Claire doesn’t want to see you.”
Tom had feared that. The court had allowed a thirty-minute visitation with his daughter before his transfer. But his daughter didn’t want to come.
“That may change, and I’ll bring her when she wants to—”
“No. I don’t want her to step foot in a prison.”
“Be that as it may, if she wants to see you, I’ll bring her. But if she doesn’t—I’ll write to you and let you know how she’s doing.”
Tom nodded.
Bill stood and started for the door. “Watch your back, Tom.”
“I didn’t kill them,” he whispered.
Bill left.
True to his word, Bill sent him letters twice a year, sometimes with photos of Claire. It was a kind of bittersweet hell receiving them. He craved the information, then he’d fall into a dismal depression. It should have been him, not Bill, who was there for Claire’s graduation, when her best friend was killed by a drunk driver in college, when she got her PI license, or when she bought her house.
Swallowing the bitterness, Tom looked around Claire’s cozy home. He could see his daughter here, while at the same time realizing how much he didn’t know about her, Bill’s letters notwithstanding. The house was clean but cluttered, much like her old bedroom. Hardwood floors and simple furniture, with brightly colored pictures of Ireland decorating the walls. Claire had told him she wanted to go to Ireland, where his mother had been born. Before she died when Claire was twelve, Deirdre O’Brien had doted on her only granddaughter, and told her stories of Eire, real and made up.
Tom wondered if Claire had gone. He hoped so, but Bill had never said anything.
In her bedroom, classic movie posters dominated the walls, from Casablanca to The Wizard of Oz to Star Wars. Claire had always loved the movies.
Her room was more colorful than the rest of the house, with a dozen brightly colored pillows scattered on a white down comforter. She’d done a half-ass job making the bed, the blankets hanging askew. The cat jumped onto the bed as if he owned it, sat down and stared at Tom.
Being here, seeing how she lived, disturbed Tom on so many levels. He needed to get out of here. Maybe he should never have come back. Claire was better off without him in her life.
You’re innocent. Claire needs to know it, believe it, prove it.
Claire had a small office off her bedroom. It might have been a large closet with the doors removed. He placed the folded letter under her keyboard, leaving half of it protruding. He grabbed a sticky note from a stack and wrote CLAIRE in block letters, stuck it on the edge.
Turning, he glanced over at a picture on the wall separating her makeshift office from her bedroom. It was framed in pewter and placed in such a way that it could only be viewed if you intentionally pivoted to look at it.
He crossed over, took it off the wall, tears clouding his vision.
It was a picture of him and Claire when she was eleven. They’d gone camping in Yosemite for a week that summer. Lydia had even joined them because they’d rented a cabin and she had a real bed to sleep on. It was the last family vacation they’d shared, and they had an incredible time. He and Lydia had reconnected—or so he’d thought then—and Claire was still a little girl, though she’d begun to show signs of the beautiful woman she’d become. The picture reflected a perfect moment in time.
He and Claire sat on the porch swing of the cabin. The colors at sunset were vivid and surreal. But the sheer joy on their faces was something Tom hadn’t remembered until now.
If Claire had hung this picture in her office, even in an out-of-the-way corner, somewhere in the back of her mind she must still love him. Still believe in him.
He clung to that hope. It was all he had, but it was more than he’d had this morning.
He put the picture back on the wall, walked away, then turned and pulled the picture down again, taking it with him. He left the house the same way he’d come in, locking the door behind him with the pick he had opened it with.
TEN
Parked in the lot next to the Fox & Goose, Mitch rested his head on his car’s steering wheel. He’d called Claire for the sole purpose of finding out where she was, where she was going to be, and to confirm when she planned to arrive tonight. All so he could get rid of Steve long before she showed up.
He was in way over his head with Claire.
Mitch walked into the bar early, claiming a small table. Antique wood doors—some with ornate knobs or etched glass—split the bar in two to allow more private seating, but Mitch wanted to see the entire room and the main entrance, so he preferred a spot in the far corner.
A waitress stopped by and he ordered a pint. He was off duty, and he needed a beer about now. First the dive this morning and the subsequent investigation—he and Steve hadn’t left Isleton until after four that afternoon. Steve had to follow up on another case, so Mitch had taken care of the ubiquitous paperwork at headquarters.
Tomorrow morning he’d observe Maddox’s autopsy. Though not required to attend, it would get him a cause of death and an ID faster than if he waited for the report. The sheriff’s department had jurisdiction and was handling the evidence, but Deputy Clarkston had extended the invitation, and Mitch jumped at it.
Why had Maddox gone down to Isleton in the first place? The canvass by the cops hadn’t yielded anything useful, and if the body had really been underwater for nearly four months, a casual witness would probably not remember anything helpful. Still, Mitch had suggested to Steve that they go back with Maddox’s picture and canvass Isleton again. Flash the photo around, see if anyone recognized him. Before leaving headquarters, Mitch had also put in a request for Maddox’s phone records.
They had an appointment with the Davis detective in charge of the missing person case, then they’d track down the girlfriend who reported Maddox missing and find out what, if anything, she knew. Confirm her statement to the Davis PD and see if she remembered anything else.
He was relieved that Meg had cleared him to work with Steve on this case, knowing that it could wind back around to Thomas O’Brien. Maybe his “punishment” was over and Meg wanted his eyes on the case. Or maybe Steve had put in a word for him. Whatever the reason, Mitch was glad to be back on the case. Something was going to break. Maddox had been murdered—of that Mitch was certain—and he hoped that the discovery of Maddox’s body would flush out his killer.
If they found out who killed Maddox, Mitch was certain it would lead back to Thomas O’Brien’s case fifteen years ago. It was no coincidence that Maddox had gone missing two days before O’Brien was moved to San Quentin’s dangerous Section B.
The waitress placed his pint of Guinness on the coaster in front of him. He sipped, remembering his first date with Claire.
After weeks of flirting and conversation and spontaneous dinners when they “ran into” each other in the evening at Starbucks, he and Claire had come to the Fox & Goose on an official date. Her favorite local band was playing, she said, and asked him if he wanted to join her.
“Do you want to meet there?” he asked.
“Well, I thought maybe we could make a date of it.”
He should have said no. Instead, he’d said, “I’ll pick you up at eight. We can have dinner
first.” Why had he agreed? What was he thinking? He knew damn well what he was thinking. He was deeply attracted to Claire O’Brien. He could tell himself he was doing it for the job, but the truth was he wanted to be with her.
Everything that came before that night nearly two months ago Mitch could have justified, even if he had to stretch his arguments. After that night, he had no more excuses.
He’d put everything on the line: his career, his heart, Claire’s trust.
He picked Claire up just before eight that evening. She came to the door in jeans, a red spaghetti-strap tank top, and spiky sandals. Her black hair loose around her face, dancing above her shoulders, and she’d done something to her eyes to make them seem a darker, sultrier blue. A green Celtic knot tattoo decorated her upper right shoulder blade. He wondered if she had any other tattoos, and where they were.
All Mitch could think about was taking her to bed. His face heated. She’d hate him when she learned who he was and why he’d befriended her. Okay, just this one date. He wouldn’t sleep with her. He wouldn’t kiss her.
He should make an excuse that he had to work late. That wouldn’t work, he’d told her he was a writer. Maybe he had a deadline? He didn’t know. Hell, he should walk away, tell her he was ill, and never return to her Starbucks. Disappear from the face of the earth. He had to stop this right now.
Instead, he kissed her. Just a light kiss on the lips. A hello kiss. But that hello kiss whetted his appetite and he wanted more than just one. He stopped himself. She smiled. “Hello.”
She tossed a blazer over her arm and a bag over her shoulder. He told himself it was for the job. But it was no longer about the job. He had originally planned to befriend and keep tabs on Claire on the chance—the good chance—that her father would eventually show up. O’Brien was likely waiting for enough time to pass where he thought it’d be safe to approach his daughter, his only living relative.
Playing Dead Page 9
