“His body and his Explorer were in the Sacramento River near Isleton.”
“Isleton? Where’s that?”
“A small town in southern Sacramento County, in the Delta.”
“I’ve never heard of it. I’m not from around here. I can’t believe he had an accident like that. Oliver was such a good driver. I mean, sometimes he got distracted, especially when he was talking, and he’d get excited about something, but he didn’t drink and drive, never, and he was never reckless and I don’t understand how this can happen. When? Where has he been since January? Are—” She gasped. “Oh my God, he’s been dead. Since then. Since January? I knew it. I knew something bad had happened to him!” She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, and batted them away with her hand.
“We have a few questions, if you have a moment.”
“Anything. I—” She stopped talking and stared at them, blinking rapidly. “Was it an accident?”
“That’s unclear right now, but we’re treating it as a possible homicide.”
She started shaking. Mitch put an arm over her shoulders, felt her body racked with sobs he couldn’t hear. Somehow that made her grief worse.
When the worst of the shakes subsided, Mitch said, “You said in the missing person report that the last time you saw Oliver was about noon on Sunday, January 20.”
She nodded.
“Professor Collier had a meeting with him on Monday, but Oliver canceled it.”
“Canceled it? No. That’s not right.” Tammy squeezed her eyes shut. “No,” she said more emphatically. “Professor Collier told me that Oliver never showed up for his meeting. I’m positive. That’s what had me going to the police. Because no one had seen Oliver for days, and when Professor Collier said Oliver missed his meeting—Oliver was excited about the meeting. Really excited. He and Professor Collier had a dispute ages ago, and Oliver thought this would put things right. I told the—oh. I should have known something was wrong yesterday. I got my hopes up that she would find Oliver.”
Mitch wasn’t sure he was hearing correctly. “What happened yesterday?”
“A private investigator came to me after class. She was looking into Oliver’s disappearance. I told her everything I told you, plus how excited Oliver was about his thesis, ‘The Perfect Frame’ he called it. He said he finally had the information to prove his hypothesis. I just got my hopes up that Oliver was okay. She seemed so determined to find him. I think in my heart I knew he was already gone, but—” She took a deep breath and the tears started running down her face again.
“Do you remember the PI’s name? A company?”
“Claire. Um, Claire something. From Rogan-Caruso. I have her card in my desk upstairs.”
“That’s okay,” Steve said. “We’re familiar with the company.”
Mitch’s stomach felt like lead. What was Claire doing?
“Thank you for your time,” Steve told Tammy. “Would you like me to call someone for you?”
She shook her head, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “My roommate is upstairs. I just want to go home.” She sniffed. “Do you have any idea who would want to hurt Oliver?”
“No, Tammy, but we’re working on it.”
NINETEEN
Claire walked through the glass doors of the Renaissance Towers at 8th and K Streets—known to locals as the Darth Vader Building because the top dozen floors had a shape reminiscent of the Sith lord. She showed her Rogan-Caruso badge to the guard, who waved her through. She was still mulling over the information she’d learned from Phineas at the morgue.
On the elevator, Claire punched the 18 button. It was 1:30, past the lunchtime rush, and she had the ride to herself straight through to the eighteenth floor.
Guilt washed over Claire. She was about to violate someone’s trust, and it didn’t make her feel good. She worked through a cover story—something close to the truth, but without mentioning her father had contacted her or left her a letter. She’d simply heard that Oliver Maddox was dead and she wanted to figure out what he’d learned about her father’s case. She had a right, didn’t she? Her mother had been the victim.
Half-truths were still half-lies.
Rogan-Caruso Protective Services took up the entire floor, but you wouldn’t know it when you exited the elevator into the simple yet comfortable waiting area surrounded by designer bulletproof glass, the Rogan-Caruso logo of a sword and shield etched in the center. Though the office was thoroughly modern, the logo harkened back to the days of white knights to the rescue.
Claire always felt inadequate coming into the offices. She had a small workspace that she used primarily to access protected computer files, and she briefed her boss, Henry Opacic, twice a month on her assignments or before testifying at trial if one of her investigations went that far. But today she was coming in to use the Rogan-Caruso state-of-the-art computer system to find out everything she could about this mysterious Frank Lowe.
She hated being deceptive, but she didn’t want to bring her boss or anyone else in the company under the scrutiny of the FBI. And while Rogan-Caruso played hardball with the government, they also took jobs from the same. Claire wasn’t exactly sure of everything the company did, and that was fine with her. She was happy with her low-level, below-scrutiny position, and she hoped that because of that no one would notice the computer time.
She stuck her badge into the slot that opened the first door. Aggie, the receptionist, glanced up. “Good afternoon, Claire. How are you?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Henry is out of town.”
“I’m just doing some research.”
“Go right in.”
Aggie knew everything about Rogan-Caruso. Receptionist was a misnomer. She buzzed Claire through, and Claire knew before the end of the day Henry would know exactly how long she’d been in the office and what internal files she’d accessed.
She wasn’t planning on looking at internal files beyond the Ben Holman investigation.
Claire walked down the quiet, plush hall, around the corner, and hesitated outside the office of the only person she truly considered a friend, Jayne Morgan, the computer genius Dave had a crush on. But Claire didn’t want to abuse her friendship, and she hated asking anyone for favors. This was her problem; she would handle it the way she preferred to handle all her personal problems: alone. Still, she peeked in and was both relieved and disappointed that Jayne wasn’t in.
She sat at her desk and quickly wrote up the report on the Holman arson investigation, scanned in Pete Jackson’s report, her interview with Holman, and what she’d learned from her informants about the medical supplies on the black market. She sent the whole report to Henry.
Claire then logged in to the Rogan-Caruso system and the world appeared at her fingertips. Jayne had created the intensive computer system which pulled public records and archived information from the Internet into a powerful database, which could be combined with secured data maintained internally or through their memberships and associations.
She typed in “Frank Lowe Sacramento,” figuring that if Lowe was involved somehow with Chase Taverton fifteen years ago it would have been local. She could expand the search if nothing came up.
Immediately, more than a dozen Frank Lowes popped up. She wished she had more to go on because she didn’t know which Lowe was the man Maddox had referred to. There had to be a better way to weed out the information.
She surmised that if this Lowe knew anything about Chase Taverton and the murders, he’d have been in Sacramento County in the early 1990s. That eliminated two potentials. Next she looked at ages. One Lowe had been a child in the early ’90s. She took him out.
Using similar methodology, she eliminated half the Frank Lowes she’d uncovered. Then she started going through the remaining individuals more carefully, making notes. She was particularly interested in any jail time or arrests. If Taverton had made a plea agreement with Frank Lowe, he had to have been arrested at some point.
“He’s d
ead,” she said out loud when she came to a petty thief who had done time for burglary. She almost deleted his records from the search except for one thing: He’d died in a fire in the early morning hours of November 18, 1993. Less than a day after Chase Taverton was murdered.
She switched to LexisNexis, where she pulled up all newspaper articles related to the fire. Lowe had been a bartender who lived above a bar called Tip’s Blarney in downtown Sacramento. The fire was ruled arson, but the owner, Tip Barney, had been cleared of any wrongdoing and no one had been arrested. The building was a complete loss. One body was recovered, burned beyond identification. There were no dental records for Frank Lowe, but Barney said Lowe was the only person who lived in the building, and he’d left him there at one a.m. when Lowe closed for the night.
Maybe she had the wrong Frank Lowe. Oliver had told her father that Frank Lowe had information. How could a dead man have information?
She made notes on the remaining Frank Lowes, but she kept coming back to the dead bartender. He’d died the night after her mother and Taverton were killed. In an arson fire. She ran a search on Tip Barney, not knowing what, if anything, would pop up.
She almost jumped out of her chair. Barney now owned a bar in Isleton. Oliver’s Explorer was found in the river outside of Isleton.
That was a coincidence Claire planned to follow up on. Tonight.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly four!
She was supposed to meet Mitch at her house at six, but first she needed to see Bill. She’d told him she’d stop by this afternoon. She had questions about Oliver Maddox as well as about her father’s trial. Questions that Bill might have the answers to—she’d just never wanted them before.
Four o’clock was shift change, from day to swing. Dave walked into the locker room and caught up with Phil and Eric arguing about the Kings game from the night before.
“It’s over,” Dave said. “There’s another game tomorrow.”
“Want to get a beer?” Eric asked.
“I told my dad I’d stop by,” Dave said. “He’s having problems with his air conditioner again.”
“He needs to hire a real repairman,” Phil said.
“How’s Claire?” Eric asked. “She left early last night.”
Dave didn’t want to talk about what he thought was going on with Claire. He had talked about it with his dad this morning, and Bill was concerned as well, but said Claire had called earlier and asked to come over that afternoon. Maybe it was a good sign. Claire had always been able to talk to Bill about what was troubling her. Bill was a great father, and Dave was glad he could share him with someone who needed a great father figure.
Tom O’Brien’s crimes had hurt everyone who knew him. Dave had respected the older, wiser cop. Tom had trained him, and Dave thought he’d known him. But he hadn’t. Dave had never thought Tom was capable of murder.
And worse, Dave hated that Claire paid the price, and was still in turmoil.
“Claire’s fine,” Dave said. “She had a date.”
“She should have brought him over for us to meet,” Eric said, then winked at Phil. “We’d have made sure he was good enough.”
“Why didn’t she bring him?” Phil asked Dave. “That’s unlike her. Especially someone she’s been seeing for a while.”
Dave tried to dismiss it with a wave. “She’s tired of the third degree on her boyfriends.”
“She’s never cared before,” Eric said.
“Maybe this guy’s different,” Dave said, feeling uncomfortable with this conversation. “Look, Claire is practically my sister. I can give her a hard time, but I think we should leave this alone until she’s ready to share.”
“Aren’t you curious?” Eric asked.
“Yeah,” Dave admitted.
“We can check up on him,” Phil suggested. “Just a quick look. Make sure he doesn’t have a record or anything.”
“Last time we did that we learned what’s-his-name had two DUIs.”
“She was pissed,” Eric said.
“She thanked us later,” Phil reminded them. “She was madder at the jerk than she was with us.”
Claire’s best friend in high school had been killed by a drunk driver. She had zero tolerance for it, and Dave had known that when he told her about the boyfriend. His dad had jumped down his throat when he found out, telling Dave to stay out of Claire’s personal life or she wouldn’t forgive him.
“People need to screw up on their own. That’s how they learn.”
But Dave was overprotective of Claire, he couldn’t help it. He remembered when she first came to live with them—she never slept through the night, waking to terrifying nightmares that had him and Bill running to make sure she was okay. She’d been a scared teenager who needed them. Just because she was a grown woman who carried a gun and Taser didn’t mean she didn’t still need them.
“Just a quick look,” Dave said. “Make sure he’s clean, and we don’t say anything, okay?”
“Unless he’s a wanted mass murderer,” Eric teased.
Dave hit him on the arm as they walked to Dave’s desk in the bull pen.
“Mitch Bianchi isn’t a common name,” Dave said as he sat down at the computer. “We should have something—or nothing—pretty quick.”
He brought up the DMV database and typed in the name. Nothing. He typed in “Mitchell” for the first name. Nothing.
“Odd,” Dave said. “Maybe Mitch is a middle name or something.”
“Or he never got a driver’s license,” Eric said.
“In California? Rare,” Phil said.
“Maybe he’s not from California,” Dave said. “Claire said he was house-sitting in her neighborhood. He’s a writer.”
He put a search into the criminal database. Nothing popped up. “He’s clean,” Dave said.
“Except he doesn’t have a California driver’s license,” Eric said.
“Okay, what about a broader search,” Phil suggested. “Noncriminal.”
Dave was curious as well. He went into the full files.
Nothing.
“Shit,” Dave said. “Who is this guy? There’s nothing on him.”
He played around a bit more with the database. He could find nothing. He broadened the search nationally. Nothing. Then he decided to Google Mitch Bianchi and opened an Internet browser.
Fewer than two dozen webpages had the name. Most were genealogy related.
One article popped up.
It was a newspaper article from the Dillon Tribune, a small weekly paper out of Montana.
Sheriff Tyler McBride credited agents with the FBI in helping track the two San Quentin fugitives during the worst blizzard of the season.
“Hans Vigo and Mitch Bianchi went above and beyond helping protect residents of the Centennial Valley. I commend both of them, and consider them friends.”
* * *
“He’s an FBI agent?” Phil asked, shocked.
“Claire’s going to flip,” Eric said. “Why did he tell her he’s a writer? Is he undercover?”
“He’s using Claire to get to Tom.” Dave wanted to strangle him. How dare a Fed insinuate himself into Claire’s life, date her, lie to her?
“Shit,” Eric muttered.
“Bastard,” Phil said. “Do you think Claire knows where Tom is?”
“No,” Dave said, though after his conversation with her last night he wasn’t so sure. “I have to tell her.” His heart sank. The last person he wanted to hurt was Claire.
“Of course you do,” Phil said.
“Damn straight,” Eric concurred. “Do you want us to go with you?”
“No,” Dave said. “I have to do it myself.”
TWENTY
Claire rushed to Bill’s house, opening the front door as the big grandfather clock in the entry struck once to mark half past the hour. The warm aroma of fresh-baked sugar cookies filled the house. Bill had taken to baking after his wife died, when Dave was barely a teenager.
Bill walk
ed down the hall from the kitchen and greeted her with a warm bear hug. “I thought I heard that Jeep of yours in the drive.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“We didn’t have a set time. Come into the kitchen. I have cookies in the oven.”
She loved Bill, more like a grandfather than a father. He was in his early sixties, had retired eight years ago. Gained a bit of weight around the middle, but otherwise looked the same as he had when she came to live with him after her father’s arrest.
“Missed you last night,” she said as she followed Bill.
“Waste of a night. Lost in overtime by three points.” He shook his head. “They’d better have their game on tomorrow.”
“You going to be at the game?”
“Yep, I have tickets for Friday and Saturday nights. Then they go back on the road. Why don’t you join me Saturday?”
“I’d like to, but—” She didn’t know what she would be doing Saturday. Claire didn’t want to make any plans for a while.
“Thirsty?”
“Water.”
“Milk. You’re too skinny.”
“Am not.”
Claire loved Bill’s sunny kitchen with the cheerful blue-and-white checks. Grover, a retired police German shepherd, raised his head and smiled at Claire—at least that’s what she liked to think.
She scratched Grover between the ears and sat at the table. Bill put a fresh-baked muffin and a tall glass of milk in front of her. She hadn’t had lunch, and devoured the muffin while Bill watched her from a seat across the table.
“Okay, that was good. I miss your baking. But I thought I smelled cookies.”
“You did. They’re in the oven. I made the muffins first, knowing they were your favorite.”
“It was delicious.”
“I’ll send some home with you.” He poured her a second glass of milk. “Dave called me this morning.”
“About Oliver Maddox.”
Bill nodded.
“You know he’s dead.”
“Dave told me. A tragedy. I liked him.”
She straightened. “How well did you know him?”
Playing Dead Page 17
