“You’re going to have to push.”
“She’ll know.”
“What do you think this is, Bianchi? A game?”
“I’m not playing any fucking games. I think O’Brien made contact with Claire, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what he could have said that would have her working with him. I searched her computer and desk this morning when I sensed a change in her demeanor, found nothing from him, but lots of research on Oliver Maddox and the Western Innocence Project. And this guy”-Mitch tapped the file he was reading as Steve drove-“Professor Don Collier, which I already told you.”
They’d arrived at Maddox’s town house. “Okay, we work this but I’m going to be sitting on Claire,” Steve said. “I have to. If the tapes suggest that O’Brien was heading to Sacramento, I need to put this case on the front burner, which means authorizing surveillance on Claire.”
That would mean Mitch’s position would be made known to his colleagues.
“Shit.”
“You’ll have to tell Meg what you’ve been doing. I have your back on this, Mitch.”
So his career might be saved, but his personal life was going to go to hell, and fast.
They entered Maddox’s town house. It was messy, but it didn’t appear to have been tossed. There was no rotting food in the refrigerator-only condiments were on the shelves. Had someone come in here since the disappearance to clean it out?
“Maybe his girlfriend cleaned it out,” Mitch said.
“We’ll ask,” Steve said. “No computer.”
“There was no computer found in his Explorer.”
“There was a computer here,” Steve said and pointed to a printer and cables next to the desk. “Someone grabbed it. Could be Maddox took it. The windows were down in the Explorer. Maybe it floated out in the crash.”
“I searched the floor of the river extensively. I would have found it. Silt builds up, but in four months it would have been visible, and it would have been too heavy to float downstream.”
They searched the desk, Maddox’s bedroom, kitchen, every possible hiding place for sensitive information. Nothing. Except for the empty refrigerator and the missing computer, the house seemed in order.
“So we can assume that Maddox hadn’t planned to leave town,” Mitch said. “He didn’t stop his mail, shut off his electricity, water, anything. He may or may not have had the computer with him. He didn’t say anything to his girlfriend, based on the report. The last known meeting he was supposed to have had was with his advisor, Don Collier, who said he didn’t see Oliver Monday morning when they were to meet. If we assume that he is telling the truth, we can’t account for Maddox’s whereabouts from 5:30 p.m. Sunday-when his neighbor saw the Explorer leaving. If he didn’t show up for the meeting with his advisor, he was probably already in the river.”
“Why Isleton?” Steve asked. “There’re maybe a thousand people living there. A bar, a restaurant, not much else.”
“The way his Explorer was facing, he was heading from Isleton when he went under. On his way from meeting someone possibly? If so, we just need to figure out who.”
“That’s the million-dollar question.” Steve shook his head as he gave the place one more glance. “There’s nothing here.”
“Do we have his phone records yet?”
“Yeah, I have them in the car.”
“Let’s find out the last person he spoke with,” Mitch said. “Looks like the only evidence we have is Oliver’s stomach contents.”
“If we can get anything off the flash drive.”
“Think of this, Steve,” Mitch said. “Why would he swallow something like a flash drive unless he was desperate and thought that was the only way to save valuable information?”
“Maybe he was hungry,” Steve said lightly.
“Hungry for the truth.”
Jeffrey had known Hamilton since they met rushing the same fraternity. And for all those years, Hamilton had held over his head all the times he’d saved his ass. Whiny Richie jumped on that same bandwagon, pointing to all the money he made them and laundered to fund Jeffrey’s political campaigns.
Now, Jeffrey was in the position of saving the day, and he would make sure his longtime friends knew it.
“It’s all coming undone,” Hamilton said over the phone. “I had a flag on the O’Brien file at archives. And guess who just pulled them? Claire O’Brien!”
“I told you we should have taken care of her a long time ago.”
“If O’Brien was dead, this wouldn’t even be an issue,” Hamilton snapped.
“That was your job. You’re the one who’s tight with all the lawyers and judges and prison wardens.”
While listening to Hamilton rant, Jeffrey watched the pretty young campaign intern finger-fuck herself like he had commanded. They were in his hotel room between appointments with big money donors. Jeffrey was furious that Hamilton had called during the short time he had to play, even though he reluctantly admitted that the situation in Sacramento was getting out of control. The fact that someone had found Oliver Maddox’s body was unfortunate. But there was still nothing to tie Maddox back to them. They just needed to keep their cool.
“-and then there’s Harper,” Hamilton was saying. “Jeffrey, are you listening?”
“Of course.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” he lied smoothly. He watched Julie turn herself on. He was fully clothed, of course. He didn’t have time to go through the motions of foreplay and seduction. He didn’t care if Julie or whoever he decided to favor that day got off or not. Jeffrey would be the first to admit that it was all about him and his pleasure, and if the woman didn’t like it, he had plenty to choose from.
Hamilton warned him repeatedly about a potential sexual harassment scandal, but Jeffrey was careful. He paid his staff well and he paid extra well for favors like the one Julie was doing for him now. She looked at him and he motioned for her to keep going. He was getting hard, but Hamilton was worse than a cold shower.
“Jeffrey, what if the O’Brien girl makes the same connection between Taverton and Lowe?”
“She won’t,” Jeffrey said. “And don’t use names. You should know better. We have it under control. Don’t panic. As long as we keep our cool, we’re fine. Got it? I have to go, I have another major donor meeting and I don’t want to be late.”
He hung up before Hamilton could protest.
“Spread your legs more,” he told Julie.
“Like this?” She bent her knees so they were flush against the couch, spreading her wet pink lips. He loved young, limber girls. Julie was twenty. Hardly jailbait. He was extra careful about that.
Jeffrey was also single, so adultery was not even in the picture. He had several high-profile “girlfriends” for the paparazzi, and it was well-known he was a bit of a playboy. But he used his easy charm and powerful charisma to parlay that into somewhat of a following. Women came to him for sex. He never had to go looking for it.
“Good.” His cock twitched. “When was the first time you fucked yourself?”
“I don’t remember.” She was growing a little flushed, but he sensed she was still nervous about being caught. That was part of the thrill.
“Take your fingers and push them in.”
“I’d rather have you do it.”
“I’m sure you would.” He took his cock out of his pants. He was semi-hard. “Like it?”
“You know I do.”
“Maybe I’ll let you suck it later. Go deeper.”
She inserted two fingers and pushed them deep inside her. What he really wanted was to watch Julie and another woman go at it, then take them each in turn. He liked having power over many women, having lots of choices.
But he had to be careful about that. The last time he’d gone too far into his fantasy he almost lost everything. Hamilton had to fix it. Jeffrey didn’t like having to call Hamilton in to fix anything because he held it over him forever.
He watched Julie
and thought about a different blonde.
Another problem Hamilton had to fix.
Jeffrey had picked up the hitchhiker on Highway 80 on the California-Nevada border. He was on his way back from Reno where he’d lost fifty thousand and change. He was angry, at the casinos and the cheating blackjack dealers.
Fifty thousand. From the campaign. Fuck. He’d have to talk to Richie about how to replace it without anyone knowing. Richie was good at that kind of stuff.
He pulled over because she flashed a little leg. He needed a diversion. He rolled down the passenger window and she ran over. He didn’t unlock the door yet. “Hey,” she said.
“What’s your name?”
“Niki.”
“Where’re you going?”
“San Francisco.”
“I’ll take you as far as Sacramento.”
“Great.”
“What’ll you give me?”
She rolled her eyes, then smiled. “How about a blow job?”
“Deal.”
He drove forty minutes. They were still east of Auburn. “Let’s pull over here.”
“I’ll do it while you drive.”
“I don’t want to crash the car.”
“Oh, you really get into it.”
Yes, he did. And he knew what he really wanted from this cheap whore who offered him a blow job for a ride. Girls like Niki would do anything.
He turned off the highway, then made a couple turns and parked off the road among the redwood trees. Perfect. He unzipped his pants and his semi-hard dick popped out.
He looked at her. “It’s all yours.”
“I don’t think so.”
She had a gun in her hand. It was pointed at his lap. “You guys are all the same. You’ll do anything to have your cock sucked. Get out. You can hitch your way home. Maybe offer to eat out some lonely housewife.” She laughed.
No one, no girl, talked to him like that. No woman pulled a gun on him.
He opened the door slowly. Got out of the car, hand on the door. Niki slid over to the driver’s seat, grinning, like she’d bested him.
“Sorry, Jeff, you’ll learn not to pick up hitchhi-”
He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her out of the car. She screamed, and turned the gun toward him. He grabbed her wrist with his other hand and slammed it against the car. He disarmed her easily.
And if he had just hit her and left her, he wouldn’t have needed Hamilton to clean up his mess.
But Niki had promised him a blow job, and she was going to give him one.
He picked up the gun and pointed it at her head.
“I’ll take that blow job now. And you so much as nip me, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
She was crying. Crying! The bitch had pulled a gun on him and she was crying because he’d taken it away? But she got down on her knees and took him in her mouth and he was happy. When he was hard, he pushed her away. “Take off your pants.”
“Please, don’t. Just go-”
“Now.”
She did. She looked pathetic with her shirt and jacket and a naked ass.
“All fours like the bitch you are.”
She complied. He almost wished she would fight him.
He knelt behind her and raped her. Rape? No, he didn’t think so. She’d offered her mouth, this was just another female hole.
He closed his eyes. He put the gun behind him, but said, “If you try to get away, I’ll break your neck.”
She didn’t try. She’d accepted the fact that she’d fucked with the wrong person.
He pushed down on her shoulders to get better leverage. She wasn’t very big, he realized. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen, you fucking pervert.”
“You started it.”
Sixteen. Perfect. He shouldn’t do this, this was forbidden. The forbidden excited him. He came much too quickly.
He withdrew, getting hard again. He’d take her twice. She owed him.
She jumped up. He reached for the gun and held it on her. She was sniffing, her eyes red, leaves in her hair. She pulled on her pants.
“Don’t,” he commanded.
“Leave me alone. Go away.”
“I’m not done.”
“Yes you are. Done for good, Mr. Jeffrey Riordan, license number 3ABB688.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
She realized she’d made a mistake. She turned to run.
He shot her in the back.
He almost didn’t believe he’d shot her. He walked over to her body. Her mouth was moving, but only blood came out. She tried to get up, then collapsed. He couldn’t stop staring at the dying girl.
He called Hamilton from his cell phone. “I have a bit of a problem.”
Jeffrey shook his head to clear his mind when he heard a voice. Julie was talking to him. “Jeffrey?”
He was ready.
“Get down,” he growled.
She knelt in front of him. As soon as her mouth wrapped around his cock he came.
He held her head to him for a long moment. He had a solution to their problem. Why did he always have to make the tough decisions?
If Tom O’Brien were dead, none of this would have happened. But since Hamilton had fucked that up, the next person in the food chain had to go. The only person, really, who could be a threat to them.
Claire O’Brien.
EIGHTEEN
Claire drove around to the back of the Sacramento County Morgue. Most people-unless they were cops or morticians-didn’t know about the rear entrance. But Claire had met the head supervising pathologist when she was working a life insurance case for Rogan-Caruso a couple years ago. She’d witnessed her first autopsy then, and she and Phineas Ward hit it off. They’d never been romantically involved, but a few times they’d hit the club scene together platonically.
She handed her card to the receptionist, who said without looking up, “Paperwork and name of the deceased.”
“I’m here for Phin Ward, not a body.”
The woman glanced up, then called over her shoulder, “Phineas, you have a visitor.”
Claire glanced around. The office was cluttered but organized. In the far corner was a fish tank with goldfish and a submerged plastic skeleton. Similar pathologist humor added levity to what could have been a depressing place to work, including a fake brain that looked real on a shelf, next to the snack food, and a life-size artificial skeleton hanging in the corner wearing a pirate’s hat and eye patch and holding a plastic sword.
Phin emerged from the rear office and smiled at Claire as surprise lit his eyes. “It’s been awhile.” He walked out and greeted her with a hug, then escorted her into the staging area. This was where they first tagged, weighed, and logged in the bodies.
“I know, I know. I’ve missed hanging out with you. How’ve you been?”
“Sad and lonely without you, but I’ll live. Better than being him.” He jerked his thumb toward a cadaver in the hall outside the freezer. “Came in fifteen minutes ago. John Doe, hit and run.”
A mortician walked by pushing a cadaver on a trolley. He handed his paperwork to Phin. Without looking at it, Phin walked back into the office, handed it to the woman, and returned.
“Is there a place we can go talk in private?” she asked.
He reached into a box and tossed her two booties for her shoes. She slipped them on, then followed him through the large autopsy room-currently unused-to a small office on the far side. The smell was mostly clean and antiseptic, with a very faint, underlying hint of something akin to rotten eggs. Like the first time she’d been here, Claire didn’t think it was that bad.
The office was crammed with equipment used to preserve tissue samples and containers with a colored fluid that held, primarily, brains. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” she said, partly lying. Phin had a morbid sense of humor and probably wanted to get a rise out of her. “What’s this room used for?”
“We have a neurologist who comes in every
Tuesday to examine abnormalities in autopsied brains. Primarily for genetic research.”
She picked up a jar, brows furrowed. “Don’t tell me this is from a child.”
He took the jar from her, read the label, gave her a half grin. “Naw. It was removed from a grown man three days ago.”
“It’s so small.”
“Yeah, that’s why the neurologist needs to look at it. Abnormal.” He put the jar back. “Okay, what brings you to my neck of the woods? Work or pleasure?”
“Neither. I’m not here about Rogan-Caruso business.”
“And you’re still seeing that Mitch guy?”
“Yeah, but-”
“So I guess you’re not asking me out on a date.” He sat on the edge of the metal-topped desk and crossed his arms, revealing intricate tattoos on his biceps.
“Date?”
“I’m just teasing you. You should have seen your face, though.” Phin grinned. He picked up a jar and absently turned it slowly around in his hands, the preserved organ turning inside. Looked like a kidney, but Claire wasn’t positive. “So why are you here?”
“I need a favor.”
“Ah. The truth comes out.”
“Two favors.”
“What are you going to give me in return?”
She didn’t know what to say. “Kings tickets?”
He laughed. “I’m joking. Damn, you’re serious today. You usually come back with a great retort.”
“I’m preoccupied.”
“Okay, what? Seriously, I’m at your disposal.”
“I need the coroner’s report from two autopsies fifteen years ago.”
“Fifteen years? Those are in archives.”
“But you can get to them a lot faster than I can. When I called, they said it would take weeks. I don’t have weeks. I need them like, um, today.”
“You don’t ask for anything difficult, do you?”
“Is it possible?”
“I’ll get them. Who?”
“Chase Taverton and Lydia O’Brien. They were killed on November 17, 1993.”
“O’Brien. Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I need to read the reports. They weren’t in the court records.”
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