Playing Dead

by Allison Brennan

  “Most data warehouses store data on unrewritable software, to prevent accidental deletion of data. There are a lot of protections in place. Climate controls, backups of all data, and—”

  “Backups? Why would they need a backup?”

  “Most good archive systems have a searchable system, then a condensed data file that has everything they have in the searchable system. So if there’s some big catastrophe, they can re-create the data files.”

  “Is there a way to erase some files and not the others?”

  “There’s a way to do everything, Claire. But it wouldn’t be easy. They’d need access and everything leaves a trail. It’s easier to leave a false trail than no trail. Unless you’re really good.”

  “Like you.”

  Jayne smiled.

  “But if it was never there . . .”

  “If it was never there, you can’t do anything about it, but then there shouldn’t be a record of the data in the log. Unless the log was manually created, which sort of defeats the purpose of eliminating human error. If there’s a log of the files, and they’re just gone, then they’re still there.”

  “Stop. You’ve confused me.”

  “Anything deleted isn’t really deleted. Unless the tape is completely wiped—and there’re ways of doing that—then the data is still there. It’s just hidden.”

  “Could you find it?”

  “If it’s there, I can find it.”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Depends.”

  “I have a friend in the coroner’s office. He has access to the archives. He’s the one who discovered the files were missing. If I clear it with him, can you help him find the hidden files?”

  “Between you and me, right?”

  Claire pretended to zip her lip and toss away the key.

  Jayne nodded. “Okay.”

  Jeffrey Riordan arrived in Sacramento just after ten that morning. He’d had to suffer through traffic almost the entire drive from San Francisco—it had taken three hours when it should have taken two. He drove directly to Richie’s house. Chad Harper answered the door.

  “Clue me in, Harper. What the fuck is going on? Hamilton has called me a half-dozen times in the last two days. It’s usually Richie who panics, not Judge Prozac.”

  “You know everything, except the latest news. Hamilton is on the phone with Richie. The district attorney is meeting right now with O’Brien’s attorney to arrange terms of surrender.”

  “Good! Get him back into custody. Take care of him once and for all.”

  “There’s a little problem.”

  “What?”

  “The FBI is involved.”

  “Shit.”

  They didn’t have a mole in the FBI office. Local government, local law enforcement, D.A.’s office—within reach, they had at least one person under their thumb. But the FBI? None. And it irked Jeffrey. He had one, but only in Washington. That sure as hell wouldn’t help him here in Sacramento.

  He started up the stairs, but Harper called him back. “I had a call from Isleton.”

  “Isleton? Who the fuck cares about—” He stopped. “Dammit, I knew we should have offed Barney when he moved back to Sacramento.”

  “Jeffrey, sometimes murder isn’t the best solution. Barney knew nothing of Lowe’s arrangement with Taverton. He went to L.A., bought a bar, lost a bunch of money, returned to his hometown. Nothing strange there. Killing him? No. Maddox didn’t learn anything from him. He’s not talking because he knows shit. If he knew anything, our snitch would have heard.”

  “That retard?” Jeffrey snorted.

  “At least she follows orders and keeps her mouth shut.”

  “So who’s down there snooping this time?”

  “Two federal agents.”

  “Shit.”

  “They’re only following up on Maddox’s death. I don’t think they will be a problem.”

  “You don’t know that! This is spiraling out of control again, just like with Maddox. If we’d taken Barney out of the picture with Lowe, or even two years ago, I’d be far more comfortable.”

  “Barney knows nothing. It’s too late to do anything—killing Barney would only raise suspicions, and if he knew what Frank Lowe did, he would have talked or asked for money.”

  “Maybe, but somebody tipped off Maddox about Tip Barney being back in Sacramento.” Jeffrey hated not being in control.

  “Maddox found out about Lowe and Barney from Taverton’s personal files, but we have those now—both the copies and the original—so there’s no threat. And if Claire O’Brien starts asking questions, she’ll be taken care of.”

  “She’s far too nosy. Let’s keep this tidbit from the others. They are already too paranoid, and paranoia makes people act stupid.”

  “Agreed.”

  Jeffrey went to the top of the stairs and opened the double doors into Richie’s plush office. “Put Hamilton on speaker,” he demanded.

  Richie said into the phone, “Jeffrey’s here. You’re now on speaker, Hamilton.”

  “O’Brien is surrendering to the FBI today at six,” he said.

  “The FBI? Why?”

  “Safety issues. I didn’t get much out of the D.A., but the word is out that Matt Elliott is quietly reopening the case.”

  “That’s it. We’re done for,” Richie said.

  “No we’re not.” Jeffrey slammed his fist on the desk. “Keep your cool. It’s not over. It’s never going to be over. They can’t connect anything to us.”

  “You’re the one all hot and heavy to kill people!” Richie said.

  “Only if it has to be done. Maddox had to go. He made too many connections.” Jeffrey started giving orders. “Richie, you make sure there is no paper trail.”

  “There isn’t—”

  “Double check. Triple check! And Hamilton, you keep your ear to the D.A.’s office. We need to know everything Matt Elliott is up to.”

  “I’m already on it, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “It’s not over,” Jeffrey reiterated.

  Lexie Santana hated surveillance. She’d much rather be in the thick of things, like bringing in the fugitive, Thomas O’Brien.

  But maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe the daughter would lead her to O’Brien and Lexie wouldn’t be so bored just sitting here.

  She watched as a car pulled up in front of Claire O’Brien’s house. Maybe this was it . . . A man got out—late thirties, a bit overweight, dressed business casual. A kid got out of the passenger side. Boy, ten or eleven. The man put his arm around the kid’s shoulders, squeezed, then dropped the arm as they approached the front door.

  Not O’Brien. Damn. The dogs in Claire’s backyard started barking. They continued to bark. No one answered the door. The man stood there a few minutes, then walked away. They sat in the car for about five minutes, then drove off.

  Lexie left her surveillance post and ran across the street to the house. She knocked on the door. The dogs barked. There was no answer.

  Did she have probable cause to enter O’Brien’s house? No one had left or entered. Yet . . .

  She called Meg. “I think Claire O’Brien has given me the slip. She didn’t answer her door to a visitor, and now I’m looking in all the windows and it doesn’t look like she’s here. Her Jeep is, she isn’t.”

  * * *

  Mitch and Steve walked into FBI headquarters at noon. They’d stopped by Frank Lowe’s mother’s apartment, but she wasn’t home. Her neighbor said she worked for the postal service and usually came home between four thirty and five.

  “Mitch. Steve.” Meg waved them into her office. “Good news, we got the contents off the flash drive.”

  “What do we have?” asked Mitch as he sat down in front of Meg’s desk.

  “That’s the problem. I’m not quite sure.” Meg slid over a small stack of papers. The top was the cover page from their Menlo Park facilities verifying they were able to retrieve all data from the flash drive. The second page was a pri
nt of a JPEG, a beautiful young woman. “There’s nothing about her on the drive, but we ran her photo. Jessica White. Missing since 1978. She was a student at Stanford University and disappeared her sophomore year. No evidence of foul play, no anything. The police felt there were some shenanigans at one of the fraternity parties, but the girl was seen at three different parties the night she disappeared. They interviewed everyone at the fraternities and Jessica’s sorority; nothing solid. I’ve requested the files, but I don’t know how that’s going to help us. Except I did learn one thing—Oliver Maddox requested the files as well.”

  “Did they send them?” Steve asked.

  “Maddox picked them up in person on Friday, January 18,” she answered.

  “We didn’t find anything like that in his town house,” said Mitch.

  “And they aren’t on the flash drive, either,” said Meg.

  Mitch turned the pages. There was a series of articles related to the Delta Conservancy, Elk Grove, the Waterstone Development Corporation, and probably a half-dozen more. They were all LexisNexis files that had been saved to the drive.

  “Did you contact LexisNexis to retrieve any other searches Maddox might have done?” Mitch asked.

  Meg frowned. “The U.S. Attorney’s office is working on it, but there are huge privacy issues. We won’t have anything today.”

  “These are all old stories. Twenty, twenty-five years.” He turned pages and found an obituary. “Rose Van Alden. Died at ninety-one, in her sleep.” Mitch read the article. She was a lifelong resident of Elk Grove and left her money to the Delta Conservancy. “Is there anything important here?”

  “I don’t know. They’re old articles, and normally I wouldn’t waste my time, but Maddox swallowed the flash drive for a reason, so I’m thinking there’s a connection we don’t see. I’ve sent everything to analysts at Quantico and asked for a rush. But one thing seems pretty obvious: Keep going,” she said.

  Mitch flipped through the articles, then started to see another pattern—a series of stories about Judge Hamilton Drake.

  Steve looked over Mitch’s shoulder. “A judge? Why’s that important?”

  “If you read the articles, you’d learn that Drake is one of the original partners in Waterstone Development,” said Meg. “Maddox was digging into something. The analysts are doing a complete background check on Drake and seeing if there is any crossover to Maddox’s other articles. Even if there is something here, that doesn’t mean it’s related to O’Brien. In fact, I don’t see how any of this relates to the O’Brien case. Maybe Maddox was killed for a completely different reason.”

  Mitch didn’t yet see the connection either, but he sensed it was there. “Did Matt call?” he asked Meg as he handed back the file.

  “Yes. He met with O’Brien’s attorney. She happens to be the ex-wife of the district attorney in San Diego, so there’s apparently some clout there. Matt didn’t get into all the details, but O’Brien will surrender here, at headquarters, at six p.m. today. There’s one major concession that Matt agreed to. We’re transporting O’Brien directly to Sutter Memorial Hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “In your report from Montana, you said that O’Brien had been shot, but was presumed alive because of his call to the Beaverhead County sheriff several hours later.”

  Mitch nodded.

  “He never got medical attention,” said Meg. “It’s probably a miracle he survived. The bullet is still in him, and according to his attorney there is a serious medical problem that has come up in the last few weeks. I’m not a doctor, I have no idea what’s wrong, but he’ll be given a complete exam and surgery if necessary. We’ll be responsible for a guard on his room at all times.”

  “I’m glad this is nearly over,” Steve said, his hand on the door. “Now we just need to find Maddox’s killer.”

  “One more thing,” Meg said. “Lexie called right before you walked in. You were right, Mitch. Claire is good. She slipped out sometime this morning. Took a taxi, which we tracked down to Elk Grove and the residence of a retired sheriff deputy, Bill Kamanski.”

  “Her former guardian. Was she there?”

  “No. Kamanski loaned her a vehicle. She said her Jeep wouldn’t start.”

  “Shit! Where is she?”

  “We have a BOLO on her,” said Meg, “but I’m not going to put her under arrest. We want her to cooperate with us, and it’s in her best interest to do so, but the truth is O’Brien is coming in. She wasn’t involved in Maddox’s homicide. For all we know, she convinced her father to surrender. Hard to arrest her for that.”

  “She’s working the Maddox case on her own. She’s in danger.”

  “So I should arrest her? Mitch, she’s a professional, a licensed private investigator. Researching a missing, now dead, person. She hasn’t interfered with or stymied your investigation.”

  “She knows stuff we don’t know.”

  “Why is that?”

  Mitch ran a hand through his hair. “Dammit, Megan! We have to bring her in for her own safety.”

  “When—or if—we track down Claire O’Brien, you talk to her and convince her to come in. But unless she has information about the Maddox homicide I don’t see how she can help.”

  “Do you want us here for the surrender?” Steve asked.

  “No. I’ve assigned Davidson and Kinsley to handle transport to the hospital and guard duty.”

  “Then we’re going to follow up on some information related to Frank Lowe down in Elk Grove.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll call when I get the analysis back.”

  “If it’s today. I’m not holding my breath to get a report on Friday afternoon,” Mitch said.

  Meg smiled. “You might be surprised.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  When Greg Abrahamson finally called back, he agreed to give her a few minutes if she could meet him at 12:30 outside the Crest Theater on the K Street Mall.

  She was early and he was late. She sat on the bench across from the theater as he’d instructed.

  A homeless man shuffled up the street past her, so filthy he smelled like he’d slept inside a Dumpster. He wore three layers of long-sleeved shirts, though it was ninety degrees out. He looked in the garbage and Claire was both revolted and filled with compassion.

  “Loaves and Fishes is only a couple blocks that way.” She pointed north.

  He sat down next to her. Why had she said anything?

  “Look, I have no money for you.”

  “Claire.”

  He spoke under his breath. When Greg Abrahamson said he was undercover, he was really undercover.

  “What are you working on that you have to smell like that?”

  He responded, “What are you working on that is so important that I have to risk my cover?”

  “I’m sorry—it’s about my father.”

  “Which is the only reason I’m here.”

  She got to the point. “You arrested a man named Frank Lowe fifteen years ago. In November of 1993. The charge was home invasion robbery—I don’t remember the specific penal code. But he was about twenty-five, a petty thief, broke into a house where a little girl was sleeping after her mother left.”

  “I remember.”

  “After fifteen years you remember?”

  “I don’t remember the name, but I remember the arrest. Girl’s dead now.”

  “What?” She frowned at the non sequitur.

  “Mother was a piece of work. Left the girl every night. I didn’t buy for a minute that she was running to the store for five minutes. So I added that house to my regular drive-bys. Mother brings a guy home, he moves in, beats both the mom and the kid. I get two domestic calls in three months. Mom won’t press charges, third call is a homicide. Guy was beating up on the mom, the kid walks in and tries to stop him, gets shoved aside, and cracks her head open on the fireplace.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah, so I remember that call. Hate the fact I could do nothing to protect the kid. What can
we do? The system is fucked.”

  “If it is so fucked why are you sitting here dressed as a bum and smelling like ripe garbage?”

  He stared at her. “You trying to help your dad?”

  “He’s innocent.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Claire continued, “Taverton was assigned to the Lowe case. Arraigned, then there’s evidence that maybe there was a plea agreement. All hush-hush. Taverton’s records disappear, he’s killed, Lowe dies in a fire, and my dad is framed for murder.”

  Abrahamson didn’t respond for a long minute. “I honestly don’t remember much about what happened after the D.A.’s office took the case. I would have testified at trial, but then Taverton called me and said he was working a plea. I probably said something to tick him off—I have no tolerance for prosecutors who let repeat offenders off. But because it was so unusual I do remember what he said to me before slamming down the phone.”

  “Which was?”

  “He said, ‘Sometimes you have to put a little fish on the hook to bait the bigger fish. And when I’m done with this case, you’ll be hearing about it for years to come.’ ”

  “That’s it?” Claire was heartbroken. She’d hoped he knew something more. A name, perhaps, or at least something more to follow up on.

  “That’s it. At least what I remember. It was a long time ago, and I’ve arrested easily a thousand perps since.” He stood, began shuffling away.

  “Thanks.”

  “Drake.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Judge Drake. Might want to ask him. He was the judge at Lowe’s arraignment. If there was some big plea deal, he might know what it was about. He’s still on the bench.”

  Claire sat there for a few more minutes, thinking. She wanted to get down to Isleton and talk to Lowe’s old boss, Tip Barney, but this was a hot lead, and the courthouse was only a few blocks away.

  She pulled out her cell phone, looked up the courthouse number, and dialed. After several transfers, she was talking to Judge Drake’s secretary. She told her why she wanted to speak to the judge.

  “He’s on the bench right now,” the secretary said. “I’ll give him your message when he returns.”

  “Is there any way you can look up the file?”