Playing Dead

by Allison Brennan

  Tom was fading as the drugs began to do their work.

  “Daddy, oh God.”

  “Claire. I’m. Okay.” He reached up, though the lights in the hall were beginning to fade.

  Someone grabbed his hand. He felt moisture. Tears.

  “Claire Beth, don’t cry.”

  “I love you, Daddy. I’m sorry. I love you.”

  He tried to speak but couldn’t. The light faded.

  Claire watched the medical staff wheel her father down the hall and into surgery. “What happened? Why is this an emergency? Is he going to be okay?”

  Nelia spoke. “The bullet shifted. He woke up and couldn’t walk this morning. It was lodged in the muscle near the spinal cord and has disrupted the nerves. I don’t know the medical jargon, but the more it shifts the more dangerous it becomes. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll be partially paralyzed, even after the bullet is removed.” Nelia looked both unsure of the situation and worried.

  “You care about him?” Claire asked, tears in her eyes.

  “I love him.”

  Claire reached out and hugged Nelia. The woman wrapped her arms tight around her. “He’s going to be okay,” Claire said, as much for herself as for Nelia.

  “Hello?” From behind Claire, Agent Elliott, Claire’s babysitter, spoke into her cell phone. Claire pulled apart from Nelia, both of them staring at the closed surgery doors.

  Nelia asked Claire, “What happened to you?” She gestured to the hospital gowns Claire wore—one backward so she didn’t expose her ass for all to see.

  “Long story. But I’m okay. Just tired.” The doctor had given her a shot to help counteract the effects of Rohypnol, even though the tests hadn’t come back yet. All Claire wanted to do was go home and sleep the rest of the night in her own bed, but she now had this FBI agent babysitting her.

  “Where?” Agent Elliott sounded angry. Claire turned and watched her. Meg’s jaw was tight and she stared at the wall. “Mercy? Who’s with him? . . . Okay. Good. And Lowe?” She closed her eyes and rested her fist against the wall. “Right. I’ll call Grant. I want Lowe’s business and residence gone over with a fine-tooth comb.” Agent Elliott straightened, all business again. “Talk to everyone who even stepped through that bar. And—really? Get him on a plane ASAP. Protective custody or whatever the U.S. Attorney’s office thinks we can do. Arrest him if we can. He might be the only one who knows what’s going on.”

  “What happened?” Claire asked when Meg Elliott shut her phone.

  Expression hard, she said, “Frank Lowe was killed twenty minutes ago. One of my agents was shot and is in critical condition at Mercy.”

  Claire involuntarily sucked in her breath. “Mitch?” she whispered.

  “Steve Donovan. He’s going into surgery. But the professor you scared away yesterday? We just intercepted him outside La Guardia Airport in New York. We’re transporting him back. He’ll be here in the morning. And that information stays here, got it? I don’t want it leaking out that we have a witness in custody.”

  “Witness to what?”

  Meg said, “Mitch thinks that Collier is the last person—now that Lowe’s dead—who knows exactly what happened fifteen years ago. I want him alive.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Claire hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until urgent voices in the hall woke her. She opened her heavy eyes when the door whooshed open.

  A federal agent stepped in. She didn’t recognize him, but he had his badge and ID clipped to his belt.

  “Ms. O’Brien, I’m Special Agent Cliff Warren. I’ll be stationed outside your door clearing guests until you’re discharged.”

  “That’s not necessary—”

  “Supervisory Special Agent Elliott thinks otherwise,” he said.

  Elliott. Right. The blonde. Claire’s memory was fuzzy. “What time is it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Oh two hundred hours.”

  It was after midnight. She didn’t want to be here all night!

  She swung her legs over the bed. “I need my clothes.”

  “You’re not supposed to leave until the doctor okays it, then I’ll take you home.”

  “Then call the doctor. I want to leave now.” She felt like shit, her head pounded, but she was thinking clearly. She couldn’t remember exactly what had happened, though thoughts and images popped in and out of her mind. The river. Mitch. Nelia.

  Daddy.

  Agent Warren was almost out the door. “Wait,” she said. “My dad.”

  “He’s in surgery.”

  “How long has it been?”

  Warren checked his notepad. “Meg said he went in at about twenty hundred hours last night.”

  “Six hours ago? Is that normal? Is something wrong?”

  “I’ll call for the nurse. I can’t leave your door. Sit tight, I’ll get someone to answer your questions.”

  When he left, Claire rose and paced the room. Her body felt beat up and bruised. The more she moved, the better she felt. She did some stretches, felt dizzy, and sat down on the edge of her bed until it passed.

  Steve Donovan had been shot. Claire hadn’t liked him, mostly because he’d hounded her about her father, but she didn’t want him dead. And Frank Lowe—dammit. Wouldn’t the fact that someone had killed Frank Lowe at least give credence to her father’s claim of innocence?

  Mitch believes him.

  Claire wished that Mitch hadn’t told her about his own father, or why he’d lied to her. She particularly didn’t want to hear about how Mitch thought her father was innocent. How would she know if he lied to her again?

  Agent Meg Elliott came into her room. “Cliff told me you were up. How are you feeling?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “I know. As soon as the doctor clears you, Cliff will take you home and stay with you until we figure out what’s going on.”

  The agent was distracted and kept looking at her cell phone and typing messages to someone.

  Claire asked, “How’s my father?”

  Meg looked up with sympathy. “He’s still in surgery. So far, he’s holding his own.”

  “I found out earlier that the coroner’s reports are missing. From fifteen years ago. I have a friend at the morgue who tracked down the pathologist who worked on the bodies. He left right after sentencing, and he has to have been the one to mess with the records. I know who he is, and—”

  Meg held up a finger, typed another message, then said, “You’re going to have to leave this investigation to us, Ms. O’Brien.”

  “I’m sorry, but you don’t care as much as I do about what happens to my father! With Frank Lowe dead, this might be the only way to prove someone else killed my mother. I have to follow up!”

  “Someone tried to kill you tonight. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

  “Someone tried to kill Steve Donovan tonight. Do you think he’d just give up if he were physically able to investigate?”

  “He’s a trained federal agent.”

  “I’m a trained private investigator.”

  “Who was interfering with a federal investigation.”

  “It’s not a federal investigation, at least it wasn’t officially a federal investigation. I have to do something, Agent Elliott. I have to find those reports—or can’t you send someone?”

  “I have no one to spare right now. We’ll get to it, Claire, but it’s not our first priority. Finding who shot Steve is my number one concern.”

  “What about my dad? He’s facing death.”

  “I’m not going to let him out of our custody until we know exactly what’s been going on these last couple days.”

  “A lot of good your custody did for Frank Lowe!”

  Meg tightened her lips. Claire had crossed a line. “You are not to interfere with my investigation, or I’ll bring you into custody. Do we have an understanding?”

  The door opened while Meg was speaking. Claire stared when J.T. Caruso walked in.

  J.T. Caruso was one
of the three principals who ran Rogan-Caruso Protective Services. Tall, dark, and dangerous in every sense of the word. Claire had only seen him a few times in the office. He worked in the field, usually outside the country. His specialty was rescuing rich kidnap victims from Mexico and other countries south of the border.

  “Mr. Caruso,” Claire said, straightening.

  “How are you, Claire?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Meg extended her hand. “J.T. Always a surprise.”

  J.T. gave a half smile to Meg, took her hand in both of his. “Megan Elliott. It’s been awhile. If the Bureau has to be involved, I’m glad at least you’re on it. Of course, you weren’t serious about taking one of my employees into custody.”

  “If she crosses the line, damn straight I am.”

  J.T. raised an eyebrow. “What is the problem?”

  Claire spoke. “We’ve tracked down the pathologist who deleted the coroner’s reports on my mother and Chase Taverton. There has to be something odd in the reports if someone went to all the trouble to make them disappear.”

  “Jayne told me about Mr. Willis.” J.T. leaned against the wall. “Megan. Allow me to follow up on the pathologist.”

  “Dammit, J.T., your ways are not the Bureau’s ways.”

  “I’m not a thug.”

  “You forget I’ve known you a long time.”

  “I forget nothing, Megan.”

  Claire would have been more interested in her boss’s past if she wasn’t so worried about what had gone on while she was drugged and sleeping. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be ready to go first thing in the morning—”

  J.T. turned to her. “You’re on leave.”

  Claire’s stomach fell. She felt ill. She was going to lose her job. It’s okay, she told herself. If anything she’d done in the last three days had helped her dad, then it was worth it.

  J.T. turned to Meg. “I heard about Donovan. What else happened? Is the homicide in Isleton related to this?”

  Meg shook her head. “I’m always shocked at how you seem to know confidential information as if it’s idle party chatter.”

  “What?” Claire said. “What homicide?”

  “The police chief’s daughter was stabbed in her living room. No witnesses, nothing to indicate a struggle, but there were some odd findings. Her closet shelves were completely empty, for one. However, our evidence response team found drugs hidden in her bathroom. They couldn’t identify them on-site, so they’ve been sent to the lab for priority testing.”

  “Since when do the Feds have jurisdiction over a local homicide?” J.T. asked.

  “Since it’s connected to this case. Do you realize that there’ve been no homicides in Isleton—aside from the possibility of Oliver Maddox—in more than a decade? Then tonight Ms. Lane was in the same bar where Frank Lowe most likely drugged Claire, Lowe was killed, and now Ms. Lane? It’s connected somehow, and while the sheriff has technical jurisdiction, one of my men was shot and that makes this my case.”

  “I am sorry about Donovan.”

  “I know.”

  “Lane?” Claire asked. There were only two women in the bar when she was there, an older woman and Lora. “Lora?”

  Meg whipped around. “You know her?”

  “She sat right next to me at the bar. She told me I was being mean to Tip. Frank Lowe,” Claire corrected. Why would anyone kill the woman? “When did this happen?”

  “Between seven and nine p.m. tonight. Her mother was in Sacramento, and her father had secured the Rabbit Hole and was waiting for our forensic team to arrive. But the body wasn’t discovered until after midnight when her father came home.” Meg glanced at her phone, typed a message, and said, “I really have to go. We have a man on Claire, but if you want to take over you’re welcome to.”

  J.T. said, “Warren? He’s fine. I’ll deliver the pathologist to you before noon. If you need my services, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Meg just shook her head and walked out.

  Claire said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Caruso.”

  J.T. sat on the end of her bed and said, “It’s always been J.T. Let’s not get too formal.”

  “I know I broke protocol, but—”

  He put his hand up and said, “Stop. I know exactly what you did and why. You don’t have to justify your actions. What you have to explain is why you didn’t come to me or Henry for help from the beginning.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand. I was helping a fugitive.”

  “You asked Jayne for help.”

  “I—” What could she say?

  “She’s your friend.”

  Claire nodded.

  “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Claire. As an investigator for Rogan-Caruso, you need to understand that we are a family. I expect—I demand—to be asked for assistance, even in a personal matter such as yours.”

  “I was walking a fine line, J.T. I didn’t want the FBI to have a reason to go after Rogan-Caruso.”

  J.T. threw back his head and laughed. Claire didn’t understand the joke, and she tensed, angry, hating feeling like an idiot.

  “Claire, the Bureau and I go way back. They’re not going to interfere with my business. You are my business. You’re one of mine. You should have told me your theory from the beginning. I could have given you resources and assistance, and had someone watching your back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to take time—not as a punishment. You need to reconnect with your father. Recuperate. Just a couple days. I will keep you informed. But if you find out anything—anything—you call me.” He handed her a thick ivory business card with JTC and a toll-free number printed in bold black type. “I will get the message.”

  “Thank you.”

  J.T. stood. “You’re one of my best investigators. I would have pulled you into far more interesting and challenging assignments long ago, except for one thing.”

  She hesitated, then couldn’t help but ask, “What?”

  “You were too rigid. Everything you did was because you were on the side of right, and your opponent was wrong. Black and white, Claire. The world is anything but.” He opened the door, then looked back and said, “You finally see the shades of gray. Welcome to the real world, Claire.”

  Mitch hung up his cell phone. Lexie was at Mercy Hospital’s ICU ward, where Steve Donovan had just been moved after surgery. Steve was going to make it. Thank God.

  Mitch had talked to Lora Lane’s neighbor, every Rabbit Hole regular, anyone he could think of about Lora and why someone would walk into her house and kill her.

  The method was cruel and efficient. No sexual assault, no other physical marks on the body. She knew her killer. She’d let him in the house, turned to him, and he pushed a sharp knife into her navel, then pulled it up until it hit her sternum. The killer pulled the knife out, leaving a six-inch wound in her gut. She’d have bled out in minutes. Even if help had been immediate, nothing could have saved her. The knife sliced clean through her intestines and stomach and nicked her liver and lungs, the latter evidenced by the dried blood around her mouth.

  Who would kill the handicapped woman? Had she seen something tonight? Had she seen who drugged Claire? If this was related to Claire, then Frank Lowe hadn’t drugged her.

  Mitch stood in the middle of Lora Lane’s bedroom, staring at her open closet and the empty shelves. Her father wasn’t able to give them much help. He was devastated after walking in to find his dead daughter. All he could remember was that Lora had “a lot of shoes” in her closet. But Lora’s shoes were all under her bed. Dozens of shoes, lined up carefully under the bed skirt, out of sight.

  He hoped the man could get it together and answer some more questions. Something had been on those shelves. The room was pristine. Even the clutter was neat as a pin. Except the closet doors were open and those shelves were empty. It didn’t make sense.

  Shoes.

  Mitch crossed over to the shelves. They were all a foot high. Tall enough f
or shoes, neatly lined up.

  Or shoeboxes. Which would explain why her father said there were shoes on the shelves, but all the shoes were actually under her bed.

  Shoeboxes. Why would anyone kill Lora Lane for shoeboxes? What did she have in them that was so important?

  Lora Lane was a young teenager in a forty-year-old body. Her room was pink and frilly, with shelves of horses, her dresser covered with small, ornate boxes containing single pieces of jewelry. Some of the jewelry appeared to be quite expensive, and Mitch would need her father to document where the pieces came from.

  Perhaps Lora had a boyfriend. He killed her. Stole . . . what? Money? Drugs?

  Mitch could see how a woman like Lora, with a young girl’s mind, could be used by someone unscrupulous. She worked in a tackle shop at the marina. Drug smuggling? Possibly, especially since drugs had been found in her bathroom.

  Grant Duncan, who was heading up the forensic investigation, approached Mitch. He held up an empty vial that looked like it would hold an ounce of fluid.

  “What’s that?”

  “It tested positive for Rohypnol. It was found in Ms. Lane’s purse.”

  “So she drugged Claire.”

  “It looks like it. I’m going to have the coroner run tests on Ms. Lane as well. She may have residue on her fingers.”

  “I just don’t understand what’s going on here.” Mitch stared once again at the empty shelves. “The police chief’s daughter drugged Claire . . . why? Because she was being mean to her boyfriend?” Mitch frowned. “Did Frank Lowe put her up to it?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  One of the sheriff’s deputies stepped into the room. “I found a witness, Agent Bianchi.”

  Finally.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mitch was sitting at the police chief’s desk in the small Isleton police station, walking distance from the police chief’s house. He had Grant with him, and sitting across from him was a ten-year-old kid. It was two o’clock in the morning and Mitch felt every one of his thirty-eight years. The kid looked both wide awake and excited.

  His name was Josh Frazier and he lived across the street from the Lanes.

  “Where are your parents, Josh?” Mitch asked.