Playing Dead

by Allison Brennan

  “My mom works late on Fridays and Saturdays. She’s a waitress in Lodi.”

  The deputy who had found the kid watching the police activity with binoculars from his bedroom, concurred. “Nita Frazier. She’s on her way.”

  “And she always leaves you alone at night?”

  Josh glared at him. “Are you going to get my mom in trouble?”

  “No, I—”

  “Because I’m not going to help you if you’re going to get my mom in trouble. I told her when I turned ten—five months ago—that I was old enough to stay by myself. Why pay Mrs. Fatzoid five dollars an hour to watch television? My mom only makes eight twenty-five an hour, plus tips.”

  “Mrs. Fatzoid?” Mitch questioned.

  “Gretchen Flannigan,” the deputy said. “She lives two blocks over.”

  Mitch shook his head. “Josh, I’m not going to get your mom in trouble.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay.” He crossed his arms, still suspicious.

  “Deputy Pierson says that you have information about who hurt Ms. Lane tonight.”

  “Lora’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Mitch said. “Was she a friend of yours?”

  Josh shrugged. “She was weird, but nice. My mom said she wasn’t right in the head, and to be nice to her. So I was. But my mom also said that Lora was smarter than people thought she was.”

  “What did you see tonight?”

  “The Mercedes.”

  “Mercedes?”

  “Yeah, an S550. My dad was a mechanic. He knew everything about cars. I only know a little.”

  “Where’s your dad now?”

  “He died a long time ago. When I was eight.”

  Mitch assessed the kid. Ten? Yeah, he looked ten. He acted much older.

  “Okay, Josh, tell me everything you saw or heard from the time your mom left for work, which was”—he checked his notes—“five thirty.”

  “Mom left. Um, she said no one could come over, but Andy down the street came by for an hour to play my new Wii game, Lego Indiana Jones. Did you see the movie? It was hot.”

  The movie. “I saw the first three.” When they were released.

  “Cool.”

  “When did Andy leave?”

  “Six thirty. He had to be home for dinner. And then I played some more; later I heard voices outside so I looked. It was the gang of five.”

  “Gang?”

  “Yeah. The vets. Two from World War Two, one from Korea, two from Vietnam. My mom and I make them cookies on the weekends, and they go to the Rabbit Hole almost every night. They never leave that early. They were talking loudly, and I didn’t really hear anything accept that Tip was arrested for something. Then Lora walked by and crossed at the corner—it would be faster if she just cut through the street, but she always crosses at the crosswalk—and went home. I almost went over—Lora is real nice to me—but then the Mercedes drove up and the two men got out.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “It was dark.”

  “Would you recognize them again if you saw them?”

  “No. But I’d recognize the car. There’re not a lot of S550s out there, and this one was custom.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “The spoiler on the tail, for one. And there was a valance on the front, but I didn’t get as good a look at it. The S550 doesn’t come standard with spoilers.”

  “You have a good eye, Josh. Your dad would be proud.”

  He squirmed. “Thanks.”

  “Anything else? Do you know how long they were inside?” Mitch knew the kill had been quick.

  “Like twenty minutes. Maybe more.”

  That surprised Mitch.

  “They were taking boxes from the house. Lora was helping them. They were shoeboxes, I think. A bunch of them. They put them in the trunk of the car. Then they went back inside, came out a couple minutes later, and drove off.”

  “What time?”

  “Before nine. That’s when Drake & Josh comes on, and I never miss it.” It was dark, but before nine. That put the killers’ arrival at between 7:30 and 8:30.

  Mitch asked the deputy to escort Josh to another office until his mother arrived. He turned to Grant. “How many Mercedes S550s are registered in Sacramento and surrounding counties?”

  “I already sent Kent a query. He should have a list shortly.”

  “How does this connect to Frank Lowe? Or Tom O’Brien for that matter?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t,” Grant said. “Could be a coincidence, and maybe they thought Claire was snooping around about their drug smuggling. Anytime you put illegal drugs into the mix, you have problems. But I’ve already talked to the DEA and they’re calling in their regional agents to see if there’s anything out there that ties Isleton or Lora Lane, Frank Lowe, or Tip Barney to drug smuggling, Rohypnol, or anything else.”

  Mitch didn’t think this had anything to do with drugs. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Meg had called him earlier, and Claire was awake and under guard. She would be going home in the morning. Mitch wished he could have been the one sitting at her door, but with Steve out of commission, he was the only one who knew the principals of the case. And Claire didn’t want him around. It was more important to find out who tried to kill her, who’d killed Maddox, and who’d framed Tom O’Brien.

  He glanced at his watch—3:30. He needed a couple hours’ sleep before heading to Mather Field, where Don Collier was being brought in on a military transport plane at ten a.m.

  “I’ll drive,” Grant said, as if reading Mitch’s thoughts. “My team is here for the night, no one is getting into the Lane house or the Rabbit Hole. We’ll sit tight and finish processing the evidence, but you need to sleep or you’ll be a damn good target for the bastard who shot Donovan.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Claire dressed in jeans and a T-shirt Jayne had brought over for her late the night before. It was six in the morning and she was already antsy. Her doctor had promised he’d come by early, and she was ready to leave the hospital as soon as he signed the papers.

  She’d tried to leave earlier, but Agent Warren had orders to keep her until she was cleared by the doctor. She considered just walking out, but decided to sit tight for a couple hours. Worried about her father, Claire felt like she’d been run over by a truck.

  The door opened and Agent Warren said, “There’s a Bill Kamanski and Sergeant Dave Kamanski to see you. Their IDs check out.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dave and Bill entered, both father and son wearing worried expressions. “I’m fine,” Claire said automatically.

  Dave crossed the room and gave her a hug. “When Dad told me about the accident—I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you, Claire. What were you thinking? What have you been doing?”

  “I’m okay. And you probably know what I’ve been doing.”

  “Not really.” Dave glanced at his father, his expression unreadable, but Claire feared that Bill helping her may have been a contentious issue between them.

  Bill kissed Claire on the forehead. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re okay.”

  “I’m waiting for the doctor to sign me out of here. I just want to go home.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about Tom’s surrender?” Dave asked.

  “Dave, leave her be.”

  “It’s okay, Bill.” Claire took a deep breath. These two men had stood by her for the last fifteen years, and they deserved the truth. “I should have told you before, but the surrender was supposed to be secret and without fanfare, and so far the media hasn’t found out. Dad’s here for surgery. He was shot four months ago and the bullet is causing problems now.”

  Dave stared at her. “You never cared about your father before. You’ve never believed he was innocent. All the evidence points to—”

  “The evidence was all circumstantial, Dave. And between w
hat I’ve found and what the FBI has found, they believe my dad. They’re going to prove it. I know it.”

  “What did they find?” Dave said. “What could they have found that no one else did? Claire, you’re deluding yourself—”

  “Dave, that’s enough,” Bill said.

  “Dad—”

  Bill motioned his son to be quiet. “I’ve thought for some time that Tom was framed. Ever since Oliver Maddox came to me and told me about Chase Taverton’s plea agreement with Frank Lowe, and how both of them died within twenty-four hours. And before—well, Claire knows my thoughts on what happened then.”

  She squeezed Bill’s hand. “I am so lucky to have both of you in my life. I’ve taken you for granted for too long.”

  “You didn’t,” Bill said. “Don’t hold on to the past, Claire, no matter what’s back there. It’ll eat you up and you’ll never be happy. There is now, and there is tomorrow.”

  “I love you.” Her voice cracked, and she hugged Bill.

  A moment later, Dave said, “After what happened last night, it’s obvious you uncovered something important. Maybe you don’t even know the importance. Otherwise, why would someone try to kill you? I’m relieved the FBI has a guard on you.”

  “Claire, honey, let the police handle it,” Bill said. “The FBI is on top of things.”

  “I can’t just step aside. The police were supposed to be on top of everything fifteen years ago, and what happened? I’m in this to the end.”

  “Claire—” Dave tried to argue, but she cut him off.

  “I’m not going to be stupid—I have the FBI’s bodyguard, and J.T. Caruso is helping with the missing coroner’s reports.”

  “Missing coroner’s reports? What does that mean? Whose?”

  She explained about the blank coroner’s reports on Taverton and her mother in the morgue archives.

  “And when I get home, I’m going to follow up on some loose ends. I talked to a supervisor from the FBI last night, but they want to fully debrief me later today or tomorrow morning. You might be right, Dave, that I know something important but don’t fully realize its relevance.”

  “Thank God you’re all right,” Dave said.

  “God and Mitch.”

  “What?” Dave asked.

  “Mitch Bianchi was in Isleton with his partner. After they arrested Frank Lowe they were driving behind me. When I went into the river, Mitch fished me out.”

  Claire hadn’t thanked him. She’d been so hurt, so mad, so confused that she hadn’t even thanked him for saving her life. She’d rectify that, then say good-bye.

  Bill said, “We’ll wait until the doctor clears you, then you can come home with us.”

  “Thank you, but I need to be home. My animals need to be fed and walked. I can’t go anywhere.”

  “It would make us feel better to keep an eye on you,” Dave said. “FBI bodyguard notwithstanding.”

  She softened, giving Dave a spontaneous hug. “I appreciate it, really, but I need to be in my own house. I’m sorry for getting so mad at you the other night. I’m okay about it. I know that you were just looking out for me, and I love you, Dave. Never do it again, promise?”

  He nodded. “Fair enough.”

  She’d research her own boyfriends in the future . . . if she ever felt like dating again. She doubted it. There was a lot to be said for being alone. You didn’t get your heart shredded.

  “Can we stop by later?” Bill asked. “Maybe around lunchtime?”

  “Sure,” Claire said. “That would be nice.”

  “We’ll bring the food,” Dave said. “Phil, Eric, and Manny have been worried sick about you.”

  “But if that’s too much company,” Bill said, hitting Dave, “then we’ll do it later.”

  “That’s okay. It’ll keep my mind off my dad’s surgery.”

  Claire’s doctor entered with a nurse. “Gentlemen, I need a few moments alone with my patient.”

  “Of course,” Bill said. “We’ll see you around noon.” They left.

  “Well?” Claire asked the doctor as she checked her vitals and wrote information into her chart.

  “It was definitely Rohypnol. Your last urine test came back negative, so I’ll release you. But take it easy for at least the next twenty-four hours.”

  “I will.”

  “Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

  Judge Hamilton Drake felt the weight of the world on his shoulders Saturday morning while he watched the sun rise over downtown from his twenty-fourth-floor penthouse balcony. From here, he saw everything. The state capitol, the growing skyscape, of which he was a part. He could see the river and Tower Bridge from the opposite end. He had a 180-degree view of the city he partly owned.

  It was over.

  Jeffrey was walking around whistling Dixie, stating that everything was hunky-dory and everyone should stay calm, but Hamilton saw his entire world crashing around him. Jeffrey was delusional. Money and power bought a lot of things, but it couldn’t buy some people, and it was those untouchables who had the information that would destroy them. Killing Frank Lowe yesterday had only bought them a little more time.

  Which Hamilton was using to pull together his resources and disappear. He already had a false identity, a false passport, and a house in South America. He’d suggested that Richie and Jeffrey pull the plug and put their own escape plans in action. Richie was working on it, but Jeffrey balked. And that’s when Hamilton realized he’d never had an escape plan. Fool.

  Judge Drake had gotten a message at the courthouse from Claire O’Brien yesterday, and it wasn’t until late last night that he’d heard about her swim in the river. Why couldn’t she have drowned like the other nosy kid? But that wasn’t the worst of it. Frank Lowe had been alive all these years. What if he’d kept a journal? Told someone? What if he’d spilled his guts to the Feds in the car?

  No, if that had happened, Hamilton would be in custody already. Hamilton was the only one who knew the terms of the plea agreement because he’d been the one to arraign Frank Lowe. To protect Jeffrey, Hamilton had orchestrated the murders of Taverton and Lowe. It had been perfect . . . until now.

  Frank Lowe hadn’t seen anyone except Jeffrey the night they had killed Rose Van Alden, as he’d told Taverton, and he hadn’t recognized Jeffrey until the handsome pol was running for Congress. When Lowe got arrested for home invasion robbery, he didn’t want the jail time and squealed.

  They would have paid Lowe enough money to disappear, but he’d already talked to Taverton. There was no making him disappear because Taverton knew what had happened, and could go back to the official records. Find out that Hamilton had drafted Van Alden’s will and forged her signature. Find out that Hamilton had profited from Waterstone Development. Find out that they’d been so greedy, they’d set up the Delta Conservancy in order to keep her money—clean—for their political “housekeeping” activities—bribery, primarily.

  Oliver Maddox had gotten close to the truth and had to die. But now too many people knew. They couldn’t kill everyone.

  Hamilton sensed before he heard someone behind him.

  He turned. Fear clawed up his spine.

  Not him. He was a psychopath. A cold-blooded killer. Judge Hamilton only had people killed when there was no other choice. This crazy bastard had fun when he killed.

  “I told you: No one touches Claire.”

  “I’m leaving this afternoon,” Hamilton said. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to that girl.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I have plenty of money.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the money.”

  Thirty years ago, Hamilton, Jeffrey, and Richie had followed their fraternity brother to the hills on the far side of Stanford’s vast property. Jeffrey had been getting a blow job in his car when he saw someone pull a body out a first-floor bedroom window and into the trunk of a car.

  They’d recognized their frat brother after following him into the hills near the Di
sh. It was Jeffrey’s idea to dig up the grave and see who it was. It was Hamilton’s idea to take her earring. Richie wanted to blackmail him, ask for two million. The killer’s dad was one of the richest doctors in California. He’d invented some major artificial heart valve and was set for life.

  Hamilton suggested they just keep the information to themselves until they needed something. Even in college, the three of them had plans that weren’t entirely legal.

  And Bruce Langstrom had been the perfect person to bring in to kill Taverton and Lowe. He’d been living in L.A., could come in, take care of a couple people, then slip away.

  Hamilton had never expected him to change his name and stick around.

  “Please,” Hamilton begged.

  “No one touches Claire but me.”

  Hamilton tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. He tried to fight, but the effort was laughable. As soon as he raised his arm, he was in a headlock and bent over the railing of the balcony.

  And then the judge was falling. Falling, arms flailing, trying to reach for something, anything to stop himself from hitting the pavement, terror of his imminent death filling his every cell.

  Nine seconds later, Judge Hamilton Drake hit the street.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Mitch was waiting outside the hangar for the military cargo plane to land with his prisoner, Professor Donald Eugene Collier. Grant was with him, and while Mitch had a lot of respect for the young agent, he wished Steve were here.

  Meg phoned. “Collier land yet?”

  “The control tower says fifteen minutes.”

  “Judge Hamilton Drake fell from his balcony this morning. He’s dead.”

  “Drake? He’s the judge Oliver Maddox had all those articles on.”

  “Right. I turned a copy over to Matt, and that’s why he called me when the judge hit the pavement. Twenty-four stories in downtown Sacramento.”

  “Suicide?”

  “They don’t know. Sacramento PD is working the case. I’ve asked to be kept in the loop, but the PD isn’t as cooperative as the sheriff’s department. Matt’s trying to smooth things over. If nothing else, he’ll let me know if there’s something we need to look at. However, I ran a background check on Drake and something interesting popped up. He was at Stanford when Jessica White disappeared.”