Playing Dead

TEN

Parked in the lot next to the Fox amp; Goose, Mitch rested his head on his car’s steering wheel. He’d called Claire for the sole purpose of finding out where she was, where she was going to be, and to confirm when she planned to arrive tonight. All so he could get rid of Steve long before she showed up.

He was in way over his head with Claire.

Mitch walked into the bar early, claiming a small table. Antique wood doors-some with ornate knobs or etched glass-split the bar in two to allow more private seating, but Mitch wanted to see the entire room and the main entrance, so he preferred a spot in the far corner.

A waitress stopped by and he ordered a pint. He was off duty, and he needed a beer about now. First the dive this morning and the subsequent investigation-he and Steve hadn’t left Isleton until after four that afternoon. Steve had to follow up on another case, so Mitch had taken care of the ubiquitous paperwork at headquarters.

Tomorrow morning he’d observe Maddox’s autopsy. Though not required to attend, it would get him a cause of death and an ID faster than if he waited for the report. The sheriff’s department had jurisdiction and was handling the evidence, but Deputy Clarkston had extended the invitation, and Mitch jumped at it.

Why had Maddox gone down to Isleton in the first place? The canvass by the cops hadn’t yielded anything useful, and if the body had really been underwater for nearly four months, a casual witness would probably not remember anything helpful. Still, Mitch had suggested to Steve that they go back with Maddox’s picture and canvass Isleton again. Flash the photo around, see if anyone recognized him. Before leaving headquarters, Mitch had also put in a request for Maddox’s phone records.

They had an appointment with the Davis detective in charge of the missing person case, then they’d track down the girlfriend who reported Maddox missing and find out what, if anything, she knew. Confirm her statement to the Davis PD and see if she remembered anything else.

He was relieved that Meg had cleared him to work with Steve on this case, knowing that it could wind back around to Thomas O’Brien. Maybe his “punishment” was over and Meg wanted his eyes on the case. Or maybe Steve had put in a word for him. Whatever the reason, Mitch was glad to be back on the case. Something was going to break. Maddox had been murdered-of that Mitch was certain-and he hoped that the discovery of Maddox’s body would flush out his killer.

If they found out who killed Maddox, Mitch was certain it would lead back to Thomas O’Brien’s case fifteen years ago. It was no coincidence that Maddox had gone missing two days before O’Brien was moved to San Quentin’s dangerous Section B.

The waitress placed his pint of Guinness on the coaster in front of him. He sipped, remembering his first date with Claire.

After weeks of flirting and conversation and spontaneous dinners when they “ran into” each other in the evening at Starbucks, he and Claire had come to the Fox amp; Goose on an official date. Her favorite local band was playing, she said, and asked him if he wanted to join her.

“Do you want to meet there?” he asked.

“Well, I thought maybe we could make a date of it.”

He should have said no. Instead, he’d said, “I’ll pick you up at eight. We can have dinner first.” Why had he agreed? What was he thinking? He knew damn well what he was thinking. He was deeply attracted to Claire O’Brien. He could tell himself he was doing it for the job, but the truth was he wanted to be with her.

Everything that came before that night nearly two months ago Mitch could have justified, even if he had to stretch his arguments. After that night, he had no more excuses.

He’d put everything on the line: his career, his heart, Claire’s trust.

He picked Claire up just before eight that evening. She came to the door in jeans, a red spaghetti-strap tank top, and spiky sandals. Her black hair loose around her face, dancing above her shoulders, and she’d done something to her eyes to make them seem a darker, sultrier blue. A green Celtic knot tattoo decorated her upper right shoulder blade. He wondered if she had any other tattoos, and where they were.

All Mitch could think about was taking her to bed. His face heated. She’d hate him when she learned who he was and why he’d befriended her. Okay, just this one date. He wouldn’t sleep with her. He wouldn’t kiss her.

He should make an excuse that he had to work late. That wouldn’t work, he’d told her he was a writer. Maybe he had a deadline? He didn’t know. Hell, he should walk away, tell her he was ill, and never return to her Starbucks. Disappear from the face of the earth. He had to stop this right now.

Instead, he kissed her. Just a light kiss on the lips. A hello kiss. But that hello kiss whetted his appetite and he wanted more than just one. He stopped himself. She smiled. “Hello.”

She tossed a blazer over her arm and a bag over her shoulder. He told himself it was for the job. But it was no longer about the job. He had originally planned to befriend and keep tabs on Claire on the chance-the good chance-that her father would eventually show up. O’Brien was likely waiting for enough time to pass where he thought it’d be safe to approach his daughter, his only living relative.

But now Mitch saw the flaw in his plan. When O’Brien showed up-and he would, statistics put the odds firmly on that eventuality-Mitch would have to arrest him. It didn’t matter that Mitch had reviewed the evidence and thought there was merit to O’Brien’s claim of innocence. The fact was O’Brien was still a fugitive and Mitch would be risking not only censure, but imprisonment if he didn’t apprehend O’Brien when he had the chance.

And Claire would discover the truth. He’d misrepresented himself. He’d lied. She would hate him. And he wouldn’t blame her.

Deep down, Mitch hoped O’Brien never showed. He wanted Claire to himself, and he never wanted her to find out the truth.

Stupid. She would find out sooner or later. That first night out, while they ate, Claire said, “You know, when I first met you I thought you were a cop.”

Mitch’s blood ran cold, but he kept his face casual. “You did? Why?”

“I’ve been around cops all of my life. And a lot of Rogan-Caruso employees are former cops or military. Two things stood out. First, every time someone walks into your peripheral vision, you glance at them. Quickly, but it’s a habit. And when we sit at Starbucks, you always have your back against the wall. Just like you do now.”

“I was in the military for three years.”

She nodded. “That explains it.”

He didn’t know if it explained it. He’d almost forgotten who he was dealing with. Claire O’Brien was not stupid.

“Marines.”

“Semper Fi.”

He grinned.

“Why’d you leave?”

He didn’t want to talk about himself, but he wanted to share something real with Claire. And it didn’t get more real than this-his past, the past that made him the man he’d become. The good, the bad, and sometimes the ugly.

“The real question should be, why’d I join.”

“Okay. Why’d you join?”

“My dad.”

“He was in the Marines?”

“No. The Air Force.”

She didn’t say anything, but he saw her mind working behind those incredible blue eyes.

“When I was growing up in Santa Barbara, I didn’t have plans for my future. My dad was the district attorney, and I was a beach bum.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t fit. I don’t see you lying around on the beach working on your tan.”

He laughed. “No, lying around wasn’t my style. Surfing was. Surfing and diving. Travis-Travis Cole, my closest friend since we were six-and I spent every afternoon on the waves or under them. And we cut enough classes that I had to study my ass off to pass my finals.”

“Your dad didn’t like that.”

“Hell no. He didn’t like Travis, who was from a wealthy family. They had the kind of money that seemed to grow on trees. I didn’t have the same advantages. We weren’t poor by any stretch, but putting me through college and law school like my father planned would wipe out their savings account.” Mitch heated with regret remembering when he told his dad he’d be a lawyer over his dead body. Rod Bianchi was dead less than a year later.

“I joined the military right out of high school to get away from Dad. It was the military or college, and I really didn’t want to go to college. I wanted to travel the world with Travis on his yacht, diving in the tropics and surfing waves that hit empty beaches. But I couldn’t do it. I told myself it was because my mom would be devastated, but in truth I was still under Dad’s thumb. No matter how many shenanigans I pulled with Travis, I kept going home and asking for forgiveness.”

“You probably would have gotten bored with that after, oh, ten or twenty years.”

He nodded, gave her a half smile, though his memories were of an unhappier time.

Something passed across Claire’s expression that told Mitch now was the time to get her to talk about her dad, but then it was gone and she said, “So you joined the Marines because he had been in the Air Force.”

“Yeah.”

“And why’d you leave?”

“My dad died. Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was a workaholic. On the job 24/7. He didn’t know the meaning of the word relax, and his doctor had been warning him for years that if he didn’t slow down or take care of himself, he would die early. Rod Bianchi didn’t believe him. He was in shape, worked out at the gym every morning, ate healthy. He died at his desk.”

“And you came home to be a beach bum?”

“I considered it. But I ended up going to college. Travis got tired of traipsing across the planet, so he joined me. We got a place on the beach and spent a lot of time on the waves, and a little time in class.”

“How’d you end up becoming a writer?”

Now they were getting into the lies. It had felt so good to tell Claire the truth about himself that he dreaded the next sentence that came out of his mouth.

“I worked on the campus newspaper. I liked it, and when I graduated I took a job on a paper in the south. Then moved my way up the Eastern Seaboard. Came back to California when my mom died. When my grandmother passed a year later and I had a bit of money, I decided that if I was ever going to do something big, I needed to try now. So I’m trying to write the Great American Novel.”

The lies came off his tongue effortlessly, but he wished his heart wasn’t so twisted. He wanted to tell Claire everything-how he joined the FBI because he thought that would have pleased his father, the man he had fought with only days before he died. How his mom had blamed him for his dad’s early death.

Instead, he created a fictional past for Claire and hated himself for it. He couldn’t tell her he thought her father was innocent, or that he had intentionally befriended her in order to capture Tom O’Brien.

Claire took his hand and kissed it. “You’ll have to teach me to surf someday.”

“There’re no beaches in Sacramento.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Guess we’ll have to head to the coast for a weekend sometime.”

His heart did a flip and his hand tightened within her grasp.

“Guess we’ll have to,” he said thickly.

Instruments were being tuned in the bar, and Claire smiled. “That’s Finnegan’s Wake.”

“What?”

“The band. Named after the classic Irish folk song. A homage of sorts. This is their first time here.”

“I thought this was a British pub.” He pointed to the British flag hanging on the interior glass windows of the converted warehouse. “And isn’t that Queen Elizabeth?” he said, gesturing toward a mural.

She laughed. “Come on, let’s dance.”

Mitch had seen Claire dance before, but not when they’d been together. When he’d been watching her, following her.

Her body moved erotically back and forth to the fluid tempo of music as he danced with her. Seeing her so free was a treat. Every morning when they talked she was on guard and cautious. Now. . was this the real Claire? Was this the woman she’d have been had her life not been turned upside down when she was fourteen? Or was this the woman she’d become because of the murders? She danced for herself, no one else. Tonight, she seemed relaxed. Almost. . happy. Happy with him.

She couldn’t possibly know how her movement affected him. Her eyes closed and she wore that half smile Mitch loved so much. At this moment, her entire demeanor said “peace,” when usually Claire seemed to struggle so.

She opened her eyes, looking right at him, all her beauty and charm and those seductive bright blue eyes focused on him. She wrapped her hands around his neck and closed her eyes again. The music had changed to something more folksy. Whatever it was, she liked it and moved accordingly.

“I love. .”

“What?” he said, unable to hear her over the noise.

She stood on her tiptoes and leaned against him until her lips practically touched his ear. Her warm breath had him holding his. “I love this song.”

She rested her head on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her tight against him. The dance floor wasn’t large, about ten feet square, and more people joined them, pushing them closer. She kissed the side of his neck and Mitch held her tighter, one hand on the small of her back, the other on her neck.

Throughout the evening they danced, they drank a bit, and Mitch wanted to be nowhere else in the world but with Claire.

She wrapped an arm around his waist at the end of the evening and said, “That was fun.”

“I agree.”

They walked out to the parking lot, arm in arm. Mitch unlocked the passenger door for Claire. He’d taken out everything that might identify him as an FBI agent. His gun was in his trunk. He felt naked without it, but Claire would have been able to see-or feel-the piece on him.

“Wow, chivalry,” she said and turned to face him.

She kissed him. Everything about Claire was larger than life, and her kiss was nothing less. Her mouth parted and her tongue found his. She tasted of hops and peppermint. Her hands wrapped around his neck, pulling him down to her, her fingers rubbing his muscles, his hair, his shoulders. Her lithe body molded to his and all Mitch wanted to do was take her to his bed, right now.

His mouth opened to suggest it, but he stopped himself. He was staying at Nolan’s house. Nolan had a damn congressional medal of honor on his wall with the salutation “Special Agent Nolan Cassidy” plus a bunch of news articles in his den, extra guns in his bedroom. Damn.

“Come home with me,” Claire murmured.

Was she drunk or just tipsy? What was he thinking? It didn’t matter! She was Tom O’Brien’s daughter. He couldn’t sleep with her, no matter how much he wanted to.

He was about to protest, but instead pinned her to his car and kissed her as hard as she’d kissed him. Their bodies were as close as possible while still being fully clothed. He held her chin, kissing her repeatedly, not wanting to give up this moment.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself away. Her blue eyes looked black in the yellow light of the parking lot. Her skin was flushed, breathing heavy, lips red and lush.

“I want to.” He swallowed. “But-”

She put her finger to his lips. He kissed it and she smiled. “No buts. No promises. I want to, you want to.” She gave him a feather of a kiss that was as erotic as the deep kiss a moment before.

“Claire.”

He wanted her.

He couldn’t have her.

“I’ll take you home,” he said.

If she was hurt by his rejection, she didn’t show it. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. He wanted to make love to her.

But not like this. Not with lies between them.

He drove the short distance to her house.

“Thanks,” she said, making a move to open the door.

“Claire-” He took her arm, pulled her across the middle seat, and kissed her. Long and hard, showing her his feelings when he couldn’t speak the whole truth.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?” he whispered as his lips pulled back, lightly touching hers, teasing both of them.

“Okay.” Her voice was hoarse.

“Good night.”

“ ’Night.”

He watched her walk into her house alone, and he prayed he had the willpower to resist her next time they went out.

And he knew the only way he’d be able to resist her would be if he never saw her again.

But that wouldn’t happen.