Playing Dead

TWENTY-TWO

Claire sat at her desk reading the police records on Frank Lowe.

Lowe had been a petty thief for most of his life. He had a sealed juvenile record, but Claire suspected it was more of the same. He broke into homes when the owners were away and stole small items-cash and jewelry. Never big-ticket stuff. But he was caught a half-dozen times, ended up with nine months jail time. After that he landed the part-time bartending job at Tip’s Blarney and moved into the apartment above the bar. That was in 1988, and he’d been clean for those five years. At least, he hadn’t been caught.

Until November 2, 1993. Two weeks before he died in the fire, he was arrested for a home invasion robbery. His statement was that he didn’t know anyone was home, that he’d seen the owner leave and then broke in through an open window. That was part of his M.O.-he never forced entry. He found the easy marks, and his statement was consistent with his other arrests.

Except that there was a minor child, a six-year-old girl, alone in the home.

Claire didn’t have time to dwell much on the idiocy of the mother leaving her young daughter alone-the mother claimed she was just going to the store for “a minute” and her daughter was sleeping. But the girl woke up and started screaming while Lowe was inside. Lowe fled and was apprehended by a neighbor who heard the girl.

He was arrested and booked. His arraignment was on November 4. Two weeks before he died. His trial was scheduled for six weeks later, right before Christmas, but he was dead by then.

Maybe this wasn’t the Frank Lowe whom Oliver had told her father about. Except he’d asked Bill to pull these police records. And Bill had done it, though it was absolutely against the rules. Why was Bill helping Oliver? Because he liked him? Or because he believed him?

Did Bill know-or suspect-something else?

She rubbed her eyes. She was getting too tired. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and though it was only six o’clock, she was exhausted. Isleton would have to wait until tomorrow. It was a dangerous road, and she didn’t want to drive it when she was so obviously worn out.

She started at the beginning of the last case and glanced at the arresting officer. G. Abrahamson. Abrahamson. . Greg. She didn’t know him, but she’d heard the name. She needed to talk to him, find out if he remembered anything about that case.

Fifteen years. That was a lot of time in a petty theft case. Abrahamson wouldn’t remember it. Or if he did, why would he share with her?

Because her dad had been on the job. And if that didn’t do it, she would pull in Dave and Bill. It was worth a shot.

As she was about to track down Abrahamson’s phone number, her bell rang.

Mitch.

She’d almost forgotten, but now that he was here she was happy. She needed a break. Just a couple minutes. She wanted to spill everything, but knew that would be dumb. Even if Mitch understood what she needed to do, she refused to put him on the line.

She looked through the peephole, then opened the door to Mitch. “Hi.” She smiled.

He walked in. “Hi yourself.”

Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. The stress of the day disappeared for one blissful moment.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes, returning the kiss with the same force and passion, tilting her head slightly to get the best angle.

Mitch kicked the door shut with his foot and leaned her up against the wall, his body hard against hers.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“Same here,” she said, breathless.

He leaned back, rubbed her shoulders. “You feel tense.”

“It was a busy day.” Busy was an understatement. She’d been moving nonstop for almost twelve hours. Her head was reeling with all the information she’d collected.

“Have you eaten?”

“Um, a little.” She’d had a scone with her Starbucks coffee at seven, then the muffin and milk at Bill’s.

“Let me take you out.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere right now. I’m beat.” She smiled slyly. “You wore me out last night.”

He laughed, kissed her temple. “That goes both ways, sweetness.” Mitch led her to the couch. “Lie down.”

“I’ll fall asleep, and I have a lot of work to do.”

“It can wait. Lie down.”

He sat at one end and put Claire’s head in his lap. He slowly rubbed her temples, putting an exquisite pressure on them. Her tension began to fade and she was lulled into a half sleep.

Mitch watched Claire as her eyes fluttered closed and she breathed easier. She relaxed so completely, her skin so fair, her hair so dark, he thought of Snow White lying in the glass coffin.

The thought made him shiver involuntarily.

She opened her rich blue eyes. “Something wrong?”

Beautiful and perceptive.

“You’re beautiful, Claire.”

“So are you,” she murmured, eyes closing again.

She trusted him. He saw it for the first time. In bed the night before, she’d trusted him then, too, but this was different. The massage, though fully clothed, was intimate. Comfortable. Easy. She fit here with him.

And he was going to betray her.

He hated himself. It didn’t matter that it was for the right reasons, he was worried about her safety, and worried about losing her. He had no right. He could hardly expect that when she learned he was an FBI agent she would forgive him, but he couldn’t help but hope she’d understand. Eventually.

Where was her private investigation leading? Oliver Maddox had been murdered because he knew something. Mitch wasn’t about to let anything happen to Claire. He ran his fingers through her hair, marveling at how right it felt to be here. He’d been directionless for so long. Most of his life, really. Trying to please his dead father while at the same time despising the man for what he’d been. Mitch was a good cop. One of his instructors had told him he was a natural, that his blood ran blue. But Mitch hadn’t wanted this life. He’d taken it because it was a noble profession, something his father would have been proud of. That he was good at it was beside the point. He hadn’t been truly satisfied or content with his life since he’d joined the military. He’d always felt like he was in limbo, without any clear sense of direction. He lived day by day, preferring fugitive apprehension because he could be out of the office ninety-five percent of the time, walking the streets, talking to people, catching bad guys. Criminals who were evading punishment. Who were clearly bad guys.

Until Tom O’Brien, who shouldn’t have been one of them. And who reminded Mitch of the unaddressed crimes of his father.

Anyone can prosecute a guilty man.

“Mitch?” Claire whispered.

He looked at her. She was studying him. He leaned over and kissed her on her red, red lips. She tasted like home and hearth and everything he thought he never wanted until he met her. He couldn’t help but smile. Claire was the last woman who would be content cooking and cleaning. That was one of the reasons he loved her. She could hold her own on the racquetball court, the gun range, and in bed, while still looking like a sexy siren dancing at a club, or beautiful and sweet lying here in his lap.

“What are you smiling about? One minute serious, the next like you heard a dirty joke.”

“It wasn’t a dirty joke,” he said. “I was thinking about you and how much I enjoy having you here like this.” He smoothed back her hair, needing the connection with her now, knowing what was about to come.

“My life is a mess.”

“Why would you say that?”

“It’s true. I haven’t been truly happy in years. Except when I’m with you. You make me put aside everything else. You make me want a happily-ever-after I never believed I deserved.”

“How can you say that? You deserve happiness. Maybe more than most.”

“You make me believe that.” She reached up and touched his face. So gently, so lightly, but it ignited a deep passion inside. A turning point.

She brought his head down to hers, kissed him with a quiet intimacy that stirred his soul. “You’re the only thing in my messy life that gives me hope for the future. I have some things I need to do, and I wouldn’t blame you for not understanding when it all comes out. But I hope you’ll be here.”

“I’ll be here, Claire. There’s nothing you can do that could change the way I feel about you.” He wished he could say the same for his own deception.

She smiled, her eyes still sad and troubled. “I love you, Mitch. I’ve never said that before. I never believed in love. But I watched you sleep last night. And it just clicked and I knew. Life is too short. I had to tell you.”

“Sweetheart, I feel the same way.” He did. Why couldn’t he tell her? Why couldn’t he say the words he knew in his heart?

Because they would be coming from a liar, a man he pretended to be. He needed to tell her he loved her after she knew the truth about him, when there were no secrets between them. When she hated him.

He kissed her, pulling her into his arms to get a better angle at those perfect lips. Her arms went around him, her fingers holding his head to hers, her heart beating as fast as his.

The doorbell rang. Mitch tensed. It was time.

“I don’t want to get up,” Claire moaned, then sighed and extricated herself from their embrace.

She slid off the couch, kissing Mitch again before walking to the door. She looked through the peephole and said, “Company.”

Mitch straightened, resisting the urge to stand. Claire didn’t sound. . angry. Or surprised.

She opened the door and a familiar stranger stood on the other side. Where did Mitch know him from?

“Dave, I didn’t expect you tonight.”

Dave. Dave Kamanski. His father, Bill Kamanski, had been Claire’s guardian when Tom was convicted. Claire had talked about him, said he was the brother she never had. Kamanski was a good two inches shorter than Mitch, but broader, built like a linebacker. He was a cop, Mitch would have him pegged even if he didn’t already know it. He had cop eyes, a cop stance, and he wore two weapons-a 9mm in a holster in the small of his back-Mitch had only a glimpse of it when he entered, but Mitch was good with guns. And he also wore an ankle holster with a smaller firearm. Probably a slim.25. It wasn’t obvious unless you knew what to look for.

Mitch did.

And so did Claire, which is why Mitch never carried when he was with her. He hated it, because it potentially put him and Claire in danger. But protecting his cover at this point was more important.

Dave glared at Mitch. “Claire, we need to talk.”

“It must be important if you came all this way.”

Claire led Dave into the living room. “Dave, this is Mitch Bianchi. I told you about him. Mitch, Dave Kamanski.” She plastered on an uneasy smile. “I told you about him as well. No secrets.”

Mitch stared at Dave, who returned the glare. Mitch was trying to sit casually, but he had to stand. He tried to stand casually, but knew he failed. Dave was in attack stance and Mitch was on full alert. Something was wrong. Against his better judgment, he extended his hand. Dave didn’t move.

Claire frowned and said to Dave, “We can go to the kitchen if you want privacy.”

“No. No secrets, right?”

There was a knock at the door.

“Damn,” Claire muttered. “I thought I was going to have a relaxing evening.” She caught Mitch’s eye. He saw the worry, the frustration, and the affection. Then her face cleared and she was in business, defensive mode as she turned to the door.

Claire walked to the door, shaking her head. Something was up with Dave, and she wished she could get him alone for five minutes. Then get him out of here. She needed time to unwind with Mitch, to clear her head and figure out what her next step would be.

But maybe Dave knew something about her dad. . that worried her. What if there was a sting in progress? What if they were tracking her father right now? And Dave wanted to warn her, but Mitch was here. .

She glanced through the peephole again. Agent Steve Donovan. She pounded her fist on the wall. “I don’t believe this!” She flung open the door. “What are you doing here? Harassing me again?”

“We can do this easy or hard, whatever you like,” Agent Donovan said, then saw Dave and Mitch in the living room. “You might want to get rid of your company. We don’t need to bring anyone else into this business.”

“No.” She crossed her arms, anger and hurt building inside. She didn’t want to do this. Why did Agent Donovan have to come by now? Why did he have to mentally torture her this way? How could she throw him off without outright lying to him?

Donovan started to step inside, but Claire put up her hand. She’d never let the Fed into her house before, and she wasn’t about to now. “Stand there. Talk.”

“The hard way? I can bring you in for questioning.”

Dave crossed over and stood next to her. “I’m Sergeant David Kamanski with the Sacramento Police Department. Is Ms. O’Brien under arrest?”

“I don’t have to arrest her to bring her in for questioning.”

“And she doesn’t have to come in unless you arrest her.”

“Dave,” Claire said, putting up her hand. “I’ve handled Agent Donovan before. This is nothing new.”

“I’m afraid this is something new,” Donovan said. “You’re interfering with a federal investigation. Give me ten minutes and I’ll have the U.S. Attorney’s office draft up a warrant for your arrest. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt right now, but you have some questions to answer or I will bring you in.”

“I’m not interfering with anything.”

Donovan looked at a slip of paper in his hand. “This morning, you spoke with Detective Theo Barker with the Davis Police Department and obtained a copy of Oliver Maddox’s missing person’s report under the pretense of being a private investigator working on an insurance claim.”

“I am a private investigator and I do work insurance claims,” Claire said, her heart pounding. Why now? Why in front of Dave? God, why in front of Mitch? She didn’t want to drag either of them into this. But she couldn’t back down. Backing down was a sign of weakness.

“You also spoke with Tammy Amunson yesterday on the UCD campus regarding what she knew of her boyfriend Oliver Maddox’s disappearance and the thesis he was working on. Then this morning you had a verbal argument with Professor Don Collier, said individual’s advisor. Collier canceled his classes and no one has seen him since. You need to come clean, Claire. What did you and Collier argue about?”

“He canceled his classes?” She’d suspected he was hiding something. Now she knew. She had to talk again to Sizemore, the head of the Western Innocence Project. Something was strange with that operation, or at least about how her father’s case had been handled. It reminded her that she needed to do a more thorough background check on Collier, and for that she’d need to go back to the Rogan-Caruso offices.

“Well?”

“I didn’t break any laws,” she said, distracted. “You can leave now.”

“I think you’ve been in contact with your father, Claire,” Donovan said suddenly, shocking her into a double take.

“What?”

“We know he’s in town. We have surveillance footage of him at a diner off the interstate headed for Sacramento.”

“I don’t know where my father is,” she said firmly. “You can go now.”

Dave stepped forward. “You heard her.”

“I believe you,” Donovan said.

“Good,” Dave said.

Claire looked at the Fed oddly.

Donovan said, “I believe you don’t know where he is. I’m asking have you been ‘in contact’ with your father.”

She shook her head. She was shaking. This was all coming to a head too fast. She hadn’t finished pursuing all possibilities. And there were so many. She felt the weight of doing this all alone, but she stood straighter and looked Donovan in the eye. “Get off my property.”

Two strong hands rested firmly on her shoulders. She glanced up and saw Mitch behind her. He hadn’t said anything since the Fed walked in, but his stalwart, quiet presence comforted her.

There was too much riding on this. She had to follow up on Frank Lowe and Taverton’s personal papers. She had to talk to Lowe’s former boss in Isleton.

Mitch said, “You need to back down. This is Claire’s home.” He squeezed her shoulders, and she leaned back against him. She was independent to a fault, she knew that, but having Mitch behind her-literally and figuratively-renewed her inner strength.

“Like I told you last night, Mr. Bianchi, aiding and abetting is a-”

“That’s enough!” Dave exclaimed.

Claire frowned at him. “Dave, I-”

“They’re playing you, Claire. Good cop, bad cop. Classic game.”

Claire didn’t know what Dave was talking about, but her head began to pound. “This isn’t a game. This is just the Feds going after my dad. We talked about this, and there’s-”

“No, Claire, it’s more than that.”

Mitch’s hands fell from her shoulders. She almost didn’t register it, until she felt chilled.

Her brain registered the deception before her heart felt it. Then, like a knife cutting through her skin, she bled inside.

She stared at Dave. Everyone was silent. She felt like a child, the last person in the room who still believed in Santa Claus, until his beard was pulled off.

“Agent Donovan, you need to leave,” she said, her voice shaky.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Donovan said, stepping back.

“Bianchi?” Dave said.

Mitch didn’t say anything.

“Or should I say Special Agent Bianchi?”

Claire faced Mitch. He stood only a foot behind her. Santa Claus wasn’t real. And neither was Mitch.

When she looked in Mitch’s eyes she knew Dave spoke the truth. The blood drained from her face and her heart emptied, leaving her with a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Claire-” Mitch reached out to touch her face.

She turned from him, biting her cheek to keep from yelling or crying or coming out swinging. She wanted to do all three. Instead, she found her voice for one word.

“Leave.”

The unbearably long time-twenty-five seconds-it took for Mitch to join Agent Donovan on the porch tested Claire’s resolve. But she stood firm.

She slammed the door behind them, dry heaving.

Dave stepped toward her, touched her lightly on the back. “Claire, sweetheart, I’m so sorry-”

She turned and pushed him in the chest so hard he took a step back. “You asshole! You did a background check on him when I told you not to! I’ve told you over and over to leave my boyfriends alone!”

“I wanted to protect you. I wasn’t going to say anything, but then I didn’t know he was an FBI agent until. .”

“Just go. Just leave. Leave me alone!”

“Please don’t. .”

“Now.” She didn’t want Dave to see her fall apart. She didn’t want anyone to witness her pain.

Reluctantly, he left. Claire bolted the door behind him, her body sliding bonelessly to the hardwood floor. She hugged her knees tightly to her chest and sobbed uncontrollably.