Playing Dead Part 22

"It's gone."

"How?"

"Good question. There's no way it can just disappear. If someone requests the report, we make a copy. It's kept in a digital file. It's easy to print a certified copy. The original backup reports are also digital, and a paper copy is kept off-site. The digital file is the easiest to access, and it's not there. I checked our internal records to make sure the case numbers matched. There's a gap in the numerical file. They were erased, or they were never archived electronically."

"How is that possible?"

"h.e.l.l if I know. I'm not a computer nerd. But I've never once heard of a missing report. Then I called the warehouse and asked them to pull up the original paper copies. Lied through my teeth, saying they were needed ASAP for an appeal case."

"And?"

"They're not there."

"Could they have been misfiled?"

"I'm having the archive supervisor research it personally, but I swear, Claire, I've never encountered a problem like this. Both the digital and the paper files missing? It's like they never existed. What did you want to know about the bodies anyway?"

Claire was still absorbing the information. Missing coroner's reports on both her mother and Taverton. "Bullet trajectory. I wanted to see at what angle and distance the bullets were fired."

"Why?"

"Information. I don't know exactly why, but because they were missing from the case files, I became curious. Now I'm more curious."

"You and me both. I'll let you know what I find out, but don't hold your breath."

"Thanks, Phin."

She hung up and dialed Janice Krause. It was no coincidence that both her mother's and Chase Taverton's autopsy reports were gone. What was in them that didn't come out at the trial? How could they disappear with no one being the wiser?

"h.e.l.lo?"

Claire had almost forgotten she'd called Taverton's sister. "Mrs. Krause?"

"Yes? Who's this?"

"Claire O'Brien, with Rogan-Caruso Protective Services. I'm an investigator looking into the death of a law student from UC Davis." She spoke fast, hoping Mrs. Krause wasn't taking good notes.

"I don't understand."

"According to my interviews, Oliver Maddox, the deceased, had met with you earlier this year-in December or early January-regarding the personal calendar of your late brother, Chase Taverton."

There was a long pause. "What does-I'm confused. Are you saying Mr. Maddox died?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm sorry. He was a nice young man. But what does this have to do with my brother? Chase was killed fifteen years ago."

"According to Mr. Maddox's notes, he retrieved Mr. Taverton's calendar from you. Correct?"

"I gave him a copy, yes. I didn't even know I had it, but when he called and asked if I had any of Chase's personal effects, I recalled several boxes my mother had in her possession before she died in 2001. He came to my house and went through them."

"You made him a copy of the journal? Do you still have the original?"

"No."

"No?" Claire repeated, stunned.

"A couple months ago, someone from the district attorney's office called and said they needed the boxes."

"The D.A.? Do you remember who you spoke with?"

"No."

Claire's heart fell.

"Hold on a minute." Claire heard the phone being put down. Then a long minute later, Mrs. Krause came back on the phone. "I found it. The receipt."

"Receipt for the material?"

"Yes. I remembered that a police officer came by and picked up the boxes." She paused.

"What was his name?"

"It's not on the receipt. Just an illegible signature. It's on Sacramento County Superior Court letterhead, though. Received three boxes, personal possessions D.D.A. Taverton."

"When?"

"January 21. It was the third Monday, I remember, because I was running late to my bunco game."

Claire thanked her and hung up. That was no coincidence.

Oliver Maddox had a copy of Chase Taverton's personal calendar, and he died on January 20. Less than twenty-four hours later, Mrs. Krause gave the calendar-and all of Taverton's material-to someone with the court. Or someone who said they were from the court. It was easy to fake letterhead and identification.

Claire rushed home, eager to go over the reports she'd received from Bill.

She was onto something.

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 pa.s.sion, 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 m.u.f.fin 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 gla.s.s coffin.

The thought made him s.h.i.+ver 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 ma.s.sage, 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 n.o.ble 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 s.e.xy 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."