Playing Dead (10 page)

Oliver had sent Tom a letter asking for a meeting. Tom didn’t know the kid, but he identified himself as a new lawyer working for the Western Innocence Project. “I have reviewed all your case files and identified several oddities,” he had written. “I believe that you were wrongly convicted and would like to discuss a possible appeal.”

When Tom received the letter last month, he read it over and over in disbelief. After all these years, he had lost hope that anyone would learn what really happened that day.

It didn’t make him feel any better that God knew the truth. Tom had a few choice words to say to the Almighty, and expected when he said his piece he’d be spending additional time in purgatory, which certainly couldn’t be worse than prison.

But now, an outsider believed him. Believed he was innocent. He met with Oliver Maddox.

“I’m still working on getting to the governor,” Oliver said, averting his eyes. Tom wondered if Maddox was telling the entire truth. “I’m hoping he’ll not only stay your execution but release you.”

“Why?”

“I think once the governor sees the evidence, he’ll realize that you were framed.”

“I mean, why are you helping me?”

“I think you’re innocent.”

Tom stared at the kid. This stranger believed Tom hadn’t killed his wife and Chase Taverton. He was helping him for only one reason: It was the right thing to do. He was a young idealist. Tom hadn’t met one of those in a long, long time.

“Do you know, in your gut, that I am innocent?”

Oliver’s expression bespoke sincerity. “There was an article in a law-review magazine about your trial, your appeals, everything. There were several irregularities in the investigation, and when I reviewed the case files I thought for certain that the Western Innocence Project would get behind it. But my advisor felt there wasn’t enough to get a stay from the governor or a new trial.” Oliver shook his head. “The Project wants wins. DNA evidence, a new witness, lack of due process, something solid.”

“Not the word of a man convicted by a jury of his peers.” And his daughter, Tom thought.

“If Lydia O’Brien was the target, then your guilt would make more sense. She was your wife and she was having an affair. On the surface, it seems logical. Do you know how many men kill their wives in any given year? There were—”

“I know.” He didn’t need to hear it again. “The husband, the boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend always top the suspect list.”

“Right. Well, have you ever considered that maybe Chase Taverton was the target?”

Tom shrugged. “For years I tried to make it about Taverton, but it didn’t make sense to me. No one knew I was coming home that day. I was on lunch break when Claire called me. How could someone plan it so that I would be in the vicinity at the time they were killed? It was an unknown, as far as the killer was concerned.”

“What happened when you took a lunch break?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I mean, did you call it in? Tell anyone you were off the clock?”

“Of course. I called dispatch.”

“And did you do this the same time every day?”

“Roughly. Depended what calls I’d been on, what I was doing.”

“Who knew when you were on lunch?”

“I guess everyone on the clock. I reported my unit number and where I was. I had to keep the radio on in case I was called to a scene, but it was just background noise.”

“What about your partner? Where was he?”

“I was on day shift, I didn’t ride with a partner. I often had rookies with me—I was a training officer—but I was studying to make detective, and I hadn’t had a rookie in weeks.”

“So you were alone, and everyone on duty or with a police-band frequency would know that you were signed out for lunch.”

“You think that someone in my department—no. I can’t believe that anyone I knew then had anything to do with Lydia’s murder.”

But the seed was planted. Who hated him so much that they’d frame him for murder?

“Maybe, or maybe it was just someone who knew a lot about Chase Taverton and enough about police procedures and codes to monitor police frequencies. You were on break and everyone knew it. The killer could have been waiting to kill Taverton and your wife while you were unavailable.”

“But if Claire hadn’t called me, I would have been at lunch and—” He stopped.

“Right. You were eating alone and everyone knew, or could have known. No big secret.”

“You’re making a lot of leaps, Maddox. You’re making the leap that someone knew about Lydia’s affair, and my studying over lunch, and they knew that Lydia would be home with her lover during the same time as my lunch break? A jury didn’t buy my defense, which was along the same lines—that I just happened to come home within minutes of my unfaithful wife being murdered by someone else. I’m surprised you do.”

“You testified that you saw your personal firearm on the wrong nightstand in the bedroom when you walked in and saw the bodies.”

“Yes.”

“My dad was a cop. He put his gun in the same place every night. He checked it religiously. He kept his in a holster attached to the side of the bed. He would never have put it in the wrong place. Ever.”

“I could have been in a rush,” Tom said, using the prosecution’s argument. “I was in a rage. Not thinking. Heard Claire come in. Or, as in the closing statement, was trying to cast doubt that I was the killer.”

“Cops and their guns . . . no, you wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave it there. You would have either disposed of it or put it back where it belonged. But even more likely, you wouldn’t have used your own gun.”

“They call them crimes of passion for a reason,” Tom said. “The killer usually isn’t thinking.”

“Even a crime of passion—I just couldn’t picture you being so stupid. Your daughter calls you, you go home and kill two people? It doesn’t make sense to me, but yeah, on the surface, it was an easy prosecution. One of their own was killed and they jumped all over the most likely suspect.”

Oliver stared him in the eye, leaned forward and whispered, “I think it’s all about Chase Taverton. I think he was the target, and I’m going to prove it. I have a lead. I just wanted to meet you, see if you were who I thought you were.”

“And?”

“You pass.”

Oliver hadn’t visited him again, but they set up a weekly phone call so Oliver could ask questions and tell Tom what he’d uncovered. On that last call, two weeks before the earthquake, Oliver was excited.

“I think I have it, Tom,” he said. “I don’t want to say much over the phone. But I have Taverton’s personal journal. Everything is in here—everything he was working on. Details. Some of it is in Taverton’s own cryptic notes, but I’m working on it. There’s a guy, a criminal informant, Taverton was working a plea deal with the week he was killed. Frank Lowe. Know him?”

“No,” Tom had said.

“He’s the key. I feel it. I think this is a conspiracy, Tom. Based on his notes, I think that Taverton was using Lowe as a witness against someone very, very big.”

“Who?”

“I have ideas, but I don’t want to say right now. Not until I find Lowe and do some more research into this. If I’m wrong, it’ll be even worse for you. But if I’m right . . . let’s meet again. I’d rather tell you in person.”

They arranged to meet on Monday, January 21. But Oliver never showed, and the day after, Tom was moved to Section B.

Tom couldn’t retrace Oliver’s steps, and even knowing now that Oliver had lied to him about his position with the Western Innocence Project, Tom had hope that there was truth in what Oliver had uncovered. That Taverton had been the target and Tom had been deliberately framed.

If Claire believed him, she could bring in the power and resources of Rogan-Caruso. The security company was the best in the business. With them behind him, Tom might finally learn the truth. More important, Claire would.

He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He glanced at Nelia, still sleeping. He’d told her the truth—he didn’t deserve her or her trust. But without it, he would be lost, or dead.

He loved her.

He prayed she’d forgive him.

Tom pulled a piece of notepaper from a small stack and wrote:

Nelia,

You’ve already gone above and beyond for me. I’m not going to jeopardize you further. I’m taking the letter to Claire, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.

I love you.

Tom

NINE

When Claire arrived at Dave’s house on the far side of his father’s rural property off Bader Road in Elk Grove, she was still fuming over her interview with the warehouse owner. Holman had lied through his teeth, but she took down his statement verbatim.

Now her real work began. Holman insisted he had nothing to do with the arson. She already had the report about the medical supplies on the streets, but Holman was right about one thing—she couldn’t prove someone else hadn’t stolen and distributed them.

Liars and thieves like Ben Holman pissed her off.

She frowned, thinking about her conversation with Oliver Maddox’s girlfriend earlier in the day. Was Claire no better than Holman? She’d misled Tammy Amunson about why she wanted to find Oliver. True, she hadn’t really
lied,
it was more a sin of omission. She really
did
want to find Oliver and she
was
concerned about his disappearance. She
did
have a private investigator’s license. But she’d never used it deceptively before.

Did a good reason justify her dishonesty?

Dave bent over to hug her when she walked through the unlocked door. He was nearly as tall as Mitch and broader. Claire didn’t know why her friend Jayne didn’t like him; Dave was both a good guy and good-looking.

“You’re late.” He messed up her hair.

She wrinkled her nose at him and grabbed his beer, finishing the rest.

“I hate it when you do that,” he said.

“I know. Where’s your dad?” She’d hoped to pull him aside and ask about Oliver Maddox. She knew Bill had talked to the college student back in January, but at the time she had been too raw to discuss the conversation in depth. Then the earthquake hit and they both had other things to think about.

“He’s
at
the game. An old buddy of his got some prime tickets.”

“Good for him,” she said, though she was disappointed she’d have to wait until tomorrow to talk to him. Dave might know something . . . if she could get him alone. “Who’s all here?”

“The usual—Manny and Jill, Eric, Phil.”

Claire tried to rid her body of the day’s tension. She rolled her shoulders, said hi to everyone, grabbed a beer from an ice bucket. These were her friends, she reminded herself. Why did she feel so uncomfortable, like an outsider? She always tried, but never felt like she quite fit in anywhere.

She pushed aside her father’s haunted expression.

Her lies to Oliver Maddox’s worried girlfriend.

Her growing confusion over her father’s guilt.

A timer went off, and Phil jumped up. “Hey, Claire, have a second to help?”

“Sure.”

She followed Phil into the kitchen. He popped open the oven and took out a delicious-smelling Mexican dip, then popped in garlic bread and adjusted the temperature.

Phil tossed her a bag of tortilla chips. “Go find a bowl.”

Also a cop, Phil was a few years older than Dave and his friends, but he was a fixture in the group. Especially after he saved Dave’s life during a domestic disturbance call the week before Claire graduated from high school. If Phil hadn’t intervened at the right moment, Dave could have been dead. The bullet ended up grazing his arm, but it was only inches from his heart. Bill called Phil his adopted son.

Claire rummaged around the cabinets. Dave was not organized.

“Dave says it’s getting serious with your new boyfriend.”

“Dave has a big mouth.” She found a big bowl and dumped the chips into it.

“He’s just concerned because you haven’t introduced him. You usually aren’t so secretive.”

Eric came in as Phil spoke. Eric was Dave’s age and they’d been close ever since Eric joined the force more than ten years ago. “Yeah, and I think this is a record. Dave said you’ve been seeing him for a couple months. Long time for you.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was getting irritated at the interrogation from the cops. Dave, okay, he was practically her brother. But Phil and Eric?

“Okay, a week from Friday, the Kings are playing the Lakers in L.A., we’ll all meet at my place and I’ll invite Mitch, okay?”

Dave walked in. “Is this
the
Mitch Bianchi you have yet to introduce to Dad and me?”

“Oh, stop,” she said. “I didn’t think you cared.”

Dave squeezed the back of her neck. “I’ll always care about who you’re dating.”

Claire felt claustrophobic with Dave’s overprotective, brotherly attitude, and Phil and Eric’s intrusiveness. “Get over it,” she said, trying to sound light, but her tone was flat.

Dave dropped his hand and grabbed the plate of chicken off the counter. “Game’s started, we’re down six already.”

“Dave, I’m sorry, I—” Claire frowned as he walked out. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she ended lamely.

“He knows,” Eric said, rubbing her shoulder. “I’ll take this tray—anything else?” he asked Phil.

“The bread has a few minutes. I’ll wait for it.” Eric left, and Phil took up rubbing her shoulder where Eric had left off. “Dave just worries about you. He wants you to be happy. So is it serious? You and this Mitch Bianchi?”

She shrugged. “The usual.” That was such a lie, she realized as she said it.

“So it is,” Phil stated.

“What? Please. I don’t have time for serious relationships. Worry about Dave. He’s a lot older than me, he should be thinking of settling down.”

Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the number.
Mitch.