Playing Dead (20 page)

She jumped up. He reached for the gun and held it on her. She was sniffing, her eyes red, leaves in her hair. She pulled on her pants.

“Don’t,” he commanded.

“Leave me alone. Go away.”

“I’m not done.”

“Yes you are. Done for good, Mr. Jeffrey Riordan, license number 3ABB688.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

She realized she’d made a mistake. She turned to run.

He shot her in the back.

He almost didn’t believe he’d shot her. He walked over to her body. Her mouth was moving, but only blood came out. She tried to get up, then collapsed. He couldn’t stop staring at the dying girl.

He called Hamilton from his cell phone. “I have a bit of a problem.”

Jeffrey shook his head to clear his mind when he heard a voice. Julie was talking to him. “Jeffrey?”

He was ready.

“Get down,” he growled.

She knelt in front of him. As soon as her mouth wrapped around his cock he came.

He held her head to him for a long moment. He had a solution to their problem. Why did he always have to make the tough decisions?

If Tom O’Brien were dead, none of this would have happened. But since Hamilton had fucked that up, the next person in the food chain had to go. The only person, really, who could be a threat to them.

Claire O’Brien.

EIGHTEEN

Claire drove around to the back of the Sacramento County Morgue. Most people—unless they were cops or morticians—didn’t know about the rear entrance. But Claire had met the head supervising pathologist when she was working a life insurance case for Rogan-Caruso a couple years ago. She’d witnessed her first autopsy then, and she and Phineas Ward hit it off. They’d never been romantically involved, but a few times they’d hit the club scene together platonically.

She handed her card to the receptionist, who said without looking up, “Paperwork and name of the deceased.”

“I’m here for Phin Ward, not a body.”

The woman glanced up, then called over her shoulder, “Phineas, you have a visitor.”

Claire glanced around. The office was cluttered but organized. In the far corner was a fish tank with goldfish and a submerged plastic skeleton. Similar pathologist humor added levity to what could have been a depressing place to work, including a fake brain that looked real on a shelf, next to the snack food, and a life-size artificial skeleton hanging in the corner wearing a pirate’s hat and eye patch and holding a plastic sword.

Phin emerged from the rear office and smiled at Claire as surprise lit his eyes. “It’s been awhile.” He walked out and greeted her with a hug, then escorted her into the staging area. This was where they first tagged, weighed, and logged in the bodies.

“I know, I know. I’ve missed hanging out with you. How’ve you been?”

“Sad and lonely without you, but I’ll live. Better than being him.” He jerked his thumb toward a cadaver in the hall outside the freezer. “Came in fifteen minutes ago. John Doe, hit and run.”

A mortician walked by pushing a cadaver on a trolley. He handed his paperwork to Phin. Without looking at it, Phin walked back into the office, handed it to the woman, and returned.

“Is there a place we can go talk in private?” she asked.

He reached into a box and tossed her two booties for her shoes. She slipped them on, then followed him through the large autopsy room—currently unused—to a small office on the far side. The smell was mostly clean and antiseptic, with a very faint, underlying hint of something akin to rotten eggs. Like the first time she’d been here, Claire didn’t think it was that bad.

The office was crammed with equipment used to preserve tissue samples and containers with a colored fluid that held, primarily, brains. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” she said, partly lying. Phin had a morbid sense of humor and probably wanted to get a rise out of her. “What’s this room used for?”

“We have a neurologist who comes in every Tuesday to examine abnormalities in autopsied brains. Primarily for genetic research.”

She picked up a jar, brows furrowed. “Don’t tell me this is from a child.”

He took the jar from her, read the label, gave her a half grin. “Naw. It was removed from a grown man three days ago.”

“It’s so small.”

“Yeah, that’s why the neurologist needs to look at it. Abnormal.” He put the jar back. “Okay, what brings you to my neck of the woods? Work or pleasure?”

“Neither. I’m not here about Rogan-Caruso business.”

“And you’re still seeing that Mitch guy?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So I guess you’re not asking me out on a date.” He sat on the edge of the metal-topped desk and crossed his arms, revealing intricate tattoos on his biceps.

“Date?”

“I’m just teasing you. You should have seen your face, though.” Phin grinned. He picked up a jar and absently turned it slowly around in his hands, the preserved organ turning inside. Looked like a kidney, but Claire wasn’t positive. “So why are you here?”

“I need a favor.”

“Ah. The truth comes out.”

“Two favors.”

“What are you going to give me in return?”

She didn’t know what to say. “Kings tickets?”

He laughed. “I’m joking. Damn, you’re serious today. You usually come back with a great retort.”

“I’m preoccupied.”

“Okay, what? Seriously, I’m at your disposal.”

“I need the coroner’s report from two autopsies fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen years? Those are in archives.”

“But you can get to them a lot faster than I can. When I called, they said it would take weeks. I don’t have weeks. I need them like, um, today.”

“You don’t ask for anything difficult, do you?”

“Is it possible?”

“I’ll get them. Who?”

“Chase Taverton and Lydia O’Brien. They were killed on November 17, 1993.”

“O’Brien. Your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I need to read the reports. They weren’t in the court records.”

He stared at her, wanting more information, but she didn’t say anything else.

“I’ll get them, but I might not have them until tonight.”

“I really appreciate it. Call me on my cell phone and I’ll pick them up wherever.”

“What’s the second favor?”

“There was a guy hauled out of the Sacramento River yesterday. You probably did the autopsy today.”

“I know the body.”

“Did you work on him?”

“No. What do you know about it?”

“I know who he was.”

“He wasn’t identified until this morning when the chief compared dental records. How do you know?”

“Well, I know the owner of the car that the body was recovered in, and Dave—my quasi-brother the cop, you met him at the Monkey Bar last year—told me last night they were nearly certain it was Oliver Maddox.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Not really.” She almost lied, made up a story for Phin, but she didn’t want to lie to a friend, and didn’t see what it would gain her now. “He was a law student researching my father’s trial and conviction. He believed that my dad was innocent.”

“I didn’t think there was a question.” His voice held a hint of compassion. One reason Claire had always liked Phin was because he was straightforward and relatively unemotional. He rolled with the punches and liked to have fun in the process. But just his mild concern had her throat constricting.

“There is. At least now there is.”

“What do you want to know about the body?”

“Was Oliver Maddox murdered?” She could get the information from Dave, but Claire didn’t want to ask. Dave was already suspicious.

“Inconclusive. Molly was the senior pathologist on the case and said there was possible brain damage at the back of the head, consistent with a blow, but the body was badly putrefied. We’re ruling it a possible homicide. Because there are no external injuries that we could find, Molly put the preliminary cause of death as suffocation by drowning. But there’s no way to tell if he was alive when he went into the water.”

“Dave said he’d been there for a few months. He was reported missing the end of January.”

“That sounds right, but it’s nearly impossible to establish time of death after a couple days. He was under for months.”

Possible homicide. Great. That didn’t get her any further than she already was.

“Thanks for your help. And if you’ll call me about the reports, I’d appreciate it.”

“One thing was weird, other than the attention the victim was given.”

“Attention?”

“Yeah—the FBI was here. I can’t think of any other autopsy since I’ve worked here that the Feds came in to witness.”

“That is strange.” Why would the FBI be interested in Oliver Maddox? Were they tracking him because of his connection with her father?

“The other weird thing?”

“When Molly pulled out the organs, which were pretty much Jell-O from decomp, she found a flash drive.”

“A flash drive?” Claire repeated, incredulous.

“Bright pink. The Feds took it with them.”

“Was one of the FBI agents named Steve Donovan?”

“I don’t know, I can check.”

“Did you see them? Blond, six one, midthirties, about a hundred eighty pounds, has a mole on his right cheek.” She pointed to the center of her own cheek.

“Yeah, he was here.”

“Shit.”

“Know him?”

“Yes. I just don’t know what it means.”

Driving from Maddox’s town house to the campus, Mitch reviewed the phone records he’d ordered last night. The student didn’t have a residential phone—more and more people were dropping their landlines for the convenience of a single mobile phone number.

“Last call was made at 9:45 p.m. Sunday, January 20,” Mitch said. “He also made calls at 2:10 p.m., 3:08 p.m., and 4:49 p.m., all to the same number. Then received a phone call from that number at 5:15. It lasted six minutes.”

“Which puts that about the time he was seen leaving his residence,” Steve said.

“He called the same number—an Isleton prefix—at 5:22 and again at 9:45, his last call. The first lasted three minutes. The second call less than a minute. If he was meeting someone in Isleton, it wouldn’t take four and a half hours to get there.”

“I’m not following you.”

“We know he was driving from Isleton when he went into the river. Could be the last person who saw him alive. But we don’t know if this last call was made before or after he left Isleton.”

“So who’s the other number?”

“It matches Professor Collier’s home phone.” “Maddox called him three times, no answer, and then the prof calls him back.”

“Collier said in the missing person report that Maddox was calling to cancel their Monday meeting.”

“Why?” “Oliver allegedly didn’t say why.”

“Why a six-minute conversation? What’d they talk about? The weather?”

“Collier said it was class-related. The Davis cops didn’t know what Maddox was working on. Collier said it was his thesis.”

“A thesis seems innocuous. Who would kill over a college thesis?”

“Maybe it’s not even related. Could be he hadn’t been working on his thesis because of all the time he spent trying to clear O’Brien.”

“Now
that
makes sense.”

“So he has to cancel the meeting because he doesn’t have anything to show.”

“I follow you,” Steve said. “But one thing I can’t figure out. In all this, why didn’t Maddox go to the police? Or talk to someone? If he honestly believed that O’Brien was innocent—if he had found evidence to that effect—why wouldn’t Maddox have turned it over to the authorities?”

“I—” Mitch didn’t have an answer. “Maybe he didn’t have proof. Or he could have had unsubstantiated theories. Knowing something to be true in your heart and proving it to be fact are completely different.”

“Then perhaps his girlfriend or advisor will be able to shed some light on this.”

Steve pulled into a security-vehicle-only parking place at Davis and put his official FBI business placard in the window. Mitch dialed the last number Maddox called the night he died.

“The Rabbit Hole.”

“Where are you located?”

“Corner of 2nd and B Streets right off River Road. Can’t miss it. Gotta white rabbit on the sign.”

“Thanks.” Mitch hung up.

“Well?”

“Bar, from the sound of it. Want to make a stop?”

“Worth checking into, but it’s been nearly four months. If Maddox met someone there, the bartender may not remember.”

“It’s the only lead we got right now.”

They exited the car, walked into the administration building, and showed their badges. “We need to speak with Professor Don Collier regarding one of his students.”

“One moment.” The receptionist left the room and Mitch said to Steve, “Do you have Tammy Amunson’s contact information?”

“Yes, and her class schedule.” Steve glanced at his watch. “It’s 1:30. Her last class was over at noon today. I have a mobile number.”

“I’m sure as hell not looking forward to giving her the bad news.”

The receptionist returned. “I’m sorry, Professor Collier canceled all of his classes today.”

“Canceled?”

“Yes, sir. I can direct you to his teaching assistant, Shelley Burns. She has a desk in Professor Collier’s office at King Hall.” She handed a card over on which she’d already written the name and number.

“Where the hell is King Hall?” Steve muttered as they walked out.

Mitch handed Steve a map of the campus he’d pulled from the receptionist desk. “Now I know why they pay you the big bucks,” Steve said.

Shelley Burns’s office was more like an oversize closet, not much bigger than Claire’s home office, Mitch thought. She had a desk and a narrow wall of tall filing cabinets. Shelves on three walls were full of thick legal tomes. One shelf tilted precariously to one side. If anyone tried to remove a book on the left, Mitch was certain everything would slide off the right.

There was the desk chair and one more chair that the door hit when it opened. She gave a shrug when they walked in and stood shoulder to shoulder. “Sorry, I’d offer you the professor’s office, but he locked up and I don’t have a key.”