Playing Dead (26 page)

Mitch wiped up the spill with cocktail napkins and drained a third of the glass.

“You’re in love with her,” said Steve.

What did Mitch know about love? You don’t lie to those you love. You don’t manipulate them, use them, hurt them.

“You’ll get through this, Mitch. Focus on the job. Hell, that’s the only way I can go home to an empty house some nights.”

Steve motioned for another pint. What a pity party, Mitch thought. Steve hadn’t had it easy in the relationship department. He’d married his high school sweetheart, had a kid, then left, ostensibly because of his job. Steve, like Mitch, took risks. To save lives, sometimes you had to risk your own. Now his ex was remarried to a doctor—same long hours, but less risk of being killed. Steve saw his son every other weekend.

“I’ll take you back to Nolan’s. First thing tomorrow we head down to Isleton and canvass for information about Oliver Maddox. He met someone there. That someone may know more about whatever got Maddox killed.”

“Maybe he met his killer down there,” said Mitch.

“I don’t follow.”

“He goes down there, starts questioning the wrong person. That individual follows him, runs him off the road.” Mitch frowned.

“Sounds plausible. You don’t think so?”

“But if he was being chased down River Road he’d have both hands on the wheel. Would he think of swallowing the flash drive? Either he was nervous when he left his house in Davis and swallowed it as protection, or he saw someone he recognized who was a threat, and swallowed it to protect the information.”

“And then was run off the road.”

Mitch shook his head. “There was no damage to his Explorer to suggest that he was run off the road.”

“You just said you thought he was run off the road. And someone can be run off the road without their car being hit.”

“I was thinking out loud. Maybe he
was
but that doesn’t explain the contusion on the back of Maddox’s head. You know what I think?”

“No.”

Mitch visualized a probable scenario. “I think he stopped his car for some reason on Delta Road after leaving Isleton. Maybe to let a car pass. Maybe to help a stranded driver. Maybe someone set a blockade and he had to stop, or he felt sick or needed to take a leak. Whatever, he stopped. He got out of the car and someone attacked him from behind.”

“Why would he turn his back on someone he didn’t know?”

“He must not have thought the person was a threat.”

“So when did he swallow the flash drive?”

“I don’t know.” Mitch rubbed his face. “But he had to have had a reason, unless swallowing computer chips is the nerd equivalent to frat boys swallowing live goldfish.”

“Okay. It’s plausible. So then you’re thinking the killer somehow got Maddox to stop his car and clocked him. The killer puts him back in the car and pushes it into the river?”

Mitch nodded. “That week in January was wet. The river was running high. It wouldn’t have been too difficult. The Explorer was in neutral, making it easier to push.”

“But wouldn’t it have gotten stuck in mud? Wouldn’t there have been tracks of some sort? We didn’t find anything.”

“Four months ago?” Mitch shook his head. “Not a chance. Between the rain, sleet, heat, and ebb and flow of the river, any sign of major disturbance would be long gone after four months. If we had gotten there a couple days after Maddox went in? Yes, there could have been tire marks and other signs in the mud. But remember, most of the shoulder on River Road is gravel.”

“I say I take you to Nolan’s and we both get a good night’s sleep. It’s nine o’clock and we’ve had two full days. I’ll pick you up at seven, okay?”

Mitch relented, though there was nothing more that he wanted to do except sit here and drink away his guilt. But he had to be sharp in the morning. Having a hang-over wouldn’t help anyone—him, Claire, O’Brien, or Maddox.

He paid for the beers they’d drunk and left. If he hadn’t had two pints, he would have seen the sucker punch coming.

Dave Kamanski’s fist connected dead-on with Mitch’s jaw. Mitch’s head twisted around and slammed into the brick wall.

“You fucking bastard!”

Steve pushed in between them, a hand on Dave. “Cool off, Kamanski.”

“You’re no better. You knew he was lying to her. You two give law enforcement a bad name. Would you do anything to close a case? Including destroying a fragile woman?”

“Claire is anything but fragile,” Steve said.

Mitch wanted to tell him to shut up. Claire was tough on the outside and braver than most anyone Mitch knew, but inside? Kamanski was right. She
was
fragile. She harbored pain and guilt and regret and grief so powerful it controlled her life.

“Back off, Dave,” Mitch said.

“
Me?
You set her up. You couldn’t just keep an eye on her, you had to date her? Lead her on? And it’s been going on for months.
Months!
You think you can just throw her dad back in prison and walk away and she won’t care?”

Kamanski looked like he was going to hit Mitch again and Steve stepped forward. Mitch straightened and said, “If you care about Claire, you’ll keep an eye out for her. She’s in the middle of a dangerous situation.”

“Tom killed his wife under extreme emotional duress. He wouldn’t hurt Claire for the world.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Mitch moved his jaw back and forth, spit out blood-tinged saliva. It hurt, but there was no permanent damage.

“Are you threatening me? Are you threatening Claire?”

Kamanski made a move toward Mitch, and Steve put a firm hand on his chest. “You got one freebie. Next time I’ll arrest you for assaulting a federal officer.”

Kamanski barked out a laugh. “That’s rich. You fucking Feds.”

A group of patrons walked out of the club and suspiciously eyed the three men before quickly crossing the parking lot.

“Claire is investigating Oliver Maddox’s death. He was murdered, Dave,” Mitch said quietly. “That puts her at risk.”

Kamanski glared. “That’s none of your concern. I’ll keep my eye on Claire. You stay the hell away or I’ll file charges.” As he said it, he realized it was a dumb thing to say. “Just stay away from her.”

Mitch knew Kamanski was right. Claire was none of his concern. He’d lied to her, and she’d found out in the worst way possible. If only he could take it back. If only he could have told her himself. But what good would that have done? The truth was still the truth, and Claire wasn’t going to forgive him.

Mitch couldn’t forgive himself. The pain of losing Claire, from
I love you
to the betrayal on her face . . . Mitch wouldn’t sleep well tonight, or any other night.

Steve said, “O’Brien is in Sacramento.”

When Kamanski didn’t say anything, Mitch knew the cop suspected the same. “Have you heard from him?” Mitch asked.

“No. If I did you know damn well I’d bring him in. I’m not harboring a fugitive, or helping him, and neither is Claire. You obviously don’t know her as well as you thought.”

Mitch shook his head. “You don’t know her as well as
you
thought.”

“Stay away from her.”

“You need to go now,” Steve said seriously.

Kamanski turned and stormed off. Mitch watched him drive away. Was his rage justified? Was it brotherly love . . . or something more? Mitch squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his temples.

Steve slapped him on the back. “Let’s get out of here. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

Claire pulled herself up from the floor and staggered like a drunken old woman to her bathroom. Her entire body felt bruised and sore, as if she’d had the toughest workout in her life, but without the adrenaline of a good hour at the gym.

The physical pain of Mitch’s betrayal stayed with her as she turned on the shower. She looked at her pitiful reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and red. When was the last time she’d cried over a man? She couldn’t remember when . . .

Yes, she did. Her father. When she believed he’d killed her mother. She’d cried then, too.

But none of her boyfriends until now were worth crying over. Claire might have been angry, upset, or relieved when a relationship didn’t work out, but she’d never been so shattered.

You fell in love with him. You fell in love with a lie.

The tears flowed again and Claire clenched her fists, slamming them on the vanity. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to feel anything. She wanted to forget she’d ever met Mitch Bianchi. She wanted to harden her heart and keep the pain out.

“Dammit, Claire! Get a grip. So he lied to you, manipulated you. He fucked you.”

She’d slept with him. God, she’d slept with him and remembered feeling over the moon about it. She’d thought they’d had a connection, that they’d taken an invisible step toward something real and permanent.

You told him you loved him.

Her mirror steamed in the heat of the shower and she could no longer see her reflection. Good. She didn’t want to look at her pitiful self. She’d prided herself for years on being able to detect liars and frauds, but she was only deluding herself.

Stripping off her clothes, she stepped under the hot, pulsing spray. A flash of her and Mitch in this shower last night hit her and she gave into the hurt one last time. Here, in the shower, alone. She let it out. She had to finish with it. She had a job to do. Prove that her father was innocent. That’s all that mattered now.

Forget everything else.

She had to. For herself, and her dad. Later there’d be plenty of time to deal with her hurt feelings about Mitch.

By the time she stepped out of the shower, she’d put on her armor. She remembered an old Bible verse from catechism.
Putting on the armor of God.
She didn’t know where God was in her life, but the armor was useful. She mentally brought up her shield, donned a helmet, held her sword.

Not to attack, but to protect herself.

On autopilot, she dried her hair. She stared at her body, saw a faint hickey Mitch had left on her left breast. Stared at it. Remembered how it felt when he kissed her. Remembered how he looked at her.

She closed her eyes and bent over the sink, nauseated. She was normally so good at controlling her emotions, blocking out the pain, why was it so hard to do it now?

Put on the armor, Claire. Dammit, he can only hurt you if you let him!

So not true.

She brushed her damp hair and went through the comfortable ritual of cleansing her face and rubbing in moisturizer. Circular motions. Over and over. Forget Mitch. Forget him. Focus on Oliver. Her dad. The truth. Mitch had nothing to do with any of that.

Claire left the bathroom and pulled on panties and an oversize Stanford T-shirt that fell nearly to her knees. She should go to Isleton . . . but it was already nine.

Neelix wound himself around her feet until she picked him up. He purred against her face and she breathed in his clean, soft fur. “Sorry, kitty. I know what’s important. You and the boys.”

Animals didn’t lie. When they were hungry, they jumped on you and whined. When they were happy, they wagged their tails or purred. When they were startled, they barked or hissed. They were innocent as children, and gave affection freely. No strings.

Yoda started barking and Claire turned toward the back door, when the front bell rang.

“Who now?”

She didn’t want to answer the door. The idea of pretending no one was home came and went. She walked to the front door and through the peephole spied an unfamiliar tall woman in her forties. A neighbor? Claire wasn’t sure.

She opened the door without taking off the chain. “Can I help you?”

“Claire.”

She frowned. She didn’t know this woman. Yoda had gotten Chewy and the stray dogs barking up a frenzy. She didn’t want her neighbors to complain. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Nelia Kincaid. I know your father.”

Nothing could have surprised her more. She didn’t know what to say.

“Can I come in? I promise I won’t stay long.”

Claire was reluctant to let the stranger in, but she was intrigued. She closed the door, undid the chain, and reopened the door. “We haven’t met.”

Nelia Kincaid shook her head. “But I feel like I know you. Your father has told me a lot.”

“I don’t know how. He doesn’t know me.”

“Yes, I do.”

She whirled around. Her father was standing right behind her. She felt trapped and scared and hated that feeling. She backed down the hall two steps, then stopped. “What are you doing?”

“We have to talk, Claire.”

“You can’t be here. The FBI could be watching the house. They could—”

“They’re not. Believe me, I’ve become very good at spotting surveillance.”

She remembered when he’d told her yesterday morning that the Feds were watching her. He’d been right, and she’d thought he was being paranoid.

Her dad looked tired. Worn down. Defeated. She glanced at the woman. Who was she?

“I heard about Oliver on the news tonight,” he said, his voice thick and troubled. “I had to see you. One last time.”

“I don’t understand. I’m getting close, Dad. I can feel it.”

“Close?”

She swallowed her emotion. She’d spent all her tears on Mitch, and she wished she hadn’t. Her father deserved more of her pain than a lying FBI agent.

“I am so s-sorry.” She stuttered and swallowed. “I should have believed you. Then. But I know you didn’t kill Mom.”

His face twisted in surprise and hope. “Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you know I didn’t?” He sounded skeptical.

“Yes. If I had only listened to Oliver Maddox when he came to me in January, he might still be alive, and you would be truly a free man. I should have known in my heart that you were innocent. And now . . . I’m sorry I needed something more than your word. I don’t know why, I don’t know how I let it come to this, but—”

He stepped toward her and she stumbled into his arms. “Daddy.”

He held her for the first time in fifteen years. Her father. She felt like a little girl again. She clung to him. “Please forgive me.”

He stroked her hair. “There’s nothing to forgive, Claire.”