Playing Dead (29 page)

For Jeffrey, it was about both.

Hamilton was in private practice then. A new attorney with a new law firm, given a handful of clients, including Rose Van Alden. It wasn’t difficult to create a fake will that indicated that upon her death, she intended to sell her property for fair market value and give the proceeds to the Delta Conservancy.

It had been Richie’s idea to create the Delta Conservancy. It was a great place to launder money. Their investor group, solely controlled by himself, Hamilton, and Richie, bought the Van Alden property. The money that went to the estate was then turned over to the Delta Conservancy—secretly controlled by the three of them. They were able to build a sizable war chest, which then catapulted Jeffrey onto the Board of Supervisors. After that, the state house, then Congress. And now his chance at the U.S. Senate.

Brilliant.

His rise had been temporarily endangered when Chase Taverton made a plea agreement with Frank Lowe. How were any of them to know someone had seen them that night?

They’d taken care of those two.

And then came Oliver Maddox.

Also dealt with.

Now Claire O’Brien.

Jeffrey was not going to lose this election, his money, his stature, everything he’d built. He was on the brink of greatness. It was his turn!

Flushed, he leaned forward and put his hands on the dresser.

“Jeffrey?”

He’d almost forgotten that Julie was in his hotel bed. He didn’t make it a habit of keeping his women in bed all night. But they’d dropped Ecstasy last night and fucked like rabbits.

“I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“But first things first.”

“I’m kind of sore this morning.”

“I really don’t care. You want the room all weekend? It’s yours. Spread your legs or I’ll do it for you.”

She complied, because she was a good slut. The drugs messed with his performance. He was hard as a rock but couldn’t get relief. He pummeled her over and over. She begged him through tears to stop, that it hurt. Finally, he withdrew.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I want to, but—”

He flipped her over and held her mouth shut with one hand. He took her from behind, sweat pouring off his body, wanting, needing, release. He knew better than to fuck around with drugs. This had happened before. But the high had been so good . . .

She bit his hand and he pulled her ear, growling, “Don’t. Or the only job you’ll get is on your back.”

Women should do what they’re told. He remembered Niki in the middle of the woods. The one who tried to screw him over. He remembered taking her against her will. The thrill, power flooding his senses.

When it was over, Julie was crying. Jeffrey rose. He was surprised to see blood on his cock and between her legs.

“Don’t say a word, Julie, or not only will you be out of a job, I’ll send the disk of you sucking my cock to your dad.”

He went into the bathroom and showered. He wanted to be on the road before the sun rose.

Time to take care of another bitch.

TWENTY-SIX

Mitch called Lexie on her cell phone. “Is Claire still at home?”

“This is the third time you’ve called since two in the morning. She’s still there.”

“You might have fallen asleep, or—”

“I’m going to forget you said that, Bianchi. She walked her dogs at seven this morning, stopped at Starbucks, brought back something in a Venti cup, and went inside. She hasn’t moved since.”

“Call me—”

“—when she leaves, follow her—but discreetly because she’s a PI and can spot a tail. Your concern is wearing thin. Let me do my job and you do yours.”

She hung up before Mitch could thank her.

Steve shook his head as he drove south on I-5 toward Isleton. “Lexie is going to explode if you call her one more time.”

“I promised Tom O’Brien that I would keep Claire safe.”

“And we’re doing everything we can, you know that.”

Mitch had called first Meg, then Steve, with the information from O’Brien’s phone call. He tried to sleep, but ended up watching Claire’s house until Lexie showed up. He managed a couple hours of shut eye before Steve picked him up.

Steve said, “Meg said she’d call with the terms of the surrender when she hears from the D.A. We can be back in thirty minutes.”

Steve turned off the interstate and drove along River Road, and Mitch called Meg. “Did you run Frank Lowe? The one who died in the fire at Tip’s Blarney the night after Taverton?” he asked her.

“Yes, Mitch. There’s nothing here. Petty thief, arrested for a home invasion robbery two weeks before the fire. I read the arson report. The final report said faulty wiring with a possibility it could have been intentional. Maybe Lowe preferred suicide to prison.”

“How much time was he facing?”

“I’m only guessing, based on his record, three to five.”

“Would you kill yourself instead of sitting in jail for three years?”

“You can’t think of it like that. Maybe he had more secrets. We don’t always understand human nature.”

“Self-preservation is usually at play in most decisions.”

“When did you get your psychiatric license?”

“Motivation is behind everything. Why would he kill himself?”

“Maybe it was just a coincidental accident. They’re known to happen.”

“Did you get his next of kin? Previous addresses?”

“I’ll send the report through to your BlackBerry, if that’ll satisfy you.”

“Thanks, doll.”

“Don’t call me that. Are you on your way to Isleton?”

“Yes. We’re going to the Rabbit Hole to flash Maddox’s picture around, see if anyone remembers seeing him. Call as soon as you find out if Menlo Park was able to get anything off the flash drive.”

“I will. By the way, I talked to Matt after you woke me last night.”

District Attorney Matt Elliott was Meg’s brother. Small world, but it came in handy when working joint jurisdictional cases. Six years ago, Meg had selected the Sacramento post out of three offered so that she could be close to her only family, which consisted of Matt and their younger half-sister, Margo. Mitch had always gotten along with his ex-brother-in-law, who was solid in every meaning of the word.

“And?”

“He said he’d call me as soon as he spoke to O’Brien’s attorney and found out what he wants. Matt isn’t inclined to give him anything. He’s a fugitive.”

“He helped us capture virtually every escapee.”

“He’s a killer.”

“Meg—”

“I know you think he was framed. But that’s neither here nor there. The facts as we know them are that he was convicted of a double homicide, sentenced to the death penalty, and escaped from prison. He’s ready to surrender, great, but we’re not going to negotiate with a fugitive. What kind of example does that set for other convicts? Besides, we can’t remand his death sentence, or reopen his case. That’s outside our jurisdiction.”

“But it
is
Matt’s.”

Meg sighed. “We’re talking about it. Matt wants to be here when you debrief Claire O’Brien this afternoon. He’s going to listen carefully to any evidence she might have. You’re not going to find any D.A. more fair—or more resolute—than Matt.”

“I know. I appreciate it, Meg.”

“One more thing. Stop calling Lexie. She’s had it with you questioning her competence.”

“I wasn’t. I’m just—”

“I know. You promised O’Brien you’d keep his daughter safe. Got it. Lexie will bring Ms. O’Brien in at two p.m. for debriefing. Leave her alone until then. Don’t think for a minute that I’m unaware of what’s going on.”

Mitch glanced at Steve. Had he said anything? He didn’t think so . . .

“I know you better than you think,” Meg said. “Remember, we used to be friends.”

“I thought we still were.”

“We’re getting there. Be careful.”

Mitch and Steve parked in front of the Rabbit Hole just before nine that morning. The sign said closed, but the posted hours were 9 a.m. to midnight, Tuesday through Saturday; noon to ten on Sunday.

“Maddox called the Rabbit Hole at 9:45 p.m. on Sunday. Near closing,” Mitch said.

“Yet he left Davis about 5:30 that afternoon,” Steve said. “Where was he for those four hours?”

“Without anyone coming forward, we may never know. But we do know that he was alive at 9:45 p.m. since we recovered his cell phone, which was attached to a charger in his car. Maybe he called the Rabbit Hole because he was running late and knew they closed at ten, and wanted to make sure that whoever he had planned to meet was still there.”

Mitch checked his BlackBerry for the report Meg promised to send.

The e-mail was there. Mitch scanned it. “There’s nothing unusual. Born in Sacramento County at Mercy Hospital in 1967. Hmm, younger than I thought. That makes him about forty-one. He joined the military in 1985 when he turned eighteen, out in three years—communications. Honorable discharge but nothing else noted. Didn’t take the GI Bill. First arrest in 1989 for theft. Again in 1989. Pled, community service . . . same, same, six months for theft in early 1990. Then he started working at Tip’s Blarney, no arrests. Clean for a couple of years, or just a better thief.”

“Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Get this—he became an emancipated minor at the age of sixteen. Why?”

“Maybe his parents were dead.”

“Not his mother. She lives in Elk Grove. That’s on the way back to Sacramento.”

“Fine, we’ll make the stop. But again, maybe Maddox took the coincidence and built it up in his head as something more than it was.”

“Then who killed him? This is the only thread he gave O’Brien other than Taverton was the target. The Rabbit Hole is owned by Lowe’s former boss,” Mitch continued, his voice lowering in his excitement that the final pieces of a complex puzzle were within reach. “That must be the connection Maddox made. Why he came down here in January.”

“You think this guy killed Maddox? That’s a stretch.”

“Unless he burned down his own bar fifteen years ago for the insurance money.”

“Getting away with arson—and murder—is rare, especially when there’s a profit motive.”

Mitch picked up his phone and dialed Meg’s direct line. “Agent Elliott,” she answered.

“Meg, it’s me. Can you also run a background check on Tip Barney? The owner of the bar where Frank Lowe died. I see here that Barney got a nice insurance settlement. He now owns the Rabbit Hole in Isleton.”

“Got it. I have to go.” She hung up.

The Rabbit Hole looked like a dive from the outside—a narrow corner entrance, no windows, and a plain wooden sign with a white rabbit painted on it nailed above the door.

As they watched from across the street, two old, slow-moving men—one large, one small—approached the door. They stood there after trying the door and finding it locked.

A minute or so later, a slender, fit man in his forties—judging by the graying hair—came out of an opening that Mitch hadn’t noticed. He glanced up and saw that there were windows above the bar. An upstairs apartment? Likely.

The man smiled at his patrons and opened the door. They entered together and the door closed.

“Ready?” Steve asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

When they entered the bar Mitch expected a stench of stale beer and burned popcorn. Instead, the ventilation was surprisingly good and the bar smelled fresh and clean. A jukebox stood prominently next to the bar, but no music played. Probably too much external stimulation for the morning drinkers.

A smattering of cocktail tables with two or three chairs each were grouped to one side; a small, worn wood dance floor was on the other. The bar itself was old but polished, with a full-length antique bar mirror mounted behind. The two old men sat on stools next to each other, their eyes following Mitch and Steve in the mirror.

The bartender was going about morning duties—checking stock, filling the cooler with ice from a machine Mitch couldn’t see but heard churning around the corner, on the other side of a neon sign that proclaimed
RESTROOMS
.

They’d decided on the direct approach. Steve flashed his badge at the bartender and said, “Special Agent Steve Donovan, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My partner, Special Agent Mitch Bianchi. We’re investigating the car that went into the river about two miles up the road. Did you hear about that on the news?”

The bartender walked over to them, leaned against the back bar. “The news? Sure. Heard about it from everyone who came in here the last couple of days. Your people were all over the river, hard to miss what happened.”

“And your name?”

“Tip Barney.”

“This your place?”

“Yep.”

Mitch didn’t reveal that he already had that information and held up a recent picture of Oliver Maddox. “Do you recognize this man?”

Barney took a good look. Shook his head. “Not familiar. He the one who went under?” Barney glared at them. “It wasn’t a drunk driving thing, was it? I don’t let anyone leave here with his keys if he’s drunk.”

“That’s right,” one of the two early morning regulars at the bar piped up. “That’s why I walk here.”

“You only live two blocks away. You need the exercise,” Barney responded.

“We have no evidence that it was a drunk driving accident,” Steve said. “We believe Mr. Maddox was on his way to meet someone here on Sunday, January 20.”

“January? That was awhile back,” Barney said.

Mitch had been watching the bartender closely while Steve asked the questions. When Steve mentioned Maddox’s name, Barney tensed. It was a minor physical reaction, unconscious for the most part. His face didn’t change, but his neck muscles tightened, and he straightened just a fraction.

“Mr. Maddox has been in the river since,” Mitch said.

“I have no objection if you want to flash the picture around, or leave it with me.”

“We know that Mr. Maddox was here that Sunday night near closing. He was likely meeting with someone.”

“I’m really sorry. I wish I could help, but I just don’t remember. Except for a gal who comes in to help me on the weekends, I’m the only one here. Most everyone are locals, but we get a good tourist crowd on the weekends and summertime. People coming in for a beer after a long day on the river.”