Playing Dead (32 page)

Steve looked over Mitch’s shoulder. “A judge? Why’s that important?”

“If you read the articles, you’d learn that Drake is one of the original partners in Waterstone Development,” said Meg. “Maddox was digging into something. The analysts are doing a complete background check on Drake and seeing if there is any crossover to Maddox’s other articles. Even if there is something here, that doesn’t mean it’s related to O’Brien. In fact, I don’t see how any of this relates to the O’Brien case. Maybe Maddox was killed for a completely different reason.”

Mitch didn’t yet see the connection either, but he sensed it was there. “Did Matt call?” he asked Meg as he handed back the file.

“Yes. He met with O’Brien’s attorney. She happens to be the ex-wife of the district attorney in San Diego, so there’s apparently some clout there. Matt didn’t get into all the details, but O’Brien will surrender here, at headquarters, at six p.m. today. There’s one major concession that Matt agreed to. We’re transporting O’Brien directly to Sutter Memorial Hospital.”

“Why?”

“In your report from Montana, you said that O’Brien had been shot, but was presumed alive because of his call to the Beaverhead County sheriff several hours later.”

Mitch nodded.

“He never got medical attention,” said Meg. “It’s probably a miracle he survived. The bullet is still in him, and according to his attorney there is a serious medical problem that has come up in the last few weeks. I’m not a doctor, I have no idea what’s wrong, but he’ll be given a complete exam and surgery if necessary. We’ll be responsible for a guard on his room at all times.”

“I’m glad this is nearly over,” Steve said, his hand on the door. “Now we just need to find Maddox’s killer.”

“One more thing,” Meg said. “Lexie called right before you walked in. You were right, Mitch. Claire is good. She slipped out sometime this morning. Took a taxi, which we tracked down to Elk Grove and the residence of a retired sheriff deputy, Bill Kamanski.”

“Her former guardian. Was she there?”

“No. Kamanski loaned her a vehicle. She said her Jeep wouldn’t start.”

“Shit! Where is she?”

“We have a BOLO on her,” said Meg, “but I’m not going to put her under arrest. We want her to cooperate with us, and it’s in her best interest to do so, but the truth is O’Brien is coming in. She wasn’t involved in Maddox’s homicide. For all we know, she convinced her father to surrender. Hard to arrest her for that.”

“She’s working the Maddox case on her own. She’s in danger.”

“So I should arrest her? Mitch, she’s a professional, a licensed private investigator. Researching a missing, now dead, person. She hasn’t interfered with or stymied your investigation.”

“She knows stuff we don’t know.”

“Why is that?”

Mitch ran a hand through his hair. “Dammit, Megan! We have to bring her in for her own safety.”

“When—or if—we track down Claire O’Brien, you talk to her and convince her to come in. But unless she has information about the Maddox homicide I don’t see how she can help.”

“Do you want us here for the surrender?” Steve asked.

“No. I’ve assigned Davidson and Kinsley to handle transport to the hospital and guard duty.”

“Then we’re going to follow up on some information related to Frank Lowe down in Elk Grove.”

“Go ahead. I’ll call when I get the analysis back.”

“If it’s today. I’m not holding my breath to get a report on Friday afternoon,” Mitch said.

Meg smiled. “You might be surprised.”

TWENTY-NINE

When Greg Abrahamson finally called back, he agreed to give her a few minutes if she could meet him at 12:30 outside the Crest Theater on the K Street Mall.

She was early and he was late. She sat on the bench across from the theater as he’d instructed.

A homeless man shuffled up the street past her, so filthy he smelled like he’d slept inside a Dumpster. He wore three layers of long-sleeved shirts, though it was ninety degrees out. He looked in the garbage and Claire was both revolted and filled with compassion.

“Loaves and Fishes is only a couple blocks that way.” She pointed north.

He sat down next to her. Why had she said anything?

“Look, I have no money for you.”

“Claire.”

He spoke under his breath. When Greg Abrahamson said he was undercover, he was
really
undercover.

“What are you working on that you have to smell like that?”

He responded, “What are you working on that is so important that I have to risk my cover?”

“I’m sorry—it’s about my father.”

“Which is the only reason I’m here.”

She got to the point. “You arrested a man named Frank Lowe fifteen years ago. In November of 1993. The charge was home invasion robbery—I don’t remember the specific penal code. But he was about twenty-five, a petty thief, broke into a house where a little girl was sleeping after her mother left.”

“I remember.”

“After fifteen years you remember?”

“I don’t remember the name, but I remember the arrest. Girl’s dead now.”

“What?” She frowned at the non sequitur.

“Mother was a piece of work. Left the girl every night. I didn’t buy for a minute that she was running to the store for five minutes. So I added that house to my regular drive-bys. Mother brings a guy home, he moves in, beats both the mom and the kid. I get two domestic calls in three months. Mom won’t press charges, third call is a homicide. Guy was beating up on the mom, the kid walks in and tries to stop him, gets shoved aside, and cracks her head open on the fireplace.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah, so I remember that call. Hate the fact I could do nothing to protect the kid. What can we do? The system is fucked.”

“If it is so fucked why are you sitting here dressed as a bum and smelling like ripe garbage?”

He stared at her. “You trying to help your dad?”

“He’s innocent.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Claire continued, “Taverton was assigned to the Lowe case. Arraigned, then there’s evidence that maybe there was a plea agreement. All hush-hush. Taverton’s records disappear, he’s killed, Lowe dies in a fire, and my dad is framed for murder.”

Abrahamson didn’t respond for a long minute. “I honestly don’t remember much about what happened after the D.A.’s office took the case. I would have testified at trial, but then Taverton called me and said he was working a plea. I probably said something to tick him off—I have no tolerance for prosecutors who let repeat offenders off. But because it was so unusual I do remember what he said to me before slamming down the phone.”

“Which was?”

“He said, ‘Sometimes you have to put a little fish on the hook to bait the bigger fish. And when I’m done with this case, you’ll be hearing about it for years to come.’ ”

“That’s it?” Claire was heartbroken. She’d hoped he knew something more. A name, perhaps, or at least something more to follow up on.

“That’s it. At least what I remember. It was a long time ago, and I’ve arrested easily a thousand perps since.” He stood, began shuffling away.

“Thanks.”

“Drake.”

“Excuse me?”

“Judge Drake. Might want to ask him. He was the judge at Lowe’s arraignment. If there was some big plea deal, he might know what it was about. He’s still on the bench.”

Claire sat there for a few more minutes, thinking. She wanted to get down to Isleton and talk to Lowe’s old boss, Tip Barney, but this was a hot lead, and the courthouse was only a few blocks away.

She pulled out her cell phone, looked up the courthouse number, and dialed. After several transfers, she was talking to Judge Drake’s secretary. She told her why she wanted to speak to the judge.

“He’s on the bench right now,” the secretary said. “I’ll give him your message when he returns.”

“Is there any way you can look up the file?”

“No,” she said haughtily. “Plea agreement details are not always public record.”

Claire left her cell phone number and hung up. It was after one in the afternoon; she didn’t want to wait. Chances were the judge wouldn’t be done until late that afternoon. Time to hit Isleton and maybe when she returned the judge would be free.

Frank Lowe’s mother lived in a run-down row house in an old Elk Grove neighborhood surrounded by four-unit apartments built in the seventies.

Mitch knocked on the locked screen, then glanced at Steve and rolled his eyes. There was no doubt she was home. The sound of game shows rang loud and clear through the open windows. A wall air-conditioning unit rumbled loudly in the background. No wonder her television was on full volume—Mitch couldn’t hear himself think. He rang the bell, holding the buzzer down for three full seconds.

The woman may not have heard the bell, but the small dogs did. Three of them began barking in earnest.

“Down, boys! Down. Stop it!” A moment later she opened the door. “Yeah?”

“Ms. Betty Lowe?”

“Yeah? You selling something I don’t want?” Ms. Lowe was a short, skinny woman. Dyed red hair with gray roots. Leathery skin from long-term sun exposure.

Mitch and Steve flashed their badges. “FBI Special Agents Bianchi and Donovan, ma’am. We have a couple questions about your son if you don’t mind.”

“Who? Frank? He’s dead. Can’t get into any trouble from the grave.”

“Yes, ma’am, but we’re looking into his death.”

“The fire?”

“Yes.”

She opened her screen and they stepped across the threshold. Three fluffy dogs barked and turned in circles at Mitch’s feet. They ignored Steve.

“You must have a dog at home,” Ms. Lowe said. “That’s why they’re acting up.” She herded the dogs down the hall and shut the door behind them. They barked a minute, then calmed down.

Mitch didn’t have a dog, but he had been around them a lot lately. He put Claire out of his mind—and the question of where she might be right now—and focused on finding out if Betty Lowe knew anything about her son’s activities prior to his death.

Steve asked, “Just for the record, are you Frank’s only living relative?”

“I have two sisters, both live out of state. Never see them. My parents are dead. They didn’t much care for me after I got pregnant with Frank and didn’t want to get married.”

“Frank’s father isn’t in the picture?”

“He was, on and off. More off, really, until Frank was grown. I think if Tip was around more, Frank wouldn’t have been so wild growing up. Though the military was good for him, very good.”

“Frank’s father is Tip Barney?”

Mitch couldn’t restrain his surprise, and Ms. Lowe turned to him. “Is there a problem? Tip and I never married, and he never paid child support, but we settled that after Frank died. Tip felt awful about that, sent me half the insurance money from the fire and moved to Los Angeles.”

“Did Frank know that Tip was his father?”

“Know? Of course he knew. Tip came ’round every so often, gave Frank that job in the bar when he got out of prison. Why is this important?”

“We’re just trying to put the pieces together of what happened during the two weeks prior to the fire,” Steve said.

“Frank always had sticky fingers. It’s why I kicked him out of the house when he was a teenager. He started stealing from friends, and I was having none of that. He went to live with his great-aunt after living on the streets didn’t sit well with him. Aunt Rose and Frank seemed to get along all right, though I think Frank was the only person she didn’t hate. Frank was a nice kid. Just couldn’t keep his hands off other people’s stuff.”

“Is that why Frank got emancipated?” Steve asked.

Regret crossed Ms. Lowe’s face. “Aunt Rose died and Frank thought she was leaving her house to him—he liked it out at her ranch. He’d been living there on and off about a year, in the apartment above the garage. Had a part-time job. Helped her when she needed it. Then she ended up having her house sold to some developer and giving the money to a conservancy group. Not that I’m knocking the need to help the environment, mind you, but it wasn’t like her. She was stingy. I expected her to want to be buried with her money. Giving it to a liberal charity? Naw.”

Her voice softened. “I was a bit of a free spirit back then. I let Frank do what he wanted. In hindsight, that wasn’t such a good idea. I didn’t discipline him enough, but see, my daddy always used a paddle on my butt, and I didn’t want Frank growing up being hit to stay in line. And he was a good kid, but for those sticky fingers. We’d just started getting things back on track when he died.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Steve said.

She sighed. “I miss them.”

“Them?”

“Frank and Tip. Tip moved to L.A. after the fire—I think he blamed himself in some ways—and he died of cancer two years ago.”

Mitch straightened, exchanged glances with Steve. “Do you know what Frank was offered as a plea agreement before he died?”

She was confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know he was arrested for home invasion robbery two weeks before the fire.”

“Of course, but he told me they gave him probation. Community service.”

So she didn’t know anything. “Do you have any of Frank’s personal effects?”

She shook her head. “No. Frank hadn’t lived with me since he was fifteen, I didn’t see any reason to keep anything, and he took what he wanted.”

“Do you have a picture of Tip Barney?”

“Why?”

“For our report,” Steve said.

She rose, crossed to a bookshelf, and took out a photo album. She sat back down, flipped through it. Near the back she pulled out a picture. “This was Frank and Tip at the bar about a year before the fire.”

She handed the picture to Mitch.

He stared. Showed it to Steve. Everything clicked into place. “May we borrow this?”

“Sure. I probably have the negatives somewhere.”

“We’ll return it,” Mitch promised.

They thanked Ms. Lowe for her time, then walked out.

“It all makes sense now,” Steve said.

“Frank survived the fire—or faked his own death—because he feared for his life,” Mitch said, holding up the picture. “Think he and his father went to L.A. together?”