Playing Dead (37 page)

“You heard.”

“Oh boy, I heard.”

Mitch didn’t even try to explain. “Can you fire me tomorrow? I’m really beat tonight.”

“I’ll take it under advisement. It’s hard to fire someone whose instincts are dead-on ninety-nine percent of the time. Still, even you surprised me this time. Unless . . .”

“Just say it.” He really was tired. Physically and emotionally. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

“You really did fall for her.”

Mitch didn’t answer. What could he say? He wasn’t going to talk to his ex-wife about the woman he’d fallen in love with.

“Where’s O’Brien?”

“Getting prepped for surgery. As soon as the doctor clears Claire, I’m bringing her up to see him.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Pretty much everything you told me. He also filled us in on what the fugitives were doing after the earthquake, how they evaded authorities. He could teach a master’s class on stupid law enforcement stunts, particularly in the twenty-four hours after the disaster.”

“What do you think?”

“About?”

“His innocence.”

“I don’t think anything right now. Matt’s trying to figure out what Taverton had been working on. He’s on his way to meet Steve at headquarters to interview Frank Lowe. You think he drugged Claire?”

“He denied it. I honestly don’t know. He sounded sincere, and he’s not hiding the fact that he knows exactly why Taverton was killed. He just refuses to talk about it until he has something from us in writing.”

“Why don’t you head to headquarters and sit in?”

Mitch glanced at Claire’s closed door. “What about a guard on Claire? Someone tried to kill her tonight.”

“I’ll call someone in.”

“Until then—Steve and Matt are perfectly capable of handling Lowe.”

The doctor opened the door. “I’m running tests to confirm, but I think I know what Ms. O’Brien was drugged with. Rohypnol.”

Steve realized he had a tail as soon as he exited the Capital City Freeway at Auburn. He was less than two miles from headquarters.

“What’s wrong?” Lowe asked from the back.

“Sit tight.”

Steve floored the gas as he merged onto the bypass exit ramp, but it was too late. The tail swerved into the breakdown lane and drew parallel with them.

“Down!” Steve yelled at the same time as he saw the gun in the driver’s hand.

The killer didn’t hesitate, fired three shots into the back of Steve’s car. Heart racing, Steve slammed on the brakes while turning the wheel. The killer fired at him through the windshield.

Steve ducked before the blast, but a bullet hit him in the upper shoulder. He overcompensated and went into a tailspin, stalling the car on the opposite side of the road.

“Frank!”

There was no answer from the backseat. Steve spared a glance in the rearview mirror. There was a lot of blood against the rear passenger side window.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

The killer did a 180 at the T-intersection and passed Steve as he escaped back onto the freeway.

Steve leapt from the car, gun out, blood pouring from his wound. Traffic had stopped on the major thorough-fare, and a scream pierced the air. From this angle, he couldn’t see which of three possible directions the killer went.

The entire hit took seventy seconds.

Steve could smell gas leaking from his car. He crawled over to the door, opened it. Frank Lowe fell out, blood pouring from his chest and a head wound. Steve unlocked the handcuffs, pulled him away from the car. He stripped off Frank’s shirt, assessed the damage. Two holes, one next to the other, in Frank’s upper chest. The bullet to his head had taken off one ear and a chunk of his scalp.

“Come on, Frank!”

Frank was breathing too rapidly, his pulse racing. Steve applied pressure to the wounds, but blood seeped through his fingers. Frank was trying to talk, but couldn’t. Then his body convulsed and he was gone.

Steve stared at the dead witness.
No, no, no!

A car skidded behind his. Steve held his gun on the driver.

It was Matt Elliott, the county’s district attorney.

“Donovan!” Elliott ran to the bloody scene and felt for Frank’s pulse. His lips tightened, and he turned to Steve. “You need to lie down.”

“He came out of nowhere.”

“You’ve been shot.”

“He’s dead.”

“Did you see the shooter?”

Steve ran through those seconds. “He wore a mask. Ski mask in the middle of May. Late-model Ford Tempo. Black. 5THH. I didn’t catch the numbers. There was an 8, but I don’t know in which spot.”

“That’s good. We’ll find the car. Lie down.”

Matt forced Steve to the pavement and applied pressure on his shoulder wound. Steve was fading. The last thing he heard was the D.A. calling for an ambulance and backup.

The last thing he thought was
I fucked up big time. I got a witness killed.

THIRTY-FOUR

Tom looked at Nelia. “Is she coming?”

“She said she would be here.”

He needed to see Claire. He might die tonight, and he wanted to see his little girl one more time.

“Nelia?”

“I’m right here.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too, Tom. You’re going to be fine.”

“I don’t know.”

He’d been in more pain than he’d told her. He hadn’t wanted her to worry, but this morning he couldn’t walk. His right leg was nearly paralyzed. He could
feel
everything, but he couldn’t move it. She’d been indignant that the FBI had interviewed him while he was being poked and prodded and subjected to X-rays and a multitude of tests. But Tom didn’t mind. They were listening to him. Really
listening,
and that meant everything. Someone cared about the truth.

The doctor said the bullet had been lodged in muscle near the spine. It had slowly moved over the past few months until it impinged on the nerves to his right leg. If he didn’t have surgery immediately, he’d be partially paralyzed, and in the coming weeks he’d be dead since, as the bullet shifted, it had moved precariously close to his liver.

“Tom.”

He turned to Nelia. She stared down at him with love and compassion and worry.

“They believed you,” she said.

A weight lifted off his chest. “You think so?” he whispered.

She nodded, ran a hand over his forehead as if he were a child. “They know you’re innocent. Be strong in there. I need you.”

He clasped her hand. “I love you. If—if it doesn’t work, tell Claire I’ve never blamed her for any of this, that I love her.”

Nelia’s voice cracked. “I will.”

“Mr. O’Brien?” The doctor came in. “We’re ready.”

“Five more minutes?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’ll be here when you’re done,” Nelia said.

The nurse injected something into his IV, shifted the bed he was on, and started rolling it out of the room, down the hall . . .

“Wait!”

That sounded like Agent Elliott, whom he’d spoken to for more than an hour earlier.

The gurney stopped. A moment later, Tom heard, “Daddy.”

Claire.

Tom was fading as the drugs began to do their work.

“Daddy, oh God.”

“Claire. I’m. Okay.” He reached up, though the lights in the hall were beginning to fade.

Someone grabbed his hand. He felt moisture. Tears.

“Claire Beth, don’t cry.”

“I love you, Daddy. I’m sorry. I love you.”

He tried to speak but couldn’t. The light faded.

Claire watched the medical staff wheel her father down the hall and into surgery. “What happened? Why is this an emergency? Is he going to be okay?”

Nelia spoke. “The bullet shifted. He woke up and couldn’t walk this morning. It was lodged in the muscle near the spinal cord and has disrupted the nerves. I don’t know the medical jargon, but the more it shifts the more dangerous it becomes. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll be partially paralyzed, even after the bullet is removed.” Nelia looked both unsure of the situation and worried.

“You care about him?” Claire asked, tears in her eyes.

“I love him.”

Claire reached out and hugged Nelia. The woman wrapped her arms tight around her. “He’s going to be okay,” Claire said, as much for herself as for Nelia.

“Hello?” From behind Claire, Agent Elliott, Claire’s babysitter, spoke into her cell phone. Claire pulled apart from Nelia, both of them staring at the closed surgery doors.

Nelia asked Claire, “What happened to you?” She gestured to the hospital gowns Claire wore—one backward so she didn’t expose her ass for all to see.

“Long story. But I’m okay. Just tired.” The doctor had given her a shot to help counteract the effects of Rohypnol, even though the tests hadn’t come back yet. All Claire wanted to do was go home and sleep the rest of the night in her own bed, but she now had this FBI agent babysitting her.

“Where?” Agent Elliott sounded angry. Claire turned and watched her. Meg’s jaw was tight and she stared at the wall. “Mercy? Who’s with him? . . . Okay. Good. And Lowe?” She closed her eyes and rested her fist against the wall. “Right. I’ll call Grant. I want Lowe’s business and residence gone over with a fine-tooth comb.” Agent Elliott straightened, all business again. “Talk to everyone who even stepped through that bar. And—really? Get him on a plane ASAP. Protective custody or whatever the U.S. Attorney’s office thinks we can do. Arrest him if we can. He might be the only one who knows what’s going on.”

“What happened?” Claire asked when Meg Elliott shut her phone.

Expression hard, she said, “Frank Lowe was killed twenty minutes ago. One of my agents was shot and is in critical condition at Mercy.”

Claire involuntarily sucked in her breath. “Mitch?” she whispered.

“Steve Donovan. He’s going into surgery. But the professor you scared away yesterday? We just intercepted him outside La Guardia Airport in New York. We’re transporting him back. He’ll be here in the morning. And that information stays here, got it? I don’t want it leaking out that we have a witness in custody.”

“Witness to what?”

Meg said, “Mitch thinks that Collier is the last person—now that Lowe’s dead—who knows exactly what happened fifteen years ago. I want him alive.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Claire hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until urgent voices in the hall woke her. She opened her heavy eyes when the door
whooshed
open.

A federal agent stepped in. She didn’t recognize him, but he had his badge and ID clipped to his belt.

“Ms. O’Brien, I’m Special Agent Cliff Warren. I’ll be stationed outside your door clearing guests until you’re discharged.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Supervisory Special Agent Elliott thinks otherwise,” he said.

Elliott. Right. The blonde. Claire’s memory was fuzzy. “What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch. “Oh two hundred hours.”

It was after midnight. She didn’t want to be here all night!

She swung her legs over the bed. “I need my clothes.”

“You’re not supposed to leave until the doctor okays it, then I’ll take you home.”

“Then call the doctor. I want to leave now.” She felt like shit, her head pounded, but she was thinking clearly. She couldn’t remember exactly what had happened, though thoughts and images popped in and out of her mind. The river. Mitch. Nelia.

Daddy.

Agent Warren was almost out the door. “Wait,” she said. “My dad.”

“He’s in surgery.”

“How long has it been?”

Warren checked his notepad. “Meg said he went in at about twenty hundred hours last night.”

“Six hours ago? Is that normal? Is something wrong?”

“I’ll call for the nurse. I can’t leave your door. Sit tight, I’ll get someone to answer your questions.”

When he left, Claire rose and paced the room. Her body felt beat up and bruised. The more she moved, the better she felt. She did some stretches, felt dizzy, and sat down on the edge of her bed until it passed.

Steve Donovan had been shot. Claire hadn’t liked him, mostly because he’d hounded her about her father, but she didn’t want him dead. And Frank Lowe—dammit. Wouldn’t the fact that someone had killed Frank Lowe at least give credence to her father’s claim of innocence?

Mitch believes him.

Claire wished that Mitch hadn’t told her about his own father, or why he’d lied to her. She particularly didn’t want to hear about how Mitch thought her father was innocent. How would she know if he lied to her again?

Agent Meg Elliott came into her room. “Cliff told me you were up. How are you feeling?”

“I want to go home.”

“I know. As soon as the doctor clears you, Cliff will take you home and stay with you until we figure out what’s going on.”

The agent was distracted and kept looking at her cell phone and typing messages to someone.

Claire asked, “How’s my father?”

Meg looked up with sympathy. “He’s still in surgery. So far, he’s holding his own.”

“I found out earlier that the coroner’s reports are missing. From fifteen years ago. I have a friend at the morgue who tracked down the pathologist who worked on the bodies. He left right after sentencing, and he has to have been the one to mess with the records. I know who he is, and—”

Meg held up a finger, typed another message, then said, “You’re going to have to leave this investigation to us, Ms. O’Brien.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t care as much as I do about what happens to my father! With Frank Lowe dead, this might be the only way to prove someone else killed my mother. I have to follow up!”

“Someone tried to kill you tonight. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

“Someone tried to kill Steve Donovan tonight. Do you think he’d just give up if he were physically able to investigate?”

“He’s a trained federal agent.”

“I’m a trained private investigator.”

“Who was interfering with a federal investigation.”

“It’s not a federal investigation, at least it wasn’t
officially
a federal investigation. I have to do something, Agent Elliott. I have to find those reports—or can’t you send someone?”

“I have no one to spare right now. We’ll get to it, Claire, but it’s not our first priority. Finding who shot Steve is my number one concern.”