Playing Dead (11 page)

“Go ahead,” Phil said. “I’ll take care of this. Grab the bread when the timer buzzes.” He took the bowl of potato salad from her hand and left the kitchen.

“Hi,” she answered, feeling giddy when she heard his voice.

“Change of plans?”

“Yeah. I need to make an appearance at this thing. I hope it’s okay that I meet you at the Fox & Goose.”

“I’ll be miserable the entire hour you’re late, but I’ll manage as long as you don’t cancel on me altogether.”

“No chance. I missed you this morning.”

“Ditto. Coffee doesn’t taste the same without you.”

She laughed. “I highly doubt that. So nine is okay?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She hung up, a rush of anticipation running through her veins. She considered leaving now and catching up with Mitch before he left his house, but decided against it. She’d been practically ignoring Dave and his friends since she’d been seeing Mitch, and Dave would be ticked if she bailed earlier than she planned. Plus she had to make it up to him for jumping down his throat earlier.

The timer went off and she took out the garlic bread. She decided one beer was plenty, and started a pot of coffee. That’s what it was: She was worn down from today and the stress of the confrontation with her father. A cup of coffee or three and she’d be back to her old self and ready for a night of dancing.

Dave walked into the room. “I’m sorry,” Claire said to him, glad they were alone for a minute.

“It’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

Dave walked up to her, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Yes. But I could tell something was bothering you from the minute you drove up. Want to talk about it?”

She glanced at the doorway. Everyone was in the great room, the television loud enough to drown out their conversation.

“Do you remember a few months ago, before the earthquake”—she preferred to say “earthquake” rather than “when my father escaped from Quentin”—“when we had dinner with your dad, and I told him about my conversation with the law student Oliver Maddox?”

Dave tensed and straightened. He went from friend to cop in a split second. “Yes. Dad had a visit from Maddox as well.”

“Right. And I was too angry and upset to listen to him.”

“I remember that, too.”

“But I need to know what they talked about.”

“Why now?”

“I—” She couldn’t tell him about her father. Not yet. “I found his card in my desk this morning and it’s been on my mind. He told me he was close to finding proof that my father is innocent. I didn’t believe anything he said then, especially when I found out he lied about who he worked for. But now—”

“Now what?”

She said, “I just need to know what he meant; if there’s anything he found out that might, I don’t know, confirm my father’s guilt or give me something new to look at, maybe—”

“Are you buying into Maddox’s theory?”

“I don’t even know what his theory is, not completely, which is why I wanted to talk to Bill.”

Dave stared at her flatly. “A bulletin came into the station today from the sheriff’s department. Oliver Maddox is dead. His body was found this morning in the Sacramento River near Isleton.”

Claire couldn’t have heard that right. “Dead?” she whispered.

“His identity hasn’t been confirmed, but it was his car and a body in the driver’s seat, badly decomposed, but it’s likely Oliver Maddox.” Dave watched her closely, too closely, like a cop viewing a suspect. “So I ask you again, Claire, why are you interested in Oliver Maddox now?”

“I haven’t been able to sleep,” she said, not completely lying. She’d had problems sleeping ever since her mother was killed. “It’s been worse since the earthquake.” Again, the truth. “And I’ve been thinking about what Maddox said, and wondering if I should have listened to him. If maybe he knew something that . . . that proved my father is innocent. What if it’s the truth? What if I ignored Maddox because of my own guilt?”

“Guilt? For what?”

She laughed without humor. “What? You know damn well that I called my dad that day and told him about the man in bed with my mother. I set in motion the entire chain of events. For fifteen years I’ve believed that I ignited my father’s fuse. He may have pulled the trigger, but I baited him. What if I’m innocent?”

“Claire, you
are
innocent. What your father did had nothing to do with you—”

She interrupted. “It had everything to do with me. And my dad. And my mother. But if my dad has been telling the truth all along, no matter how crazy it sounds, it means that someone else
did
kill my mom and that prosecutor. And Oliver Maddox was onto it. He must have known something, otherwise why would he come to me—and your dad—” She paused. “How did he die?”

“I don’t know,” Dave said. “The autopsy is tomorrow and the investigation is ongoing. I heard the FBI is involved, but this isn’t a Sac PD case. I don’t have any details.”

She looked him in the eye, asking without words.

He nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He took both of her hands in his and squeezed, his face stern. “Don’t get your hopes up, Claire. This probably doesn’t mean anything. Your father was convicted. The evidence was solid.”

“It was largely circumstantial.”

“He had a half-dozen appeals, every one of them a failure. No one thinks he’s innocent. And”—Dave implored her with his expression—“I don’t want you throwing away your life helping him.”

Tom sat in the park across the street and watched Claire’s house.

She wasn’t home, but he had no idea what her schedule was. In the few days he’d been back in Sacramento, he’d only learned that she had no regular habits except hitting Starbucks every morning.

She could be home any minute, or not for hours.

He should have listened to Nelia and not come here. He’d seen Special Agent Bianchi twice; he was obviously watching Claire at least periodically. But Bianchi didn’t appear to be anywhere nearby now, and Tom wore a fairly decent disguise. He’d been using a rinse to hide the silver, making his hair browner than its natural black. He also took Nelia’s suggestion and didn’t crop it short as he’d worn it both before and after going to prison. She’d trimmed it into what she called a conservative businessman’s cut. The day’s growth of beard—though coming in threaded with silver—helped hide the shape of his face. And Nelia had bought him a pair of gold rimmed glasses to wear. He had a newspaper under his arm, and wore sneakers, jeans, and a black polo shirt. At first glance, no one would suspect that he was Tom O’Brien, the last fugitive from San Quentin. But if Claire or a cop saw him, the disguise wouldn’t buy him much time.

He sat on the bench and watched. Nelia would have woken up by now and be worried about him. Or be angry. Probably both. He didn’t want to upset her, but he’d already decided that if she were caught helping him, he would tell the authorities that he’d threatened her. Forced her to help. Confuse them enough that maybe they wouldn’t push it. It also might help that Nelia was on decent terms with her ex, a district attorney in San Diego.

The park closed at sunset, and Tom didn’t want to chance hanging out there long after. Patrols increased in the evenings, primarily as a deterrent to juvenile crimes like vandalism and graffiti and petty theft.

Being back in Sacramento had shoved the past right under his nose. He’d brought Claire to this very park when she was not even three, an inquisitive toddler who enjoyed feeding the ducks. He remembered when one of the mallards had nipped her finger. Instead of crying or chasing the bird, she’d lectured him, pointing that hurt finger at the duck.

“That was not nice. I fed you already, let the other ducks have a turn.”

While in prison, Tom tried to remember the good times, but inevitably he’d see Claire’s young, stricken face when she cast her eyes on Lydia’s dead body.

Traffic in the area diminished as the commute ended. Claire still hadn’t returned home.

Tom didn’t need a lot of time. Go in, leave the letter, get out. Hell, he could leave the letter in her mailbox. It would be safer that way.

But the truth was he wanted to see how she was doing, and a person’s house said a lot about how they lived. Five minutes. Go in, put the letter on her refrigerator, glance around, leave. The dogs might bark, but he wouldn’t be there long enough for the neighbors to call the police.

Just as he was about to get up from the bench, Claire’s Jeep pulled into the driveway. She jumped out, ran into the house. That had been close. He wasn’t ready for another confrontation.

He’d put the letter in her mailbox after she went to bed. Hope she checked it early. He could call her, tell her it was there.

Less than ten minutes later, Claire emerged from the house once again. She’d changed from her slacks and blazer to black jeans and a lacy tank top. As she walked to her car in spike heels, she pulled a purple T-shirt over her head. She drove away, speeding through a yellow light and turning onto the on-ramp of the freeway a block over.

Now. What are you waiting for?

He crossed the street, trying not to walk too fast or too slow. His heart pounded. She was his daughter, but she also believed he was a killer. He had to accept the fact that she might turn him in or set him up.

He expected that she’d have an alarm, and was surprised when he didn’t encounter one. Maybe she didn’t have one because of her animals. Perhaps he could stay a little longer.

The dogs in the back barked. There were three or four. A golden retriever gazed through the glass pane on the back door, tongue hanging out, looking as if he’d much rather lick an intruder than attack him. Claire always had a soft spot for animals. Lydia had been severely allergic to dogs and they’d never had one.

An orange and white cat wound around Tom’s legs and he bent to scratch the animal behind the ears, tears burning behind dry eyes.

Bill Kamanski, a detective and the father of a good rookie cop Tom had trained, had become Claire’s guardian. Tom didn’t want to go to prison and leave his daughter with anyone. He’d wanted to be her father, dammit! He’d raised her, he loved her. He hadn’t killed anyone . . .

After sentencing, but before Tom was transported to Folsom Prison, Bill met with him in lockup. Reality had finally hit Tom. He was going to be in prison for the rest of his life—until he was executed. He had appeals, but for the first time since he was arrested, he realized he might never be free again.

“Tom.” Bill sat across from him, his face hard but his eyes compassionate.

“What do you want?” he’d asked. This man already had his daughter. Tom was no longer a father to Claire; the court had given—with Tom’s reluctant approval—custody of his only child to a virtual stranger.

Not completely true. Claire had known Dave Kamanski for three years. Tom liked Dave, but he was too young to accept the responsibility. His father Bill was a widower, owned a home, and was a respected member of law enforcement.

There really had been no other choice. Lydia had never gotten along with her sister Joyce, who lived three thousand miles away in Boston. How could Tom send Claire cross-country to an aunt she’d seen maybe three times in her life?

“I wanted you to know that I’ll take good care of Claire,” Bill said. “I’ll do everything I can to protect her from the media, to give her as normal a life as possible.”

Tom said nothing. He wanted to hit someone, rage against the injustice of being sent to death row an innocent man. But he couldn’t. No one had believed him during the trial, no one would believe him now.

He had wanted desperately to testify on his behalf, but he knew that would have been foolish. The D.A. wanted him on the stand, and anything he said they’d twist and turn to set his temper off. That’s what they wanted to do, his attorney insisted. And Tom became convinced his attorney was right. Now, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would have made a difference. He’d never know.

“This is hard for you,” said Bill. “No matter what happened, I know you love your daughter.”

Tom’s voice cracked. “Don’t—don’t talk about me to her. She already believes I’m guilty. Don’t rub it in.”

“I won’t say anything negative about you to Claire, Tom. I promise.”

He nodded, unable to speak.

“Claire doesn’t want to see you.”

Tom had feared that. The court had allowed a thirty-minute visitation with his daughter before his transfer. But his daughter didn’t want to come.

“That may change, and I’ll bring her when she wants to—”

“No. I don’t want her to step foot in a prison.”

“Be that as it may, if she wants to see you, I’ll bring her. But if she doesn’t—I’ll write to you and let you know how she’s doing.”

Tom nodded.

Bill stood and started for the door. “Watch your back, Tom.”

“I didn’t kill them,” he whispered.

Bill left.

True to his word, Bill sent him letters twice a year, sometimes with photos of Claire. It was a kind of bittersweet hell receiving them. He craved the information, then he’d fall into a dismal depression. It should have been him, not Bill, who was there for Claire’s graduation, when her best friend was killed by a drunk driver in college, when she got her PI license, or when she bought her house.

Swallowing the bitterness, Tom looked around Claire’s cozy home. He could see his daughter here, while at the same time realizing how much he didn’t know about her, Bill’s letters notwithstanding. The house was clean but cluttered, much like her old bedroom. Hardwood floors and simple furniture, with brightly colored pictures of Ireland decorating the walls. Claire had told him she wanted to go to Ireland, where his mother had been born. Before she died when Claire was twelve, Deirdre O’Brien had doted on her only granddaughter, and told her stories of Eire, real and made up.

Tom wondered if Claire had gone. He hoped so, but Bill had never said anything.

In her bedroom, classic movie posters dominated the walls, from
Casablanca
to
The Wizard of Oz
to
Star Wars.
Claire had always loved the movies.