Claire read the note three times. She’d ignored him, pretended he didn’t exist. It was much easier to think that he was guilty and she was doing the best she could.
Her father’s written plea was far more compelling than his restraint at trial. She felt emotion in this letter. Fifteen years earlier, he had seemed to exist on autopilot.
Oliver was dead. Where was Frank Lowe? How could she prove her father was innocent?
“Working late?”
She jumped and pivoted in her chair. Mitch sat up in her bed watching her.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.
“It’s nearly three. You need sleep, sweetheart.” He patted the spot next to him.
She refolded the letter and put it under her keyboard, turned off the monitor, and went back to her bedroom. She slid between the sheets and Mitch took her into his arms.
“You’re tense.”
“I’m an insomniac.”
He kissed her neck and pulled her to him so their bodies were spooned together. She snuggled against him, not wanting him to know anything was wrong. Showing Mitch the letter would risk his freedom and safety. Claire wouldn’t do that.
She couldn’t do that to the man she was falling in love with.
FIFTEEN
Guilt washed over Mitch as he rifled carefully through Claire’s desk.
She’d left before seven-took a quick shower and asked him to lock the door when he left. She said she had an appointment in Davis.
Mitch’s gut said there was something else going on. She’d been deeply upset and preoccupied when she’d come back to bed at three in the morning. What had happened?
He found nothing about her father. No day book, no messages, nothing. On her computer monitor was a bright green sticky note with CLAIRE written across it. He didn’t know what had gone with that note. It was not her handwriting.
He booted up her computer and first checked her e-mail. Nothing in the last forty-eight hours struck him as suspicious-most was work-related. He checked her browser history. It automatically erased every twenty-four hours, and Mitch didn’t have the technical skills to retrieve her old e-mails and web history from the hard drive. But what he saw gave him pause. Last night she spent time on the UC Davis website, including a page with Professor Don Collier’s class schedule. Collier was Maddox’s advisor. He’d been interviewed as part of the missing person investigation months ago.
Claire was surfing Collier’s pages. Had she learned that Maddox was dead? Had he come to see her? While looking into Tom O’Brien’s conviction, Maddox would likely have spoken with everyone who knew O’Brien, including his daughter.
Claire had also looked up the address of the Davis Police Department. Yesterday afternoon she had been at the Western Innocence Project website.
She’d done searches on not only Don Collier and Oliver Maddox, but Chase Taverton. Mitch wrote everything down, then realized he was late to meet Steve. He left, taking care to leave everything exactly as Claire had left it.
Claire had somehow been in contact with her father, Mitch was certain. He prayed he could keep her out of hot water, but feared she was already simmering.
Claire rushed to Davis, driving recklessly to make it before Collier’s eight a.m. class. She risked a ticket by parking illegally and ran to the campus building where Collier’s criminal law class was scheduled to begin in five minutes. If he was already inside, she was screwed. She knew what he looked like from his photo on the website, and suddenly realized that he was walking right in front of her. He certainly played the part of law professor: pressed slacks, button-down shirt, no tie, and a tweed-who wore tweed anymore? — jacket with leather patches on the sleeves.
“Professor!” she called.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, slowed his pace. “Are you in my class? We’re almost late.”
“Actually, I’m Claire O’Brien. I called you yesterday.”
He stopped walking. “You didn’t need to visit in person. The phone would have sufficed.”
She flashed her identification. “I’m a private investigator looking into Oliver Maddox’s disappearance. I understand that you were his advisor.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you’re here because you’re a PI, not because you’re a felon’s daughter?”
If he was trying to throw her off her game, it was a good effort, but she’d withstood far worse over the last fifteen years. “I work for Rogan-Caruso Protective Services, Professor. My job always comes first.”
He nodded. Rogan-Caruso had a certain reputation, Claire knew, and she used it without remorse. “So,” she continued, “I understand that you were the last person to see Oliver before he disappeared.”
“You understand wrong.” He gave a dramatic sigh, and Claire’s instincts went on high alert. Collier avoided looking her square in the eyes and she watched him closely.
“I never saw Oliver that day,” he said. “We had a meeting scheduled on Monday morning but he never showed. I assumed he’d forgotten. His girlfriend came to me on Wednesday to see if I’d heard from him because he wasn’t answering his phone and he’d missed classes. I told her I hadn’t talked to him since the Thursday before. She then said she was going to talk to the police. They spoke with me, and I told them what I just told you. You could have saved a trip if you had read the missing person report.”
“That wasn’t my only question,” Claire said. She didn’t like Collier. He was too slick, too highbrow, too unconcerned about one of his students missing. And his answers were too perfect.
She said, “How did you feel when Oliver told you he thought you were wrong in rejecting my father’s case for the Western Innocence Project?”
“I–I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I spoke with Randolph Sizemore yesterday and you’re the attorney who reviewed the case evidence in the Thomas O’Brien trial and determined that there was no sufficient cause to have the Project look into filing an appeal. I thought it was ironic that Oliver picked that case to investigate. Did he share his findings with you?”
“No. I never discussed it with him after our initial conversation where I explained my reasoning.”
