Playing Dead

on the phone. “I found it. The receipt.”

“Receipt for the material?”

“Yes. I remembered that a police officer came by and picked up the boxes.” She paused.

“What was his name?”

“It’s not on the receipt. Just an illegible signature. It’s on Sacramento County Superior Court letterhead, though. Received three boxes, personal possessions D.D.A. Taverton.”

“When?”

“January 21. It was the third Monday, I remember, because I was running late to my bunco game.”

Claire thanked her and hung up. That was no coincidence.

Oliver Maddox had a copy of Chase Taverton’s personal calendar, and he died on January 20. Less than twenty-four hours later, Mrs. Krause gave the calendar-and all of Taverton’s material-to someone with the court. Or someone who said they were from the court. It was easy to fake letterhead and identification.

Claire rushed home, eager to go over the reports she’d received from Bill.

She was onto something.

TWENTY-TWO

Claire sat at her desk reading the police records on Frank Lowe.

Lowe had been a petty thief for most of his life. He had a sealed juvenile record, but Claire suspected it was more of the same. He broke into homes when the owners were away and stole small items-cash and jewelry. Never big-ticket stuff. But he was caught a half-dozen times, ended up with nine months jail time. After that he landed the part-time bartending job at Tip’s Blarney and moved into the apartment above the bar. That was in 1988, and he’d been clean for those five years. At least, he hadn’t been caught.

Until November 2, 1993. Two weeks before he died in the fire, he was arrested for a home invasion robbery. His statement was that he didn’t know anyone was home, that he’d seen the owner leave and then broke in through an open window. That was part of his M.O.-he never forced entry. He found the easy marks, and his statement was consistent with his other arrests.

Except that there was a minor child, a six-year-old girl, alone in the home.

Claire didn’t have time to dwell much on the idiocy of the mother leaving her young daughter alone-the mother claimed she was just going to the store for “a minute” and her daughter was sleeping. But the girl woke up and started screaming while Lowe was inside. Lowe fled and was apprehended by a neighbor who heard the girl.

He was arrested and booked. His arraignment was on November 4. Two weeks before he died. His trial was scheduled for six weeks later, right before Christmas, but he was dead by then.

Maybe this wasn’t the Frank Lowe whom Oliver had told her father about. Except he’d asked Bill to pull these police records. And Bill had done it, though it was absolutely against the rules. Why was Bill helping Oliver? Because he liked him? Or because he believed him?

Did Bill know-or suspect-something else?

She rubbed her eyes. She was getting too tired. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and though it was only six o’clock, she was exhausted. Isleton would have to wait until tomorrow. It was a dangerous road, and she didn’t want to drive it when she was so obviously worn out.

She started at the beginning of the last case and glanced at the arresting officer. G. Abrahamson. Abrahamson. . Greg. She didn’t know him, but she’d heard the name. She needed to talk to him, find out if he remembered anything about that case.

Fifteen years. That was a lot of time in a petty theft case. Abrahamson wouldn’t remember it. Or if he did, why would he share with her?

Because her dad had been on the job. And if that didn’t do it, she would pull in Dave and Bill. It was worth a shot.

As she was about to track down Abrahamson’s phone number, her bell rang.

Mitch.

She’d almost forgotten, but now that he was here she was happy. She needed a break. Just a couple minutes. She wanted to spill everything, but knew that would be dumb. Even if Mitch understood what she needed to do, she refused to put him on the line.

She looked through the peephole, then opened the door to Mitch. “Hi.” She smiled.

He walked in. “Hi yourself.”

Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. The stress of the day disappeared for one blissful moment.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes, returning the kiss with the same force and passion, tilting her head slightly to get the best angle.

Mitch kicked the door shut with his foot and leaned her up against the wall, his body hard against hers.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“Same here,” she said, breathless.

He leaned back, rubbed her shoulders. “You feel tense.”

“It was a busy day.” Busy was an understatement. She’d been moving nonstop for almost twelve hours. Her head was reeling with all the information she’d collected.

“Have you eaten?”

“Um, a little.” She’d had a scone with her Starbucks coffee at seven, then the muffin and milk at Bill’s.

“Let me take you out.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere right now. I’m beat.” She smiled slyly. “You wore me out last night.”

He laughed, kissed her temple. “That goes both ways, sweetness.” Mitch led her to the couch. “Lie down.”

“I’ll fall asleep, and I have a lot of work to do.”

“It can wait. Lie down.”

He sat at one end and put Claire’s head in his lap. He slowly rubbed her temples, putting an exquisite pressure on them. Her tension began to fade and she was lulled into a half sleep.

Mitch watched Claire as her eyes fluttered closed and she breathed easier. She relaxed so completely, her skin so fair, her hair so dark, he thought of Snow White lying in the glass coffin.

The thought made him shiver involuntarily.

She opened her rich blue eyes. “Something wrong?”

Beautiful and perceptive.

“You’re beautiful, Claire.”

“So are you,” she murmured, eyes closing again.

She trusted him. He saw it for the first time. In bed the night before, she’d trusted him then, too, but this was different. The massage, though fully clothed, was intimate. Comfortable. Easy. She fit here with him.

And he was going to betray her.

He hated himself. It didn’t matter that it was for the right reasons, he was worried about her safety, and worried about losing her. He had no right. He could hardly expect that when she learned he was an FBI agent she would forgive him, but he couldn’t help but hope she’d understand. Eventually.

Where was her private investigation leading? Oliver Maddox had been murdered because he knew something. Mitch wasn’t about to let anything happen to Claire. He ran his fingers through her hair, marveling at how right it felt to be here. He’d been directionless for so long. Most of his life, really. Trying to please his dead father while at the same time despising the man for what he’d been. Mitch was a good cop. One of his instructors had told him he was a natural, that his blood ran blue. But Mitch hadn’t wanted this life. He’d taken it because it was a noble profession, something his father would have been proud of. That he was good at it was beside the point. He hadn’t been truly satisfied or content with his life since he’d joined the military. He’d always felt like he was in limbo, without any clear sense of direction. He lived day by day, preferring fugitive apprehension because he could be out