TWENTY-SIX
Mitch called Lexie on her cell phone. “Is Claire still at home?”
“This is the third time you’ve called since two in the morning. She’s still there.”
“You might have fallen asleep, or-”
“I’m going to forget you said that, Bianchi. She walked her dogs at seven this morning, stopped at Starbucks, brought back something in a Venti cup, and went inside. She hasn’t moved since.”
“Call me-”
“-when she leaves, follow her-but discreetly because she’s a PI and can spot a tail. Your concern is wearing thin. Let me do my job and you do yours.”
She hung up before Mitch could thank her.
Steve shook his head as he drove south on I-5 toward Isleton. “Lexie is going to explode if you call her one more time.”
“I promised Tom O’Brien that I would keep Claire safe.”
“And we’re doing everything we can, you know that.”
Mitch had called first Meg, then Steve, with the information from O’Brien’s phone call. He tried to sleep, but ended up watching Claire’s house until Lexie showed up. He managed a couple hours of shut eye before Steve picked him up.
Steve said, “Meg said she’d call with the terms of the surrender when she hears from the D.A. We can be back in thirty minutes.”
Steve turned off the interstate and drove along River Road, and Mitch called Meg. “Did you run Frank Lowe? The one who died in the fire at Tip’s Blarney the night after Taverton?” he asked her.
“Yes, Mitch. There’s nothing here. Petty thief, arrested for a home invasion robbery two weeks before the fire. I read the arson report. The final report said faulty wiring with a possibility it could have been intentional. Maybe Lowe preferred suicide to prison.”
“How much time was he facing?”
“I’m only guessing, based on his record, three to five.”
“Would you kill yourself instead of sitting in jail for three years?”
“You can’t think of it like that. Maybe he had more secrets. We don’t always understand human nature.”
“Self-preservation is usually at play in most decisions.”
“When did you get your psychiatric license?”
“Motivation is behind everything. Why would he kill himself?”
“Maybe it was just a coincidental accident. They’re known to happen.”
“Did you get his next of kin? Previous addresses?”
“I’ll send the report through to your BlackBerry, if that’ll satisfy you.”
“Thanks, doll.”
“Don’t call me that. Are you on your way to Isleton?”
“Yes. We’re going to the Rabbit Hole to flash Maddox’s picture around, see if anyone remembers seeing him. Call as soon as you find out if Menlo Park was able to get anything off the flash drive.”
“I will. By the way, I talked to Matt after you woke me last night.”
District Attorney Matt Elliott was Meg’s brother. Small world, but it came in handy when working joint jurisdictional cases. Six years ago, Meg had selected the Sacramento post out of three offered so that she could be close to her only family, which consisted of Matt and their younger half-sister, Margo. Mitch had always gotten along with his ex-brother-in-law, who was solid in every meaning of the word.
“And?”
“He said he’d call me as soon as he spoke to O’Brien’s attorney and found out what he wants. Matt isn’t inclined to give him anything. He’s a fugitive.”
“He helped us capture virtually every escapee.”
“He’s a killer.”
“Meg-”
“I know you think he was framed. But that’s neither here nor there. The facts as we know them are that he was convicted of a double homicide, sentenced to the death penalty, and escaped from prison. He’s ready to surrender, great, but we’re not going to negotiate with a fugitive. What kind of example does that set for other convicts? Besides, we can’t remand his death sentence, or reopen his case. That’s outside our jurisdiction.”
“But it
Meg sighed. “We’re talking about it. Matt wants to be here when you debrief Claire O’Brien this afternoon. He’s going to listen carefully to any evidence she might have. You’re not going to find any D.A. more fair-or more resolute-than Matt.”
“I know. I appreciate it, Meg.”
“One more thing. Stop calling Lexie. She’s had it with you questioning her competence.”
“I wasn’t. I’m just-”
“I know. You promised O’Brien you’d keep his daughter safe. Got it. Lexie will bring Ms. O’Brien in at two p.m. for debriefing. Leave her alone until then. Don’t think for a minute that I’m unaware of what’s going on.”
Mitch glanced at Steve. Had he said anything? He didn’t think so. .
“I know you better than you think,” Meg said. “Remember, we used to be friends.”
“I thought we still were.”
“We’re getting there. Be careful.”
Mitch and Steve parked in front of the Rabbit Hole just before nine that morning. The sign said closed, but the posted hours were 9 a.m. to midnight, Tuesday through Saturday; noon to ten on Sunday.
“Maddox called the Rabbit Hole at 9:45 p.m. on Sunday. Near closing,” Mitch said.
“Yet he left Davis about 5:30 that afternoon,” Steve said. “Where was he for those four hours?”
“Without anyone coming forward, we may never know. But we do know that he was alive at 9:45 p.m. since we recovered his cell phone, which was attached to a charger in his car. Maybe he called the Rabbit Hole because he was running late and knew they closed at ten, and wanted to make sure that whoever he had planned to meet was still there.”
Mitch checked his BlackBerry for the report Meg promised to send.
The e-mail was there. Mitch scanned it. “There’s nothing unusual. Born in Sacramento County at Mercy Hospital in 1967. Hmm, younger than I thought. That makes him about forty-one. He joined the military in 1985 when he turned eighteen, out in three years-communications. Honorable discharge but nothing else noted. Didn’t take the GI Bill. First arrest in 1989 for theft. Again in 1989. Pled, community service. . same, same, six months for theft in early 1990. Then he started working at Tip’s Blarney, no arrests. Clean for a couple of years, or just a better thief.”
“Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Get this-he became an emancipated minor at the age of sixteen. Why?”
“Maybe his parents were dead.”
“Not his mother. She lives in Elk Grove. That’s on the way back to Sacramento.”
“Fine, we’ll make the stop. But again, maybe Maddox took the coincidence and built it up in his head as something more than it was.”
“Then who killed him? This is the only thread he gave O’Brien other than Taverton was the target. The Rabbit Hole is owned by Lowe’s former boss,” Mitch continued, his voice lowering in his excitement that the final pieces of a complex puzzle were within reach. “That must be the connection Maddox made. Why he came down here in January.”
“You think this guy killed Maddox? That’s a stretch.”
“Unless he burned down his own bar fifteen years ago for the insurance money.”
“Getting away with arson-and murder-is rare, especially when there’s a profit motive.”
Mitch picked up his phone and dialed Meg’s direct line. “Agent Elliott,” she answered.
“Meg, it’s me. Can you also run a background check on Tip Barney? The owner of the bar where Frank Lowe died. I see here that Barney got a nice insurance settlement. He now owns the Rabbit Hole in Isleton.”
