“Then we’re going to follow up on some information related to Frank Lowe down in Elk Grove.”
“Go ahead. I’ll call when I get the analysis back.”
“If it’s today. I’m not holding my breath to get a report on Friday afternoon,” Mitch said.
Meg smiled. “You might be surprised.”
TWENTY-NINE
When Greg Abrahamson finally called back, he agreed to give her a few minutes if she could meet him at 12:30 outside the Crest Theater on the K Street Mall.
She was early and he was late. She sat on the bench across from the theater as he’d instructed.
A homeless man shuffled up the street past her, so filthy he smelled like he’d slept inside a Dumpster. He wore three layers of long-sleeved shirts, though it was ninety degrees out. He looked in the garbage and Claire was both revolted and filled with compassion.
“Loaves and Fishes is only a couple blocks that way.” She pointed north.
He sat down next to her. Why had she said anything?
“Look, I have no money for you.”
“Claire.”
He spoke under his breath. When Greg Abrahamson said he was undercover, he was
“What are you working on that you have to smell like that?”
He responded, “What are you working on that is so important that I have to risk my cover?”
“I’m sorry-it’s about my father.”
“Which is the only reason I’m here.”
She got to the point. “You arrested a man named Frank Lowe fifteen years ago. In November of 1993. The charge was home invasion robbery-I don’t remember the specific penal code. But he was about twenty-five, a petty thief, broke into a house where a little girl was sleeping after her mother left.”
“I remember.”
“After fifteen years you remember?”
“I don’t remember the name, but I remember the arrest. Girl’s dead now.”
“What?” She frowned at the non sequitur.
“Mother was a piece of work. Left the girl every night. I didn’t buy for a minute that she was running to the store for five minutes. So I added that house to my regular drive-bys. Mother brings a guy home, he moves in, beats both the mom and the kid. I get two domestic calls in three months. Mom won’t press charges, third call is a homicide. Guy was beating up on the mom, the kid walks in and tries to stop him, gets shoved aside, and cracks her head open on the fireplace.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yeah, so I remember that call. Hate the fact I could do nothing to protect the kid. What can we do? The system is fucked.”
“If it is so fucked why are you sitting here dressed as a bum and smelling like ripe garbage?”
He stared at her. “You trying to help your dad?”
“He’s innocent.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Claire continued, “Taverton was assigned to the Lowe case. Arraigned, then there’s evidence that maybe there was a plea agreement. All hush-hush. Taverton’s records disappear, he’s killed, Lowe dies in a fire, and my dad is framed for murder.”
Abrahamson didn’t respond for a long minute. “I honestly don’t remember much about what happened after the D.A.’s office took the case. I would have testified at trial, but then Taverton called me and said he was working a plea. I probably said something to tick him off-I have no tolerance for prosecutors who let repeat offenders off. But because it was so unusual I do remember what he said to me before slamming down the phone.”
“Which was?”
“He said, ‘Sometimes you have to put a little fish on the hook to bait the bigger fish. And when I’m done with this case, you’ll be hearing about it for years to come.’ ”
“That’s it?” Claire was heartbroken. She’d hoped he knew something more. A name, perhaps, or at least something more to follow up on.
“That’s it. At least what I remember. It was a long time ago, and I’ve arrested easily a thousand perps since.” He stood, began shuffling away.
“Thanks.”
“Drake.”
“Excuse me?”
“Judge Drake. Might want to ask him. He was the judge at Lowe’s arraignment. If there was some big plea deal, he might know what it was about. He’s still on the bench.”
Claire sat there for a few more minutes, thinking. She wanted to get down to Isleton and talk to Lowe’s old boss, Tip Barney, but this was a hot lead, and the courthouse was only a few blocks away.
She pulled out her cell phone, looked up the courthouse number, and dialed. After several transfers, she was talking to Judge Drake’s secretary. She told her why she wanted to speak to the judge.
“He’s on the bench right now,” the secretary said. “I’ll give him your message when he returns.”
“Is there any way you can look up the file?”
“No,” she said haughtily. “Plea agreement details are not always public record.”
Claire left her cell phone number and hung up. It was after one in the afternoon; she didn’t want to wait. Chances were the judge wouldn’t be done until late that afternoon. Time to hit Isleton and maybe when she returned the judge would be free.
Frank Lowe’s mother lived in a run-down row house in an old Elk Grove neighborhood surrounded by four-unit apartments built in the seventies.
Mitch knocked on the locked screen, then glanced at Steve and rolled his eyes. There was no doubt she was home. The sound of game shows rang loud and clear through the open windows. A wall air-conditioning unit rumbled loudly in the background. No wonder her television was on full volume-Mitch couldn’t hear himself think. He rang the bell, holding the buzzer down for three full seconds.
The woman may not have heard the bell, but the small dogs did. Three of them began barking in earnest.
“Down, boys! Down. Stop it!” A moment later she opened the door. “Yeah?”
“Ms. Betty Lowe?”
“Yeah? You selling something I don’t want?” Ms. Lowe was a short, skinny woman. Dyed red hair with gray roots. Leathery skin from long-term sun exposure.
Mitch and Steve flashed their badges. “FBI Special Agents Bianchi and Donovan, ma’am. We have a couple questions about your son if you don’t mind.”
“Who? Frank? He’s dead. Can’t get into any trouble from the grave.”
“Yes, ma’am, but we’re looking into his death.”
“The fire?”
“Yes.”
She opened her screen and they stepped across the threshold. Three fluffy dogs barked and turned in circles at Mitch’s feet. They ignored Steve.
“You must have a dog at home,” Ms. Lowe said. “That’s why they’re acting up.” She herded the dogs down the hall and shut the door behind them. They barked a minute, then calmed down.
Mitch didn’t have a dog, but he had been around them a lot lately. He put Claire out of his mind-and the question of where she might be right now-and focused on finding out if Betty Lowe knew anything about her son’s activities prior to his death.
