Playing Dead

heard a third man pacing on the front porch. Frank was trapped.

Ten minutes later, the two men came downstairs. One man held a sheet of plastic in his hands. They left.

Frank walked upstairs and saw his aunt in her bed. And knew she was dead.

He left and went back to his apartment. It would be dumb to disappear. The police might think he had something to do with his aunt’s death. He considered calling the police, but he wasn’t supposed to be here. And why would they believe him? Especially since his aunt was leaving her entire property to him. She’d told him that many times before he swiped the brooch. She had a son, but she didn’t like him. “I like you more, Frankie.” She may have changed her will. But he’d only been on the outs with her for a couple weeks.

The police should be able to figure it out, right? Without him saying anything?

Except when her neighbor came by the next day when Aunt Rose missed her bridge game, her doctor said she’d died in her sleep of a heart attack. She had a bad heart and high blood pressure. There wasn’t even an autopsy. Frank still didn’t say anything. After all, he didn’t know who the men were. He wasn’t even sure he could identify them.

But when his aunt’s will was read, Frank got nothing. Her property was sold to Waterstone Development, and the money given to the Delta Conservancy. It made no sense. But Frank didn’t know then what he learned ten years later when he saw Jeffrey Riordan on television running for Congress.

He was the man with the plastic in his aunt’s house.

The only person Frank had told the entire story to was Chase Taverton-not out of the goodness of his heart, but because Frank didn’t want to go to prison-and look where that got the prosecutor. And Frank.

Riordan would kill him in a heartbeat if he knew Frank was alive. Frank didn’t know who Taverton told, who had connections to Riordan so strong that they would kill to keep the secrets.

When Oliver Maddox had called, Frank told him he knew nothing, but the kid came down anyway. Frank denied everything, but Maddox kept pushing. The kid had been scared. Then he whispered, “I know who you are, Frank. You can save a man from dying for a murder he didn’t commit if you just come forward.”

Frank continued to deny everything. He thought Maddox had given up. It wasn’t until two days ago when his body was brought up from the river that Frank realized he may have gotten the kid killed.

He didn’t want anything to happen to Claire O’Brien.

More important, he didn’t want to die.

The bar door opened and Frank turned his head to see what drink he needed to pour, based on who was coming in.

He might as well lace his own soda with hemlock. The Feds were back, and Frank knew damn well they wouldn’t be able to protect him.

THIRTY-ONE

Claire didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but figured she’d know it when she saw it.

Tip Barney was a tidy bachelor. Rather minimalist with one old, clean sofa; a recliner; a tiny table and two chairs in the kitchenette; and a small desk with an old IBM computer. So old that the monitor was black and white. The only expensive item was a wide-screen television centered to face the worn leather recliner. His small bathroom smelled like Old Spice and the bedroom barely fit a double bed and dresser. His tastes in art were simple as well: scenic rural photographs.

Even his paperwork was filed away neatly in the desk drawers.

She searched the desk and quickly learned that it was all business. No personal papers. Insurance documents, but all business-related. The bedroom had less interesting items in the solitary dresser-socks, boxers, T-shirts. The guy hung up his pants and a couple dress shirts. Tip certainly lived modestly enough. The insurance settlement must not have been that great, or he’d spent it all in L.A.

She felt uneasy, and hot, and a bit sick to her stomach. Served her right drinking half a beer without eating.

What did she want here? What did she expect? A connection to Oliver Maddox? Did she honestly think that Tip Barney had anything to do with Maddox’s murder? He didn’t seem the killer type, but then again there wasn’t really a type.

She walked the small apartment twice, found nothing, and turned to leave. Her head hurt and she just wanted to get home. Lack of food, lack of sleep, too much caffeine was catching up to her. Her hand was on the knob when she saw a picture of Tip and an older man. They looked a lot alike. Must be Tip’s dad. But something seemed. . off.

She took the picture off the wall. There was no writing on the back. She used her key to slip off the cardboard backing.

On the back of the photograph was written:

Dad and me, March ’06.

Stamped in the lower right corner was: STILLMAN PHOTOGRAPHY, MANHATTAN BEACH, CA.

She put the picture back on the wall and quickly texted Jayne to find out about Stillman Photography and anything about Tip Barney living or working in Manhattan Beach.

Maybe Tip’s dad could be gotten to. If Tip had been living near him while in L.A., maybe he said something. It was worth a shot. Hell, Claire was willing to try anything at this point.

She glanced at her watch. Quarter to six. Her dad was surrendering in fifteen minutes. She wouldn’t make it to FBI headquarters, but she could make it to the hospital by the time he got there.

She quietly left the apartment and walked down the back stairs in time to see Mitch Bianchi and Steve Donovan enter the bar.

Mitch approached the bar and flashed his badge, even though they’d been here earlier in the day. He and Steve had discussed how to approach Frank Lowe, and they decided to just bring him in. He’d faked his own death. That wasn’t a felony unless he profited from it, but since there had been an outstanding charge against him at the time, he was a fugitive: unlawful flight to avoid prosecution.

Steve walked up to the bar. Frank approached him. “Back so soon?”

Steve clicked a cuff on Frank’s wrist before he realized what had happened. He put the other side around his own wrist. “Frank Lowe, you’re under arrest. You have-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Tip Barney. Real name’s George, but no one calls me that.”

“We were just at your mother’s house. Betty has a whole photo album of you and your dad.”

Frank paled. “You’re making a mistake. You’re going to get me killed. Please don’t do this!”

“If you talk now, there’ll be no reason why anyone would kill you. Spill the beans and you’ll be safe.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Mitch said, “What was the plea agreement between you and Chase Taverton?”

“I’m not talking.”

“Fine.” Steve yanked Frank’s arm to force him to follow around the end of the bar.

Mitch announced, “Okay, folks, go home.”

Lora Lane, the woman they’d spoken to earlier, frowned. “I don’t understand. Did you catch him doing something?”

“Ma’am, this isn’t your concern,” Steve told her.

“But you can’t arrest him.”

“Ma’am, please leave.”

The patrons were leaving, murmuring among themselves. “Lock up, Frank,” Steve said.

The door opened, and Mitch was about to tell the customer the bar was closed when he saw Claire standing there.

She was pale, much too pale. She glared at him, hurt and anger in her expression. But Mitch was so relieved