Playing Dead

“Lora?”

Meg whipped around. “You know her?”

“She sat right next to me at the bar. She told me I was being mean to Tip. Frank Lowe,” Claire corrected. Why would anyone kill the woman? “When did this happen?”

“Between seven and nine p.m. tonight. Her mother was in Sacramento, and her father had secured the Rabbit Hole and was waiting for our forensic team to arrive. But the body wasn’t discovered until after midnight when her father came home.” Meg glanced at her phone, typed a message, and said, “I really have to go. We have a man on Claire, but if you want to take over you’re welcome to.”

J.T. said, “Warren? He’s fine. I’ll deliver the pathologist to you before noon. If you need my services, don’t hesitate to call.”

Meg just shook her head and walked out.

Claire said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Caruso.”

J.T. sat on the end of her bed and said, “It’s always been J.T. Let’s not get too formal.”

“I know I broke protocol, but-”

He put his hand up and said, “Stop. I know exactly what you did and why. You don’t have to justify your actions. What you have to explain is why you didn’t come to me or Henry for help from the beginning.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand. I was helping a fugitive.”

“You asked Jayne for help.”

“I-” What could she say?

“She’s your friend.”

Claire nodded.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Claire. As an investigator for Rogan-Caruso, you need to understand that we are a family. I expect-I demand-to be asked for assistance, even in a personal matter such as yours.”

“I was walking a fine line, J.T. I didn’t want the FBI to have a reason to go after Rogan-Caruso.”

J.T. threw back his head and laughed. Claire didn’t understand the joke, and she tensed, angry, hating feeling like an idiot.

“Claire, the Bureau and I go way back. They’re not going to interfere with my business. You are my business. You’re one of mine. You should have told me your theory from the beginning. I could have given you resources and assistance, and had someone watching your back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to take time-not as a punishment. You need to reconnect with your father. Recuperate. Just a couple days. I will keep you informed. But if you find out anything-anything-you call me.” He handed her a thick ivory business card with JTC and a toll-free number printed in bold black type. “I will get the message.”

“Thank you.”

J.T. stood. “You’re one of my best investigators. I would have pulled you into far more interesting and challenging assignments long ago, except for one thing.”

She hesitated, then couldn’t help but ask, “What?”

“You were too rigid. Everything you did was because you were on the side of right, and your opponent was wrong. Black and white, Claire. The world is anything but.” He opened the door, then looked back and said, “You finally see the shades of gray. Welcome to the real world, Claire.”

Mitch hung up his cell phone. Lexie was at Mercy Hospital’s ICU ward, where Steve Donovan had just been moved after surgery. Steve was going to make it. Thank God.

Mitch had talked to Lora Lane’s neighbor, every Rabbit Hole regular, anyone he could think of about Lora and why someone would walk into her house and kill her.

The method was cruel and efficient. No sexual assault, no other physical marks on the body. She knew her killer. She’d let him in the house, turned to him, and he pushed a sharp knife into her navel, then pulled it up until it hit her sternum. The killer pulled the knife out, leaving a six-inch wound in her gut. She’d have bled out in minutes. Even if help had been immediate, nothing could have saved her. The knife sliced clean through her intestines and stomach and nicked her liver and lungs, the latter evidenced by the dried blood around her mouth.

Who would kill the handicapped woman? Had she seen something tonight? Had she seen who drugged Claire? If this was related to Claire, then Frank Lowe hadn’t drugged her.

Mitch stood in the middle of Lora Lane’s bedroom, staring at her open closet and the empty shelves. Her father wasn’t able to give them much help. He was devastated after walking in to find his dead daughter. All he could remember was that Lora had “a lot of shoes” in her closet. But Lora’s shoes were all under her bed. Dozens of shoes, lined up carefully under the bed skirt, out of sight.

He hoped the man could get it together and answer some more questions. Something had been on those shelves. The room was pristine. Even the clutter was neat as a pin. Except the closet doors were open and those shelves were empty. It didn’t make sense.

Shoes.

Mitch crossed over to the shelves. They were all a foot high. Tall enough for shoes, neatly lined up.

Or shoeboxes. Which would explain why her father said there were shoes on the shelves, but all the shoes were actually under her bed.

Shoeboxes. Why would anyone kill Lora Lane for shoeboxes? What did she have in them that was so important?

Lora Lane was a young teenager in a forty-year-old body. Her room was pink and frilly, with shelves of horses, her dresser covered with small, ornate boxes containing single pieces of jewelry. Some of the jewelry appeared to be quite expensive, and Mitch would need her father to document where the pieces came from.

Perhaps Lora had a boyfriend. He killed her. Stole. . what? Money? Drugs?

Mitch could see how a woman like Lora, with a young girl’s mind, could be used by someone unscrupulous. She worked in a tackle shop at the marina. Drug smuggling? Possibly, especially since drugs had been found in her bathroom.

Grant Duncan, who was heading up the forensic investigation, approached Mitch. He held up an empty vial that looked like it would hold an ounce of fluid.

“What’s that?”

“It tested positive for Rohypnol. It was found in Ms. Lane’s purse.”

“So she drugged Claire.”

“It looks like it. I’m going to have the coroner run tests on Ms. Lane as well. She may have residue on her fingers.”

“I just don’t understand what’s going on here.” Mitch stared once again at the empty shelves. “The police chief’s daughter drugged Claire. . why? Because she was being mean to her boyfriend?” Mitch frowned. “Did Frank Lowe put her up to it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

One of the sheriff’s deputies stepped into the room. “I found a witness, Agent Bianchi.”

Finally.

Fifteen minutes later, Mitch was sitting at the police chief’s desk in the small Isleton police station, walking distance from the police chief’s house. He had Grant with him, and sitting across from him was a ten-year-old kid. It was two o’clock in the morning and Mitch felt every one of his thirty-eight years. The kid looked both wide awake and excited.

His name was Josh Frazier and he lived across the street from the Lanes.

“Where are your parents, Josh?” Mitch asked.

“My mom works late on Fridays and Saturdays. She’s a waitress in Lodi.”

The deputy who had found the kid watching the police activity with binoculars from his bedroom, concurred. “Nita Frazier. She’s on her way.”

“And she always leaves you alone at night?”

Josh glared at him. “Are you going to get my mom in trouble?”

“No, I-”

“Because I’m not going to help you if you’re going to get my mom in trouble. I told her when I turned ten-