Playing Dead Part 12

"Now I have the chance to find the truth for someone else." She slammed her fist on the table. "For you. You were a cop. You know the first person they look at when a child disappears? His parents. Andrew and I were under investigation. They had to clear us before they seriously started looking at other potential suspects. For days the police looked at me as if I had killed my son. As if I had something to do with it. And Andrew. Either separately or together. They tried to get me to tell them that I knew my husband had killed Justin, implying that I was protecting Andrew. Then in that stupid good-cop/bad-cop game, a vile detective flat-out said we'd conspired to kill Justin. Why? Why would I kill him? But they didn't care why, they figured if I'd confess they'd uncover the motive later. Maybe I was just crazy.

"Andrew and I didn't love each other, but I never believed he could hurt Justin. But for a while, after all the questions, after Andrew's affair became public, after the police showed me the ph-photos-" Her voice cracked and Tom wanted to wrap his arms around her, but Nelia had never talked of this. Tom doubted she'd spoken to anyone about what happened during the weeks after her son was murdered.

"I thought maybe . . . and then I thought about my sister. She was babysitting for me that night. What if she had a boyfriend over? Was protecting him? What if she was part of it?" Nelia's voice trembled. "I blamed everyone. I know Andrew didn't kill Justin any more than I did, or Carina, or a phantom boyfriend. But when I saw-" She rubbed her face roughly, squeezed her eyes closed, and sank into the chair. Tom took her hand. She was shaking.

"The crime scene photos." Her voice was barely a whisper, the anguish in every breath. "And." She cleared her throat. "For a minute, I looked at Andrew. As a killer." She opened her eyes, stared at Tom. "I knew he wasn't. He was far from perfect, but he loved Justin with his whole heart."

"I hate that you went through that." Even though Tom understood it all too well.

"I was a suspect because I didn't have an alibi," she said. "I was working alone at my office."

"No one believed-"

"Yes, they did. Strangers believed. People who didn't know me. And for a while, I thought my family-"

"They didn't think you'd killed your own child."

She sighed, some of the pain and anger escaping. "No, but for a while they questioned just like I did. Because there were no suspects, there was no one else, and it came down to why? Why would someone randomly break into a house and steal a child and kill him? It wasn't a pedophile, he wasn't abused that way." Her head fell to the side, downcast, tears streaming down her face.

Tom stood and pulled her up and into his arms, holding her tight. She clasped her arms around him, her body shaking with silent sobs.

Several minutes later, as Tom stroked her hair and murmured soothing nothings in her ear, Nelia said, "I know the pain in your heart, having someone you love think you are guilty. I believe you, Tom. I want Claire to believe you, too."

Tom found her lips with his, kissed her, tasted the tears caught in the crevice of her lips. His hands fisted in her hair and he gently pushed her down to the bed. The love, the trust, the faith this woman had in him undid him. He didn't deserve it, but he would protect it with everything he had, including his life.

"I love you, Nelia."

She whispered in his ear, "You're the only person who has ever been able to dull the pain in my heart, pain I've lived with for twelve years. You saved my soul, Tom. I love you."

TWELVE.

Claire drove to the Fox & Goose after changing at her house. The conversation with Dave had depressed her, making it clear that there was no one on her side in this situation. She wished she could confide in Dave, but he was a cop first. Yes, he cared about her, and he had once been close to her father, but she still didn't expect him to forget that her father was a fugitive. She couldn't.

But . . .

Oliver Maddox's death couldn't be a coincidence. She wished she had been thinking clearer when her father cornered her that morning, asked him more questions, like what exactly did Oliver Maddox know?

She swallowed thickly. She had been in no frame of mind then to ask anything coherent. If only she had a way of contacting him, finding out- Wouldn't Oliver have kept records? Files? Notes on his thesis? Something where she could pull out threads to follow on her own? But where to start?

She was no longer a scared high school freshman who'd had her entire life blown up. She'd be thirty this year, she had a career, she was smart. She should be able to look at the evidence on her own, dispa.s.sionately, to see if maybe there was something-anything-missed the first time around.

What did Oliver see that no one else saw? Where did the Western Innocence Project fit in? Or Professor Collier?

Tomorrow, she'd catch up with Collier in his office bright and early. She didn't think she'd learn anything by hitting Oliver's house-the police would have gone through it after the missing person report was filed. But she'd go by, see if something stuck out to her. Talk to Tammy again, ask more questions about Oliver's thesis and whom he had spoken to. Though she said she hadn't known any details, Tammy probably knew more than she thought. It was all about asking the right questions. Then Claire would head into the Rogan-Caruso offices and use their vast computer resources to search for more information. Investigation was legwork and questions. And more legwork and more questions until the truth emerged. That she could do. She felt better having a game plan.

In the bar's parking lot, she turned off the ignition. She wished she had canceled her date with Mitch. Not because she didn't want to see him-on the contrary, she'd been looking forward to it all day-but because she was so twisted inside that she knew Mitch would ask her what was wrong. He was unusually perceptive, and while she appreciated his attentiveness in conversation, she didn't like being the brunt of anyone's scrutiny.

Still, she needed to unwind. She couldn't do anything more about Oliver Maddox tonight. A pint of stout, a little dancing, and Mitch. It sounded like just what she needed.

It was a quarter to nine when she opened the door of the pub. She saw Charlie and the Finnegan's Wake band setting up and was about to say hi when she saw Mitch.

He sat at a table near the back, looking tense, while another man loomed over him, hands on the table.

Claire recognized the b.a.s.t.a.r.d hara.s.sing Mitch. FBI Special Agent Steve Donovan. He'd come by several times since the earthquake to threaten her about her father. As if she would harbor a fugitive, especially after what her father had done.

What are you doing now, Claire? You're keeping your mouth shut about seeing him, aren't you?

Donovan had also hara.s.sed Charlie and the band and even talked to her boss at Rogan-Caruso, further embarra.s.sing and enraging her.

Had he been following her? Did he know about her relations.h.i.+p with Mitch?

She stomped over to them, insinuated herself between the cop and the writer. She pushed Donovan in the chest. "Didn't I tell you after you hara.s.sed my friends"-she jerked a thumb toward the band-"to leave me and mine alone? I told you I'd call if I heard from my father."

Donovan glanced at Mitch, then said, "I'm just following up, Ms. O'Brien. I told you I'd be checking in periodically."

"Just go away." She blinked back what she feared were tears. She didn't want to tell Mitch about her father, but now she had no choice. What must he think of her keeping such a big secret? Not that she'd done it on purpose, it wasn't typical conversation to open with, "Hey, my father is an escaped killer, wanna go dancing?"

"I'm leaving," Donovan said. He nodded to Mitch, then left.

Claire turned and looked Mitch in the eye. "I'm sorry about that."

"It's okay."

She slapped her hand on the table. "It's not okay. I don't like talking about it, okay? I hate it. I just hate it." She swallowed. "I'll tell you everything." She walked over to the bar, hoping Mitch would follow at the same time she wished he would just tell her, "Sorry, I don't like complications." It was so much easier not letting anyone inside. Sharing her pain made it more real.

Mitch followed, sat next to her. She motioned for a pint of Guinness for her and Mitch and waited for the bartender to serve them before saying, "That d.a.m.n Fed probably told you everything." She took a long swallow.

"Not really. Just enough-"

"To make you think I'm a liar."

"You've never lied to me."

"By omission."

Mitch took her hand, squeezed it. That quietly intimate, sweet gesture had Claire's heart. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I still like you. A lot."

As if to prove it, he kissed her softly. Sweetly. She stared into his eyes. He possessed a deep-seated aura of compa.s.sion, in contrast to his square-jawed, rugged appearance.

"Fifteen years ago my father was convicted of murdering my mother and her lover," Claire said quietly. "He escaped from San Quentin during the earthquake. That guy who talked to you is with the FBI. He's been coming by now and again to make sure I'm not keeping my father locked in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

"Somehow I don't see you doing that."

She shook her head. "I was there," she whispered.

"Where?"

"At the house. Right after-I saw my father leaving the bedroom where they were dead and-s.h.i.+t!"

"It's okay, Claire."

"You shouldn't have had to hear about this from that man. What did he say to you anyway?"

"Not much. Just wanted to know when was the last time I saw you and if I had seen a man. He showed me a photo. A mug shot." He stared into his beer. Claire feared this situation bothered Mitch more than he was saying.

"My father?"

"Told me it was Thomas...o...b..ien, a fugitive. He didn't tell me about the earthquake, but I'd heard about that on the news. I put it together."

"I'm sorry, Mitch. I really thought it would be over by now, but . . ."

"But what?"

"It's never going to end until they find my dad. And I'm scared."

"That he's going to hurt you?"

"Me?" She shook her head rapidly back and forth. "h.e.l.l no, he'd never hurt me. I'm scared that they'll kill him. He's a fugitive. He escaped from prison. But did you know he captured nine of the other escapees? Or led the police to their capture? I didn't know anything about it until a reporter cornered me outside the Rogan-Caruso office and asked if I'd heard anything about my father tipping off the police about one of the escapees. Then I talked to Bill-he was my guardian-and he looked into it. Found out my dad was a hero, then the media broke the story. He's still my father-and I never visited him in prison. Not once. I never wrote to him, or answered his letters to me."

Why was she talking like this? She'd never told anyone about the letters, she tried to never think about them. She'd read them, of course she had to, she was too d.a.m.n curious by nature. All were the same. How are you? I love you. I'm innocent.

She'd hardened her heart against her father because she couldn't handle the emotions that battled within, the guilt, the fear, the anguish, the betrayal. And the love. She had loved her father so much . . .

And now she had hope. That's where all this was bubbling up from, a new idea that she might have been wrong for half her life.

Mitch wrapped his arms around her in a hug. At first Claire stiffened. She hadn't been hugged-not like this-in longer than she could remember. Protected. What a silly thought. Mitch was a writer-sure, he was physically fit-but she had far more self-defense training than he had. She had no reason to feel protected or anything else with him.

He tilted her chin up and said, "Claire, nothing you could tell me is going to change the way I feel about you." He kissed her. "We all have said and done things we regret. I've done my fair share. But I'm telling you right now, Claire O'Brien, that what's inside you is a pa.s.sionate, smart, beautiful woman I'm lucky to be here with."

This kiss was warmth and pa.s.sion. This kiss was a prelude to bed. A promise.

The bond she'd felt with Mitch, almost from the first time they met, was strong. It scared her, and that, she realized, was why she didn't want him to meet Dave, Bill, and the others. She didn't want anyone or anything to hurt this new and powerful relations.h.i.+p. Didn't she deserve to be happy? To find someone she wanted to spend her time with? She was so tired of being alone. In her heart, she'd been alone since the day her mother was murdered.

With Mitch, she felt whole.

Mitch had that aura of a loner that she knew all too well. And for the first time, she wanted to get closer to someone. To really let someone into her heart, not just her bed.

But she also wanted him in her bed. She needed an hour of nothing but a physical connection. She had to clear her mind, to feel something other than pain and confusion.

"Let's get out of here," she said, her voice unusually deep.

"Claire-" His voice was thick, eyes searching hers, desire for her as strong as her own.

"Follow me home," she said, taking his hand.

He sat in his car in the far corner of the parking lot and watched the entrance of the Fox & Goose, waiting. The door opened and he leaned forward in antic.i.p.ation. It wasn't Claire.

She'd said she was meeting her boyfriend-Mitch Bianchi-but she'd refused to share any more information. He'd known she was seeing someone-he made it a point to check up on her whenever possible-but she'd sounded enamored with the a.s.shole. And why had she not brought him by the house for the game? Why was she being so secretive about this relations.h.i.+p? He was a writer-a nothing, like all the other losers she picked. He'd never been threatened by any of them. He understood Claire better than she knew herself. He'd made it a point to study her, learn about her, understand her. She dated men who were her intellectual inferiors. She used them for s.e.x and nothing more. And as long as none of them were a threat to him, he could quench his thirst with other women.

His hands clenched the steering wheel. He hated that she slept with men other than him. He'd wanted to be her first and only. But that would have tipped his hand too soon. It was better this way, watching her from afar. Being there for her when she needed him. And then . . . he'd know when the time was right. He'd know when to show her that fate had brought them together. They were meant to be.

He had his girls to keep him from moving on her too soon.

Too soon? It's been fifteen years!

He didn't want to kill her. He wanted her, but if he took her he would have to kill her. Instead, he protected her by standing back and not sharing his love. His love would kill Claire, and then he would have nothing left to live for.

She was everything to him.

Until she got serious with another. When she took another man not only to bed, but into her heart, when she opened up her soul . . . that was for him, and him alone.

The door opened again and he saw her. She wore the dark jeans, and had added strappy high-heeled shoes and a lacy black tank top that hugged her b.r.e.a.s.t.s like a leather glove. Her fair skin was so white, especially against her s.h.i.+ny black hair. To touch her hair, her skin, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s . . .

His eyes whipped to the man with her, his heartbeat quickening. Mitch Bianchi was not like the rest. He had the same good looks, but was taller, more physical, older than other men Claire had dated. He had an air about him . . . a familiar appearance. Did he know this a.s.s-hole? No, he didn't think so. It was more the way he moved, the way he scanned the parking lot. Maybe he was in security, worked for Rogan-Caruso, though Claire said he was a freelance writer. Odd.

They were talking, then suddenly Claire wrapped her arms around her boyfriend and kissed him. A full-body kiss, up against the side of the building.

No, no, no! This was not good. The jerk had his hands on her a.s.s, then her back, then her hair. What was he going to do? f.u.c.k her right there in public?

He desperately wanted to confront them, arrest them for public indecency, kill them. He should be the one with his hands on Claire, but not up against the wall of some filthy bar. He'd pour rose petals on her bed, treat her like a princess. His princess.

They stopped groping each other and walked-together-toward Claire's Jeep. She'd been drinking. That's why she was acting like a s.l.u.t. She'd been drinking and he was going to take her home. Except that she slid into the driver's seat. He walked three cars away and got into a rather nondescript American car.

With clenched fists he wrote down the license plate, then followed. Discreetly.

Bianchi followed Claire home. Parked in her driveway behind her Jeep. He was going to screw her. b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"She's mine!" he shouted in the safety of his car.

He drove off, angrier than he'd been in a long, long time. He almost stormed into her house. Almost . . . to confront her. He wanted too much to kill her.

I sacrificed for you! I protected you! You're mine!

But he continued up H Street, turned down a side street, and then made another right and headed back downtown.

He'd had these urges before. There was only one solution.

He went on the prowl.