And then she died.
He would never let them touch Claire. If she had to die. . he would personally take care of it. It would be another sign for him, that the time was right for sacrifice and change.
Claire was living on borrowed time, anyway. He hadn’t killed her fifteen years ago when he had the opportunity. So that meant that the assassin owned her.
And he could take her whenever he wanted.
SIX
Claire thanked Dr. Jim for coming during his lunch break to examine the stray dogs she’d taken in while she found their owners or new homes. In addition to Yoda and Chewy, Claire had two strays right now: a Lab mutt and what Dr. Jim was certain was a purebred Jack Russell terrier. She couldn’t pronounce the veterinarian’s last name, but it didn’t matter since he had dr. jim emblazoned in blue on the breast pocket of his white lab coat.
“I might have a home for the Lab mix,” Dr. Jim said.
“Really?” Claire glanced into her small backyard where the year-old stray was chasing his tail. Yoda, a rather serious beagle, watched the visiting mutt with what she could only think of as a look of disdain. Yoda simply didn’t know how to have fun.
“Family with three boys. I had to put their shepherd down after a hit-and-run last week. They were devastated, of course, but I think they really want another dog as soon as possible, and they’re good people.”
“They can come by anytime. Just let me know when and I’ll be here.”
“Still nothing about the terrier?”
She shook her head. “I put notices up in all the usual places, with the pound, all over the park. I went to every house in a four-block radius. No owner, and no one recognized him.”
“He’s a smart dog.”
She smiled. “You want him?”
“I have four dogs, three of which I took from you. April will shoot me if I bring home another. Besides, I think he’s more your style. Even Yoda seems to like him.”
True, Claire thought. “We’ll see what happens. It’s only been two weeks. Maybe his owners went on vacation and the house sitter lost him.” She could hope. But the truth was a lot of people simply abandoned their dogs and cats when they moved, or when the pet became too much work. She wanted to strangle those people. Instead, she found good homes for the animals, no matter how long it took.
“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?” Jim asked. “April is making lasagna.”
Claire liked Jim and his wife, but she always felt like a third wheel. They’d been married for years, but still acted like newlyweds. It reminded Claire that no matter how many guys she dated or friends she went club-hopping with, in her heart she felt isolated and alone. Until Mitch.
“I have a date, but thanks for the invite. Tell April I said hi.”
Claire watched Jim drive off, then closed the door and walked down the hall to her office.
Facing the rose garden in McKinley Park, her Tudor-style house wasn’t large, but it was charming. She kept her dogs outside, though they had access to the enclosed sunroom. Neelix, her orange and white cat, had the run of the place. It was because of Neelix that she’d met Dr. Jim in the first place. She’d just bought the house in McKinley Park four years ago when she’d witnessed a teenage boy throwing rocks at a stray cat in the park. The cat was shrieking. Claire had wanted to chase down the punk, and she’d certainly had enough adrenaline to get in a few good licks, but the poor, undernourished injured cat was lying there, trying to get up, dazed. The cat’s back leg was broken. Claire picked saving his life over revenge.
She didn’t always choose so wisely.
No one claimed Neelix, so she’d kept him. Nursed him back to health. He went from a six-pound skeletal feline to a thirteen-pound fat, lazy cat.
Neelix opened his eyes, not moving from his spot at the end of her bed when she walked in. She scratched him behind the ears, then turned into her office, a converted walk-in closet. Her bedroom originally had two closets-a large walk-in, and a smaller closet. She had taken the doors off the walk-in, removed the shelves and poles, and turned it into her office. It fit a desk, a small file cabinet, and a short bookshelf. Comfortable and functional.
She flipped on her computer screen and Googled the Western Innocence Project. Nearly every state had an “Innocence Project,” which was generally affiliated with a law school where lawyers and students took on criminal appeals pro bono if they felt that the convict had been unjustly convicted. Many of the cases came from DNA evidence, often older cases where new forensic technology enabled them to extract DNA from a rape or murder and match it-or not-to the individual convicted of the crime.
She didn’t know what she was looking for. She’d talked to the director, Randolph Sizemore, Esq., once before when he had told her that Oliver Maddox wasn’t an employee of the Project nor was the Project working on the O’Brien case. However, it might be worth talking to him again. Maybe he knew where Maddox went. Maybe she hadn’t asked the right questions.
Spontaneously, she dialed Sizemore’s direct line. She’d uncovered it after speaking to him in January, but hadn’t had cause to use it.
“Randy Sizemore.”
“This is Claire O’Brien. I’m calling about Oliver Maddox.”
Silence at first, then, “Hello, Ms. O’Brien. How can I help you?”
“Do you remember me?”
“Of course. I made a note of our conversation in my journal. You claimed that Oliver said he was working with my institute on behalf of your father.”
“That’s what he told me, but I know that he was an intern last summer.”
“True. I have no new information.”
“Do you know that Oliver Maddox is missing? He’s been missing since January 20.”
There was silence on the other end. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I spoke with his girlfriend. She said that he came to you last summer and asked if you would look into my father’s conviction. You didn’t tell me that the first time I spoke with you.”
“That’s not exactly what happened. Hold on. I remember talking to him about it, but. .” Claire heard pages flipping in the background. “Oh, right. Yes, O’Brien. It was over five years ago that we put together that file. The file was reviewed by a practicing attorney and it was determined that we had no cause to believe Mr. O’Brien didn’t get a fair trial or was wrongfully convicted. The file went to archives.”
“And you told Oliver this?”
“Of course. I have so many cases on my desk. I have three full-time attorneys working for me, plus many others who work pro bono. We give a thorough look at the case file, court transcripts, evidence. If there’s anything at all that we can sink our teeth into, we file a motion. Put it on the record, even if we don’t have the time or resources to pursue it.”
“Did Oliver tell you why he thought the case should be looked at again?”
“To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention. That was a busy time, and I had a half-dozen serious cases I was working on, all with legitimate problems. I didn’t have time to revisit a case that had been vetted by an attorney I thoroughly trust.”
“Who was the attorney who originally looked at the file? Maybe Oliver spoke to him.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.” His sympathetic tone had Claire on edge. She hated when people pitied her.
“Do you believe your father is innocent? In your heart, what do you think?”
She hadn’t expected the question. But in the months since Oliver claimed he could prove her father was framed, she’d been thinking about it, and after seeing him this morning. . She said honestly, “I don’t know. Up until I saw my mother’s body I would have said he’d never kill anyone. But Oliver was so convinced he was innocent.” She didn’t mention “The Perfect Frame” to Sizemore. “I want to see what he saw and draw my own conclusions.”