Dave tensed and straightened. He went from friend to cop in a split second. “Yes. Dad had a visit from Maddox as well.”
“Right. And I was too angry and upset to listen to him.”
“I remember that, too.”
“But I need to know what they talked about.”
“Why now?”
“I-” She couldn’t tell him about her father. Not yet. “I found his card in my desk this morning and it’s been on my mind. He told me he was close to finding proof that my father is innocent. I didn’t believe anything he said then, especially when I found out he lied about who he worked for. But now-”
“Now what?”
She said, “I just need to know what he meant; if there’s anything he found out that might, I don’t know, confirm my father’s guilt or give me something new to look at, maybe-”
“Are you buying into Maddox’s theory?”
“I don’t even know what his theory is, not completely, which is why I wanted to talk to Bill.”
Dave stared at her flatly. “A bulletin came into the station today from the sheriff’s department. Oliver Maddox is dead. His body was found this morning in the Sacramento River near Isleton.”
Claire couldn’t have heard that right. “Dead?” she whispered.
“His identity hasn’t been confirmed, but it was his car and a body in the driver’s seat, badly decomposed, but it’s likely Oliver Maddox.” Dave watched her closely, too closely, like a cop viewing a suspect. “So I ask you again, Claire, why are you interested in Oliver Maddox now?”
“I haven’t been able to sleep,” she said, not completely lying. She’d had problems sleeping ever since her mother was killed. “It’s been worse since the earthquake.” Again, the truth. “And I’ve been thinking about what Maddox said, and wondering if I should have listened to him. If maybe he knew something that. . that proved my father is innocent. What if it’s the truth? What if I ignored Maddox because of my own guilt?”
“Guilt? For what?”
She laughed without humor. “What? You know damn well that I called my dad that day and told him about the man in bed with my mother. I set in motion the entire chain of events. For fifteen years I’ve believed that I ignited my father’s fuse. He may have pulled the trigger, but I baited him. What if I’m innocent?”
“Claire, you are innocent. What your father did had nothing to do with you-”
She interrupted. “It had everything to do with me. And my dad. And my mother. But if my dad has been telling the truth all along, no matter how crazy it sounds, it means that someone else did kill my mom and that prosecutor. And Oliver Maddox was onto it. He must have known something, otherwise why would he come to me-and your dad-” She paused. “How did he die?”
“I don’t know,” Dave said. “The autopsy is tomorrow and the investigation is ongoing. I heard the FBI is involved, but this isn’t a Sac PD case. I don’t have any details.”
She looked him in the eye, asking without words.
He nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He took both of her hands in his and squeezed, his face stern. “Don’t get your hopes up, Claire. This probably doesn’t mean anything. Your father was convicted. The evidence was solid.”
“It was largely circumstantial.”
“He had a half-dozen appeals, every one of them a failure. No one thinks he’s innocent. And”-Dave implored her with his expression-“I don’t want you throwing away your life helping him.”
Tom sat in the park across the street and watched Claire’s house.
She wasn’t home, but he had no idea what her schedule was. In the few days he’d been back in Sacramento, he’d only learned that she had no regular habits except hitting Starbucks every morning.
She could be home any minute, or not for hours.
He should have listened to Nelia and not come here. He’d seen Special Agent Bianchi twice; he was obviously watching Claire at least periodically. But Bianchi didn’t appear to be anywhere nearby now, and Tom wore a fairly decent disguise. He’d been using a rinse to hide the silver, making his hair browner than its natural black. He also took Nelia’s suggestion and didn’t crop it short as he’d worn it both before and after going to prison. She’d trimmed it into what she called a conservative businessman’s cut. The day’s growth of beard-though coming in threaded with silver-helped hide the shape of his face. And Nelia had bought him a pair of gold rimmed glasses to wear. He had a newspaper under his arm, and wore sneakers, jeans, and a black polo shirt. At first glance, no one would suspect that he was Tom O’Brien, the last fugitive from San Quentin. But if Claire or a cop saw him, the disguise wouldn’t buy him much time.
He sat on the bench and watched. Nelia would have woken up by now and be worried about him. Or be angry. Probably both. He didn’t want to upset her, but he’d already decided that if she were caught helping him, he would tell the authorities that he’d threatened her. Forced her to help. Confuse them enough that maybe they wouldn’t push it. It also might help that Nelia was on decent terms with her ex, a district attorney in San Diego.
The park closed at sunset, and Tom didn’t want to chance hanging out there long after. Patrols increased in the evenings, primarily as a deterrent to juvenile crimes like vandalism and graffiti and petty theft.
Being back in Sacramento had shoved the past right under his nose. He’d brought Claire to this very park when she was not even three, an inquisitive toddler who enjoyed feeding the ducks. He remembered when one of the mallards had nipped her finger. Instead of crying or chasing the bird, she’d lectured him, pointing that hurt finger at the duck.
“That was not nice. I fed you already, let the other ducks have a turn.”
While in prison, Tom tried to remember the good times, but inevitably he’d see Claire’s young, stricken face when she cast her eyes on Lydia’s dead body.
Traffic in the area diminished as the commute ended. Claire still hadn’t returned home.
Tom didn’t need a lot of time. Go in, leave the letter, get out. Hell, he could leave the letter in her mailbox. It would be safer that way.
But the truth was he wanted to see how she was doing, and a person’s house said a lot about how they lived. Five minutes. Go in, put the letter on her refrigerator, glance around, leave. The dogs might bark, but he wouldn’t be there long enough for the neighbors to call the police.
Just as he was about to get up from the bench, Claire’s Jeep pulled into the driveway. She jumped out, ran into the house. That had been close. He wasn’t ready for another confrontation.
He’d put the letter in her mailbox after she went to bed. Hope she checked it early. He could call her, tell her it was there.
Less than ten minutes later, Claire emerged from the house once again. She’d changed from her slacks and blazer to black jeans and a lacy tank top. As she walked to her car in spike heels, she pulled a purple T-shirt over her head. She drove away, speeding through a yellow light and turning onto the on-ramp of the freeway a block over.
Now. What are you waiting for?
He crossed the street, trying not to walk too fast or too slow. His heart pounded. She was his daughter, but she also believed he was a killer. He had to accept the fact that she might turn him in or set him up.
He expected that she’d have an alarm, and was surprised when he didn’t encounter one. Maybe she didn’t have one because of her animals. Perhaps he could stay a little longer.
The dogs in the back barked. There were three or four. A golden retriever gazed through the glass pane on the back door, tongue hanging out, looking as if he’d much rather lick an intruder than attack him. Claire always had a soft spot for animals. Lydia had been severely allergic to dogs and they’d never had one.
An orange and white cat wound around Tom’s legs and he bent to scratch the animal behind the ears, tears burning behind dry eyes.