Bill Kamanski, a detective and the father of a good rookie cop Tom had trained, had become Claire’s guardian. Tom didn’t want to go to prison and leave his daughter with anyone. He’d wanted to be her father, dammit! He’d raised her, he loved her. He hadn’t killed anyone. .
After sentencing, but before Tom was transported to Folsom Prison, Bill met with him in lockup. Reality had finally hit Tom. He was going to be in prison for the rest of his life-until he was executed. He had appeals, but for the first time since he was arrested, he realized he might never be free again.
“Tom.” Bill sat across from him, his face hard but his eyes compassionate.
“What do you want?” he’d asked. This man already had his daughter. Tom was no longer a father to Claire; the court had given-with Tom’s reluctant approval-custody of his only child to a virtual stranger.
Not completely true. Claire had known Dave Kamanski for three years. Tom liked Dave, but he was too young to accept the responsibility. His father Bill was a widower, owned a home, and was a respected member of law enforcement.
There really had been no other choice. Lydia had never gotten along with her sister Joyce, who lived three thousand miles away in Boston. How could Tom send Claire cross-country to an aunt she’d seen maybe three times in her life?
“I wanted you to know that I’ll take good care of Claire,” Bill said. “I’ll do everything I can to protect her from the media, to give her as normal a life as possible.”
Tom said nothing. He wanted to hit someone, rage against the injustice of being sent to death row an innocent man. But he couldn’t. No one had believed him during the trial, no one would believe him now.
He had wanted desperately to testify on his behalf, but he knew that would have been foolish. The D.A. wanted him on the stand, and anything he said they’d twist and turn to set his temper off. That’s what they wanted to do, his attorney insisted. And Tom became convinced his attorney was right. Now, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would have made a difference. He’d never know.
“This is hard for you,” said Bill. “No matter what happened, I know you love your daughter.”
Tom’s voice cracked. “Don’t-don’t talk about me to her. She already believes I’m guilty. Don’t rub it in.”
“I won’t say anything negative about you to Claire, Tom. I promise.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
“Claire doesn’t want to see you.”
Tom had feared that. The court had allowed a thirty-minute visitation with his daughter before his transfer. But his daughter didn’t want to come.
“That may change, and I’ll bring her when she wants to-”
“No. I don’t want her to step foot in a prison.”
“Be that as it may, if she wants to see you, I’ll bring her. But if she doesn’t-I’ll write to you and let you know how she’s doing.”
Tom nodded.
Bill stood and started for the door. “Watch your back, Tom.”
“I didn’t kill them,” he whispered.
Bill left.
True to his word, Bill sent him letters twice a year, sometimes with photos of Claire. It was a kind of bittersweet hell receiving them. He craved the information, then he’d fall into a dismal depression. It should have been him, not Bill, who was there for Claire’s graduation, when her best friend was killed by a drunk driver in college, when she got her PI license, or when she bought her house.
Swallowing the bitterness, Tom looked around Claire’s cozy home. He could see his daughter here, while at the same time realizing how much he didn’t know about her, Bill’s letters notwithstanding. The house was clean but cluttered, much like her old bedroom. Hardwood floors and simple furniture, with brightly colored pictures of Ireland decorating the walls. Claire had told him she wanted to go to Ireland, where his mother had been born. Before she died when Claire was twelve, Deirdre O’Brien had doted on her only granddaughter, and told her stories of Eire, real and made up.
Tom wondered if Claire had gone. He hoped so, but Bill had never said anything.
In her bedroom, classic movie posters dominated the walls, from Casablanca to The Wizard of Oz to Star Wars. Claire had always loved the movies.
Her room was more colorful than the rest of the house, with a dozen brightly colored pillows scattered on a white down comforter. She’d done a half-ass job making the bed, the blankets hanging askew. The cat jumped onto the bed as if he owned it, sat down and stared at Tom.
Being here, seeing how she lived, disturbed Tom on so many levels. He needed to get out of here. Maybe he should never have come back. Claire was better off without him in her life.
You’re innocent. Claire needs to know it, believe it, prove it.
Claire had a small office off her bedroom. It might have been a large closet with the doors removed. He placed the folded letter under her keyboard, leaving half of it protruding. He grabbed a sticky note from a stack and wrote CLAIRE in block letters, stuck it on the edge.
Turning, he glanced over at a picture on the wall separating her makeshift office from her bedroom. It was framed in pewter and placed in such a way that it could only be viewed if you intentionally pivoted to look at it.
He crossed over, took it off the wall, tears clouding his vision.
It was a picture of him and Claire when she was eleven. They’d gone camping in Yosemite for a week that summer. Lydia had even joined them because they’d rented a cabin and she had a real bed to sleep on. It was the last family vacation they’d shared, and they had an incredible time. He and Lydia had reconnected-or so he’d thought then-and Claire was still a little girl, though she’d begun to show signs of the beautiful woman she’d become. The picture reflected a perfect moment in time.
He and Claire sat on the porch swing of the cabin. The colors at sunset were vivid and surreal. But the sheer joy on their faces was something Tom hadn’t remembered until now.
If Claire had hung this picture in her office, even in an out-of-the-way corner, somewhere in the back of her mind she must still love him. Still believe in him.
He clung to that hope. It was all he had, but it was more than he’d had this morning.
He put the picture back on the wall, walked away, then turned and pulled the picture down again, taking it with him. He left the house the same way he’d come in, locking the door behind him with the pick he had opened it with.
TEN
Parked in the lot next to the Fox amp; Goose, Mitch rested his head on his car’s steering wheel. He’d called Claire for the sole purpose of finding out where she was, where she was going to be, and to confirm when she planned to arrive tonight. All so he could get rid of Steve long before she showed up.
He was in way over his head with Claire.
Mitch walked into the bar early, claiming a small table. Antique wood doors-some with ornate knobs or etched glass-split the bar in two to allow more private seating, but Mitch wanted to see the entire room and the main entrance, so he preferred a spot in the far corner.
A waitress stopped by and he ordered a pint. He was off duty, and he needed a beer about now. First the dive this morning and the subsequent investigation-he and Steve hadn’t left Isleton until after four that afternoon. Steve had to follow up on another case, so Mitch had taken care of the ubiquitous paperwork at headquarters.
Tomorrow morning he’d observe Maddox’s autopsy. Though not required to attend, it would get him a cause of death and an ID faster than if he waited for the report. The sheriff’s department had jurisdiction and was handling the evidence, but Deputy Clarkston had extended the invitation, and Mitch jumped at it.