Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [107]
“Thanks.”
“Drake.”
“Excuse me?”
“Judge Drake. Might want to ask him. He was the judge at Lowe’s arraignment. If there was some big plea deal, he might know what it was about. He’s still on the bench.”
Claire sat there for a few more minutes, thinking. She wanted to get down to Isleton and talk to Lowe’s old boss, Tip Barney, but this was a hot lead, and the courthouse was only a few blocks away.
She pulled out her cell phone, looked up the courthouse number, and dialed. After several transfers, she was talking to Judge Drake’s secretary. She told her why she wanted to speak to the judge.
“He’s on the bench right now,” the secretary said. “I’ll give him your message when he returns.”
“Is there any way you can look up the file?”
“No,” she said haughtily. “Plea agreement details are not always public record.”
Claire left her cell phone number and hung up. It was after one in the afternoon; she didn’t want to wait. Chances were the judge wouldn’t be done until late that afternoon. Time to hit Isleton and maybe when she returned the judge would be free.
Frank Lowe’s mother lived in a run-down row house in an old Elk Grove neighborhood surrounded by four-unit apartments built in the seventies.
Mitch knocked on the locked screen, then glanced at Steve and rolled his eyes. There was no doubt she was home. The sound of game shows rang loud and clear through the open windows. A wall air-conditioning unit rumbled loudly in the background. No wonder her television was on full volume—Mitch couldn’t hear himself think. He rang the bell, holding the buzzer down for three full seconds.
The woman may not have heard the bell, but the small dogs did. Three of them began barking in earnest.
“Down, boys! Down. Stop it!” A moment later she opened the door. “Yeah?”
“Ms. Betty Lowe?”
“Yeah? You selling something I don’t want?” Ms. Lowe was a short, skinny woman. Dyed red hair with gray roots. Leathery skin from long-term sun exposure.
Mitch and Steve flashed their badges. “FBI Special Agents Bianchi and Donovan, ma’am. We have a couple questions about your son if you don’t mind.”
“Who? Frank? He’s dead. Can’t get into any trouble from the grave.”
“Yes, ma’am, but we’re looking into his death.”
“The fire?”
“Yes.”
She opened her screen and they stepped across the threshold. Three fluffy dogs barked and turned in circles at Mitch’s feet. They ignored Steve.
“You must have a dog at home,” Ms. Lowe said. “That’s why they’re acting up.” She herded the dogs down the hall and shut the door behind them. They barked a minute, then calmed down.
Mitch didn’t have a dog, but he had been around them a lot lately. He put Claire out of his mind—and the question of where she might be right now—and focused on finding out if Betty Lowe knew anything about her son’s activities prior to his death.
Steve asked, “Just for the record, are you Frank’s only living relative?”
“I have two sisters, both live out of state. Never see them. My parents are dead. They didn’t much care for me after I got pregnant with Frank and didn’t want to get married.”
“Frank’s father isn’t in the picture?”
“He was, on and off. More off, really, until Frank was grown. I think if Tip was around more, Frank wouldn’t have been so wild growing up. Though the military was good for him, very good.”
“Frank’s father is Tip Barney?”
Mitch couldn’t restrain his surprise, and Ms. Lowe turned to him. “Is there a problem? Tip and I never married, and he never paid child support, but we settled that after Frank died. Tip felt awful about that, sent me half the insurance money from the fire and moved to Los Angeles.”
“Did Frank know that Tip was his father?”
“Know? Of course he knew. Tip came ’round every so often, gave Frank that job in the bar when he got out of prison. Why is this important?”
“We’re just trying to put the pieces together of what happened during the two weeks prior to the fire,” Steve said.
“Frank always had sticky fingers. It’s why I kicked