Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [73]
“Missed you last night,” she said as she followed Bill.
“Waste of a night. Lost in overtime by three points.” He shook his head. “They’d better have their game on tomorrow.”
“You going to be at the game?”
“Yep, I have tickets for Friday and Saturday nights. Then they go back on the road. Why don’t you join me Saturday?”
“I’d like to, but—” She didn’t know what she would be doing Saturday. Claire didn’t want to make any plans for a while.
“Thirsty?”
“Water.”
“Milk. You’re too skinny.”
“Am not.”
Claire loved Bill’s sunny kitchen with the cheerful blue-and-white checks. Grover, a retired police German shepherd, raised his head and smiled at Claire—at least that’s what she liked to think.
She scratched Grover between the ears and sat at the table. Bill put a fresh-baked muffin and a tall glass of milk in front of her. She hadn’t had lunch, and devoured the muffin while Bill watched her from a seat across the table.
“Okay, that was good. I miss your baking. But I thought I smelled cookies.”
“You did. They’re in the oven. I made the muffins first, knowing they were your favorite.”
“It was delicious.”
“I’ll send some home with you.” He poured her a second glass of milk. “Dave called me this morning.”
“About Oliver Maddox.”
Bill nodded.
“You know he’s dead.”
“Dave told me. A tragedy. I liked him.”
She straightened. “How well did you know him?”
“Not well. But there’s something endearing about a young idealist searching for answers. I was an idealist when I became a cop. Thought I could protect and serve and be proud of every decision I made.” His voice trailed off and he glanced out the window, then back at Claire.
“Oliver lied to me,” said Claire. “He told me he was an attorney with the Western Innocence Project and they were looking into my father’s conviction. But when I called over there, I found out he had been an intern and was no longer even with the Project. So I didn’t listen to him, Bill, and I now regret it. You talked to him. What did he know?”
Bill said nothing for a long minute. Then, “If you’re looking for a clear indicator of guilt or innocence, I don’t have it. But I did listen to what Oliver had to say, and it was compelling.”
“Did he have proof that my father is innocent?”
“You need proof?”
She didn’t understand the question. “Of course I need proof. He was convicted of a double homicide. He killed my mother. But if he didn’t—yes, I need proof.”
“There wasn’t a lot of proof during the original trial. Tom was convicted on circumstantial evidence. Solid, to be sure, and back then I believed he was guilty. Weapon, motive, and opportunity.”
“What about now?”
“Oliver said the police investigation into Taverton was on the surface, at best. They never looked beyond the obvious—threats made against him, criminals he had prosecuted who were at the time out of prison. Yes, they covered their bases, but it wasn’t a thorough investigation because the district attorney believed they had the killer in custody. The investigation was more to prove Tom was guilty than to pursue any other possibilities.
“Truth is, that’s the way it is most of the time. While we do our best to look at all potential suspects, usually we know who the killer is and work our butts off to prove it. That was the way it was with Tom.”
Claire’s heart fell. “So Oliver had no proof.”
“What do you think, Claire? Knowing that the police didn’t follow up on Chase Taverton or his potential enemies, what do you think about the case?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. It matters a lot. Because there is reasonable doubt. I used to be a lot more hard-nosed about the criminal justice system. I hated how some of those bastards got off because of a ridiculous technicality, only to rape or rob or kill again. It made me so angry and fueled my younger self to be a diligent, hard-ass cop. I didn’t want any of the