Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [80]
Claire rushed home, eager to go over the reports she’d received from Bill.
She was onto something.
TWENTY-TWO
Claire sat at her desk reading the police records on Frank Lowe.
Lowe had been a petty thief for most of his life. He had a sealed juvenile record, but Claire suspected it was more of the same. He broke into homes when the owners were away and stole small items—cash and jewelry. Never big-ticket stuff. But he was caught a half-dozen times, ended up with nine months jail time. After that he landed the part-time bartending job at Tip’s Blarney and moved into the apartment above the bar. That was in 1988, and he’d been clean for those five years. At least, he hadn’t been caught.
Until November 2, 1993. Two weeks before he died in the fire, he was arrested for a home invasion robbery. His statement was that he didn’t know anyone was home, that he’d seen the owner leave and then broke in through an open window. That was part of his M.O.—he never forced entry. He found the easy marks, and his statement was consistent with his other arrests.
Except that there was a minor child, a six-year-old girl, alone in the home.
Claire didn’t have time to dwell much on the idiocy of the mother leaving her young daughter alone—the mother claimed she was just going to the store for “a minute” and her daughter was sleeping. But the girl woke up and started screaming while Lowe was inside. Lowe fled and was apprehended by a neighbor who heard the girl.
He was arrested and booked. His arraignment was on November 4. Two weeks before he died. His trial was scheduled for six weeks later, right before Christmas, but he was dead by then.
Maybe this wasn’t the Frank Lowe whom Oliver had told her father about. Except he’d asked Bill to pull these police records. And Bill had done it, though it was absolutely against the rules. Why was Bill helping Oliver? Because he liked him? Or because he believed him?
Did Bill know—or suspect—something else?
She rubbed her eyes. She was getting too tired. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and though it was only six o’clock, she was exhausted. Isleton would have to wait until tomorrow. It was a dangerous road, and she didn’t want to drive it when she was so obviously worn out.
She started at the beginning of the last case and glanced at the arresting officer. G. Abrahamson. Abrahamson . . . Greg. She didn’t know him, but she’d heard the name. She needed to talk to him, find out if he remembered anything about that case.
Fifteen years. That was a lot of time in a petty theft case. Abrahamson wouldn’t remember it. Or if he did, why would he share with her?
Because her dad had been on the job. And if that didn’t do it, she would pull in Dave and Bill. It was worth a shot.
As she was about to track down Abrahamson’s phone number, her bell rang.
Mitch.
She’d almost forgotten, but now that he was here she was happy. She needed a break. Just a couple minutes. She wanted to spill everything, but knew that would be dumb. Even if Mitch understood what she needed to do, she refused to put him on the line.
She looked through the peephole, then opened the door to Mitch. “Hi.” She smiled.
He walked in. “Hi yourself.”
Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. The stress of the day disappeared for one blissful moment.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes, returning the kiss with the same force and passion, tilting her head slightly to get the best angle.
Mitch kicked the door shut with his foot and leaned her up against the wall, his body hard against hers.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
“Same here,” she said, breathless.
He leaned back, rubbed her shoulders. “You feel tense.”
“It was a busy day.” Busy was an understatement. She’d been moving nonstop for almost twelve hours. Her head was reeling with all the information she’d collected.
“Have you eaten?”