Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [97]
Mitch glanced at Steve. Had he said anything? He didn’t think so . . .
“I know you better than you think,” Meg said. “Remember, we used to be friends.”
“I thought we still were.”
“We’re getting there. Be careful.”
Mitch and Steve parked in front of the Rabbit Hole just before nine that morning. The sign said closed, but the posted hours were 9 a.m. to midnight, Tuesday through Saturday; noon to ten on Sunday.
“Maddox called the Rabbit Hole at 9:45 p.m. on Sunday. Near closing,” Mitch said.
“Yet he left Davis about 5:30 that afternoon,” Steve said. “Where was he for those four hours?”
“Without anyone coming forward, we may never know. But we do know that he was alive at 9:45 p.m. since we recovered his cell phone, which was attached to a charger in his car. Maybe he called the Rabbit Hole because he was running late and knew they closed at ten, and wanted to make sure that whoever he had planned to meet was still there.”
Mitch checked his BlackBerry for the report Meg promised to send.
The e-mail was there. Mitch scanned it. “There’s nothing unusual. Born in Sacramento County at Mercy Hospital in 1967. Hmm, younger than I thought. That makes him about forty-one. He joined the military in 1985 when he turned eighteen, out in three years—communications. Honorable discharge but nothing else noted. Didn’t take the GI Bill. First arrest in 1989 for theft. Again in 1989. Pled, community service . . . same, same, six months for theft in early 1990. Then he started working at Tip’s Blarney, no arrests. Clean for a couple of years, or just a better thief.”
“Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Get this—he became an emancipated minor at the age of sixteen. Why?”
“Maybe his parents were dead.”
“Not his mother. She lives in Elk Grove. That’s on the way back to Sacramento.”
“Fine, we’ll make the stop. But again, maybe Maddox took the coincidence and built it up in his head as something more than it was.”
“Then who killed him? This is the only thread he gave O’Brien other than Taverton was the target. The Rabbit Hole is owned by Lowe’s former boss,” Mitch continued, his voice lowering in his excitement that the final pieces of a complex puzzle were within reach. “That must be the connection Maddox made. Why he came down here in January.”
“You think this guy killed Maddox? That’s a stretch.”
“Unless he burned down his own bar fifteen years ago for the insurance money.”
“Getting away with arson—and murder—is rare, especially when there’s a profit motive.”
Mitch picked up his phone and dialed Meg’s direct line. “Agent Elliott,” she answered.
“Meg, it’s me. Can you also run a background check on Tip Barney? The owner of the bar where Frank Lowe died. I see here that Barney got a nice insurance settlement. He now owns the Rabbit Hole in Isleton.”
“Got it. I have to go.” She hung up.
The Rabbit Hole looked like a dive from the outside—a narrow corner entrance, no windows, and a plain wooden sign with a white rabbit painted on it nailed above the door.
As they watched from across the street, two old, slow-moving men—one large, one small—approached the door. They stood there after trying the door and finding it locked.
A minute or so later, a slender, fit man in his forties—judging by the graying hair—came out of an opening that Mitch hadn’t noticed. He glanced up and saw that there were windows above the bar. An upstairs apartment? Likely.
The man smiled at his patrons and opened the door. They entered together and the door closed.
“Ready?” Steve asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
When they entered the bar Mitch expected a stench of stale beer and burned popcorn. Instead, the ventilation was surprisingly good and the bar smelled fresh and clean. A jukebox stood prominently next to the bar, but no music played. Probably too much external stimulation for the morning drinkers.
A smattering of cocktail tables with two or three chairs each were grouped to one side; a small, worn wood dance floor was