"Which is the only reason I'm here."

She got to the point. "You arrested a man named Frank Lowe fifteen years ago. In November of 1993. The charge was home invasion robbery-I don't remember the specific penal code. But he was about twenty-five, a petty thief, broke into a house where a little girl was sleeping after her mother left."

"I remember."

"After fifteen years you remember?"

"I don't remember the name, but I remember the arrest. Girl's dead now."

"What?" She frowned at the non sequitur.

"Mother was a piece of work. Left the girl every night. I didn't buy for a minute that she was running to the store for five minutes. So I added that house to my regular drive-bys. Mother brings a guy home, he moves in, beats both the mom and the kid. I get two domestic calls in three months. Mom won't press charges, third call is a homicide. Guy was beating up on the mom, the kid walks in and tries to stop him, gets shoved aside, and cracks her head open on the fireplace."

"That's awful."

"Yeah, so I remember that call. Hate the fact I could do nothing to protect the kid. What can we do? The system is f.u.c.ked."

"If it is so f.u.c.ked why are you sitting here dressed as a b.u.m and smelling like ripe garbage?"

He stared at her. "You trying to help your dad?"

"He's innocent."

He raised an eyebrow.

Claire continued, "Taverton was a.s.signed to the Lowe case. Arraigned, then there's evidence that maybe there was a plea agreement. All hush-hush. Taverton's records disappear, he's killed, Lowe dies in a fire, and my dad is framed for murder."

Abrahamson didn't respond for a long minute. "I honestly don't remember much about what happened after the D.A.'s office took the case. I would have testified at trial, but then Taverton called me and said he was working a plea. I probably said something to tick him off-I have no tolerance for prosecutors who let repeat offenders off. But because it was so unusual I do remember what he said to me before slamming down the phone."

"Which was?"

"He said, 'Sometimes you have to put a little fish on the hook to bait the bigger fish. And when I'm done with this case, you'll be hearing about it for years to come.' "

"That's it?" Claire was heartbroken. She'd hoped he knew something more. A name, perhaps, or at least something more to follow up on.

"That's it. At least what I remember. It was a long time ago, and I've arrested easily a thousand perps since." He stood, began shuffling away.

"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 him out of the house when he was a teenager. He started stealing from friends, and I was having none of that. He went to live with his great-aunt after living on the streets didn't sit well with him. Aunt Rose and Frank seemed to get along all right, though I think Frank was the only person she didn't hate. Frank was a nice kid. Just couldn't keep his hands off other people's stuff."

"Is that why Frank got emanc.i.p.ated?" Steve asked.

Regret crossed Ms. Lowe's face. "Aunt Rose died and Frank thought she was leaving her house to him-he liked it out at her ranch. He'd been living there on and off about a year, in the apartment above the garage. Had a part-time job. Helped her when she needed it. Then she ended up having her house sold to some developer and giving the money to a conservancy group. Not that I'm knocking the need to help the environment, mind you, but it wasn't like her. She was stingy. I expected her to want to be buried with her money. Giving it to a liberal charity? Naw."

Her voice softened. "I was a bit of a free spirit back then. I let Frank do what he wanted. In hindsight, that wasn't such a good idea. I didn't discipline him enough, but see, my daddy always used a paddle on my b.u.t.t, and I didn't want Frank growing up being hit to stay in line. And he was a good kid, but for those sticky fingers. We'd just started getting things back on track when he died."

"We're sorry for your loss," Steve said.

She sighed. "I miss them."

"Them?"

"Frank and Tip. Tip moved to L.A. after the fire-I think he blamed himself in some ways-and he died of cancer two years ago."

Mitch straightened, exchanged glances with Steve. "Do you know what Frank was offered as a plea agreement before he died?"

She was confused. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know he was arrested for home invasion robbery two weeks before the fire."

"Of course, but he told me they gave him probation. Community service."

So she didn't know anything. "Do you have any of Frank's personal effects?"

She shook her head. "No. Frank hadn't lived with me since he was fifteen, I didn't see any reason to keep anything, and he took what he wanted."

"Do you have a picture of Tip Barney?"

"Why?"

"For our report," Steve said.

She rose, crossed to a bookshelf, and took out a photo alb.u.m. She sat back down, flipped through it. Near the back she pulled out a picture. "This was Frank and Tip at the bar about a year before the fire."

She handed the picture to Mitch.

He stared. Showed it to Steve. Everything clicked into place. "May we borrow this?"

"Sure. I probably have the negatives somewhere."

"We'll return it," Mitch promised.

They thanked Ms. Lowe for her time, then walked out.

"It all makes sense now," Steve said.

"Frank survived the fire-or faked his own death-because he feared for his life," Mitch said, holding up the picture. "Think he and his father went to L.A. together?"

"And when his dad died, he took his ident.i.ty and moved back, close to home."

"Now we just have to figure out why."

"Back to Isleton."

THIRTY.

Claire parked down the street from the Rabbit Hole in Isleton.

She'd just gotten off the phone with Nelia Kincaid. Less than three hours from now Tom O'Brien would surrender at FBI headquarters and be taken to Sutter Memorial Hospital for evaluation and possible surgery.

She wanted to see her dad before he went into surgery. What if he didn't survive? She shook her head. Right now figuring out who killed her mother and Chase Taverton was the single most important thing. She'd call Nelia when she was back in Sacramento and see if the attorney could get her in to visit her dad.

She took a deep breath and put her forehead on the steering wheel. She hadn't slept much last night after her father and Nelia left. She worked on the case, putting together all the information she had and what she needed to check out, telling herself it was for her dad. And all that was important, but it was all rehashing the same stuff.

The truth was, as soon as she went to bed, she couldn't get Mitch out of her mind.

She wanted to be angry with him. She wanted to hate him. He'd used her, manipulated her. She'd always prided herself on reading people, and yet Mitch hid himself, created a false ident.i.ty. And she'd fallen in love. He'd been exactly who she wanted him to be, as if the FBI agent had been able to read her subconscious and identify the perfect man for her. He became that man, and she fell for it. She'd exposed so much to him, not just her body, but her heart. She'd wanted to share more with him than with anyone.

Claire had dated more than a dozen guys, more or less seriously, over the years, but it never hurt-physically hurt-when they split. Nothing like this.

She almost wished she could cry over it again, but the tears had dried up last night.

Taking another deep breath, she got out of Bill's truck. Time to focus on what was most important right now: proving her father's innocence. She double-checked the Kahr P40 she had strapped in her ankle holster. She opted to leave her blazer in the truck, knowing full well that men were more forthcoming with information if you gave them something to look at. Anyway, her blazer made her look too much like a cop or a PI. She unb.u.t.toned one of the b.u.t.tons of her black shirt, just enough so her lacy pink bra could be seen if she turned the right way.

She retrieved her Taser C2 from her tactical bag in the back. She loved the new design-she'd bought the metallic pink version-as well as the intense voltage in a compact six inches. She could hit someone up to fifteen feet away. If Claire were being attacked, she'd rather take them down safely without having to touch or shoot them.

She stuffed it in her small purse, an image of hitting Mitch Bianchi below the belt with the two electric probes making her smile. Zap!

Much better. Focus on the anger, not the pain. Toughen up.

Claire surveyed the building. The Rabbit Hole was not much of anything to look at, but then again, at night Isleton pretty much rolled up the sidewalks unless it was their annual summer Crawdad Festival.

Downtown Isleton was quaint with restored buildings, a few gift stores, an old-fashioned ice cream "shoppe," and a video arcade. A must, Claire thought, for a small town. A sporting goods store took up half the block across from the Rabbit Hole. No surprise there, fishing and boating were big here in the delta.

Though it was the middle of the day, there was little sign of life on the street. Three young teens were walking around with nothing to do. A mother with two young children exited the ice cream shoppe. There were no windows in the bar, but a red neon sign declared they were OPEN.

She crossed the street and walked in. The bar was a third full-almost all of the men over sixty-and the music greeted her warmly. She didn't particularly like country music, but it fit the atmosphere, and the sound was definitely more pop-country than the soulful my-dog-died-and-my-wife-ran-away-with-the-sheriff ballads. Two men played chess in one corner, and a larger table had a quarter poker game going on.