Playing Dead (41 page)

Hans turned to him. “Mr. Collier, I don’t want to waste your time or mine. We can bring you in for a formal interview Monday morning. We simply want to make sure you can’t leave the country, until we find the answers we need.”

“Just—I’ll wait for my attorney. I want to get this over with.”

“So do we,” Hans said. “But your attorney is late.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s one o’clock on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. No one wants to be here.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Collier said. “You’re trying to get me killed.”

Mitch stared at him. “Give me a fucking break.”

“You want me to lead you to who killed Oliver? I had nothing to do with that, I had nothing to do with
anything,
and I’m not going to let you get me killed.”

Hans sat down. “I’m in a position to offer you immunity, Mr. Collier.”

“You’re not an attorney. You can offer me nothing.”

“I have a lot more clout than you might think. I’m not simply a babysitter transporting criminals cross-country.”

“I’m not a criminal,” Collier said. “I’ll stay here until my attorney arrives. And I’m going to sue you for false arrest, transport across country without my permission, and harassment.”

Mitch’s phone beeped and he frowned. He looked at the message. It was from Grant.

We found the S550. Registered to Chad Harper, we’re at his residence. He lives in a guest house on the property of Richard and Tiffany Mancini. He’s dead as well as the Mancinis. Call me ASAP.

Tom tried to open his eyes, but everything was too bright. His whole body felt bruised and heavy, but he wasn’t in any acute pain.

“Tom?”

Nelia was still here. “Umm,” he moaned.

“Thank God.”

He felt something warm touching his hand. Was Nelia holding his hand? He couldn’t tell. But he was alive.

“Claire came by early this morning,” Nelia said.

She’d looked so tired last night, but she’d come to him. His daughter believed in him. He had her back. The overwhelming relief and joy settled his soul like nothing else could.

“Am I—” Every word was a chore.

“Shh, don’t talk. Now that you’re awake, you’re going to be fine. Better than fine. The surgery lasted over eleven hours, but they got the bullet out and repaired the damage. You just need time to heal.”

Time.
Did he have time?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Nelia whispered close to his ear. “You’re safe here. You’re safe with me. I will do everything in my power to make sure you are cleared. Claire is working on it. The FBI believed you yesterday, they are following up on what you told them and everything Claire learned. Agent Elliott and Agent Bianchi both came by to check on you. They have a man on the door, but I think it’s more as protection for you at this point.”

“Good.” It was all he could say. Except, “Love you.”

“I love you, Tom. We’re going to get through this. You, me, Claire, all of us. There’s no one who deserves peace more than you.”

“Call Claire.”

“And tell her you’re awake?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it as soon as I find a nurse.”

THIRTY-NINE

Mitch stared at the three dead bodies in the entry of the midtown mansion.

Richard Mancini was a wealthy and successful Sacramento area developer. His bodyguard—for lack of a better word—Chad Harper had drawn his gun. His wife was dead just over the threshold of the living room.

He saw how it played out. Someone came to the door—had to be buzzed through, unless they had the code—and Harper opened the door. Did he see the threat immediately and draw his weapon? Or were they having a conversation, and it wasn’t until a few minutes later that he suspected a threat? Pulled his gun, but the shooter was faster. And accurate. Twice in the chest and once in head.
Bang bang bang.
Mancini must have been next, because there was no attempt to flee.

This was an experienced, professional, cold-blooded killer.

Mrs. Mancini, the least threatening, had been the last victim. She’d run toward the living room, perhaps toward a phone or just to get
away
from the shooter. She’d been shot in the back three times.

Why were they killed? Mitch looked around. There was a secure gate at the entrance, secure locks at the doors, there had to be cameras and added security.

“Did you find any cameras?”

“Yes, all digital, all erased. I have an e-team coming down to see if there are backups anywhere, but we couldn’t find anything.”

“The killer knew there was digital security. He knew the victims.”

“I’m guessing yes.” Grant led Mitch back outside. “The Escalade is registered to Richard Mancini. It’s packed with suitcases. His passport was in his pocket, Dina Mancini had a passport in her purse. They were going on a trip, and it hadn’t been planned. We’re calling the airports to learn their destination. The S550 is registered to Chad Harper. And guess what we found in the trunk?”

They walked over to the covered garage. The sheriff’s deputy was guarding the car; the trunk had been popped. Inside were dozens of shoeboxes. “Lora Lane’s shoebox collection,” Mitch said. Stuffed behind the boxes were clothes stained with what Mitch knew was blood. Lora Lane’s blood.

Grant reached down and took the lid off one box. Inside were several journals. He handed Mitch the one on top.

Mitch opened it. In perfect, frilly script:

December 10, 2007.

I arrived at the Rabbit Hole at 6:07 pm. I was late because Daddy had a special order for lures for his friend John Deynor, who likes sturgeon. I made two of my best lures, and they took me time because I wanted to make sure they were perfect.

Tip was behind the bar. He wore a white shirt and black jeans. He got a haircut today. Also in the bar were . . .

“What’s this? Her diaries? Why would someone kill her for her diaries?”

“I haven’t looked at them all, but they’re not diaries. They are notes on Tip Barney, but she also adds in her random thoughts and observations. They appear to go all the way back to when he first opened the bar in Isleton. The sheriff is letting us have the boxes, and I’m waiting for a team to transport them to the lab. We’ll work on it until we have an answer.”

Mitch glanced toward the house. “Why did Harper have them in his car? Why was Lora Lane . . . stalking Frank Lowe? Why would Harper care?”

“All good questions. I have no answers yet—”

Mitch shook his head. “Sorry. I was just thinking out loud.”

Mitch looked around. This felt odd. There was obviously a connection, but it eluded him.

His first reaction had been that a distraught Police Chief Lane had learned who had killed his daughter and came here for vengeance. But Mitch knew Chief Lane hadn’t left Isleton. Two agents were down there watching him and the Rabbit Hole.

Mancini. Developer. “Grant, do you know if Mancini was involved at all with Waterstone?”

“No idea. Meg was researching that.”

Mitch called Meg. “Who are the principals of Waterstone Development, other than Judge Drake?”

“Hold a sec.” A moment later, she said, “Jeffrey Riordan and Richard Mancini. Riordan is a congressman,” she added. “He’s running for Senate.”

“And Mancini is dead. What if Judge Drake didn’t fall or jump?”

“The Sac PD is all over the scene. I’ve spoken to the chief of police. He’s treating this as a possible homicide and has pulled the security tapes. His people are canvassing the building and immediate area.”

“If Drake was murdered, someone could be after Riordan now.”

“I’ll put an APB out on him. He shouldn’t be hard to find. But why?”

“I wish I knew. The only thing that connects all the dead is Rose Van Alden.”

“Van Alden? From Maddox’s flash drive?”

“Yes. Van Alden was Frank Lowe’s great-aunt. Van Alden’s will instructed the sale of her property to Waterstone, which resulted in a huge planned community. Drake, Mancini, and Riordan were all principals in Waterstone. Now Lowe, Drake, and Mancini are dead. Assassinated?” Mitch ran through everything he knew. “What if that’s what this was all about? What if Lowe tipped off Taverton about something to do with that original sale?”

“Big enough to kill a prosecutor to keep it a secret?”

“I’m not a finance guy, Meg. Can you put someone on it? Someone who understands land deals. And definitely get a warning to Riordan. He might want to come in for protective custody.”

“Unless,” Meg said, “he’s somehow a part of this. Do we want to tip him off?”

“So don’t. He’s a sitting congressman, we’re concerned about his safety and want him in protective custody until we find this assassin. I’m sure you’ll come up with something good. Maybe just put a couple agents on him at his house. But if he’s
not
involved, and he ends up dead, there’ll be hell to pay from Washington.”

“You got that right. I’ll take care of it.”

Mitch hung up. He’d brought Hans Vigo with him to the Mancini triple homicide. It was time for a fresh pair of eyes and ears. If he laid everything out for the senior agent, maybe Hans would see something new. If nothing else, he could help with motive. For a guy as laid-back and pleasant as Hans Vigo, his understanding of criminal psychology was eerie. “Hans, I need to run something by you.”

Meg bypassed the bureaucracy and called a friend at Quantico to pull Congressman Riordan’s private cell phone number. This was a matter of life or death, she could justify the intrusion into his privacy.

A man answered. “Hello.”

“Jeffrey Riordan?”

“Yes. Who are you? I’m busy and this is a private number.”

“Congressman, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Megan Elliott with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m calling because we have reason to believe that your life is in danger and I’d like to send two agents to your location to bring you into protective custody.”

There was a long silence, but he hadn’t disconnected.

“Congressman?”

“Why do you think I’m in danger? Has there been a threat against me?”

“In the process of investigating an unrelated matter, we’ve pulled files on Waterstone Development. Today two of the principals of that company were murdered. You are the third principal, and therefore we feel that there is sufficient threat until we can determine that the cause was unrelated to your connection with Judge Drake and Mr. Mancini.”

“I see. I’ll keep my eyes open. Thank you for the warning.”

He hung up.

Meg stared at the phone. That conversation was nothing like she expected. Rage, maybe—she’d dealt with assholes in Congress before. Fear, yeah—she’d had one congresswoman who’d been terrified over threatening letters she’d received. But complete dismissal?

She straightened as she realized that Riordan hadn’t expressed any shock or asked questions about Richard Mancini’s murder. While the media was all over Judge Drake’s more public death, no one outside of law enforcement knew about Mancini. Grant had found the bodies less than an hour ago while following up on the lead from the Lora Lane murder.

Damn, Riordan was an elected official. That meant politics, and one reason she’d transferred from the Washington D.C. field office when this promotion came up in Sacramento was because she was sick and tired of politics.

She should have known it didn’t matter—politics influenced everything. She called her boss and clued him in on the situation. “I’ll handle the flack,” he said. “Go ahead and put two agents on him 24/7. We’ll use the protective custody argument to surveil him—we have ample cause there—and I’ll contact the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

“We’re already on thin ice with Collier. His attorney is foaming at the mouth that we didn’t properly extradite him from New York.”

“I’ll handle the lawyers. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. In the meantime, we need to protect our asses. If Riordan is innocent and ends up dead, we’ll have just as many problems as if we didn’t jump through the damn legal hoops.”

Meg had just issued the surveillance order on Congressman Riordan when her cell phone rang. “Agent Elliott.”

“This is Nelia Kincaid.”

“Ms. Kincaid, this isn’t a good time. I’m pleased Mr. O’Brien is out of surgery, and—”

“It’s about Claire. I’m worried.”

“What happened?”

“Tom woke up thirty minutes ago. Claire wanted to see him when he was awake, so I phoned her at her home. There was no answer. I called her office, because I know she wanted to work—she hasn’t come in.”

“I’m sure she’s sleeping. There were heavy drugs in her system with harsh side effects. But I’ll call my agent and have him check on her.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Meg dialed Cliff Warren’s cell phone, with a tingle of worry. She’d met Claire, and while she’d tried to appease Nelia Kincaid, Meg didn’t think Claire would sleep through a ringing phone in the middle of an investigation where she had a vested interest.

Cliff didn’t answer his phone.

Meg called out to her secretary. “Bonnie, call Sac PD and have them drive by Claire O’Brien’s house and check in with her. Send two agents to follow up.”

Meg dialed Mitch. “Mitch? Are you still in Midtown?”

“I’m at Mancini’s, yes.”

“Cliff Warren isn’t answering his phone, and Claire isn’t answering hers.”

“I’m on my way.”

Thirty years ago he’d made a mistake that had cost him his soul.

Fifteen years ago he’d made another. But when you knew you were going to hell, protecting the new life you’d so carefully built seemed crucial.

But he knew now that it was over.

He finished digging Claire’s grave. Burying her was burying his past. He could start fresh. He’d have to leave the country; a new identity in America wasn’t going to help him this time.

He couldn’t go back to his true identity, or the new one he’d created. He’d be too easy to find. He’d taken the identity of a dead man to stay close to Claire, but it was only a matter of time before the FBI put it all together. Fifteen years of watching her, protecting her, loving her—all gone.

He was both angry and relieved.

Now he could kill her. Though he didn’t completely understand it, he’d stopped trying to figure out Claire’s deep connection to him. He’d known the day he’d seen her photograph before killing Taverton and Lydia O’Brien that Claire was his fate; but he also accepted that there was no rational explanation. Just like he knew the runaways he killed were all pale imitations of Claire.