Playing Dead (44 page)

Bile rose to her throat. Her life wasn’t hers. He’d sullied it, every private moment. Her tears. Her laughter. Her friends. He’d watched her dress and undress. He’d seen her naked. He’d seen her try on new clothes, new bras, looking critically at her body in the mirror.

“How long?” Her voice was hollow.

“Long enough. I couldn’t find a place for the camera in your McKinley Park house, not a well concealed place. And it was a lot harder getting in there undetected.”

But Bill’s house, and her first apartment.

The men she’d dated. Oh God, she’d slept with men in her bed. And Phil watched.

Ian walked into her room on-screen. Ian Clark, her first serious boyfriend.

“You saw everything?” she whispered.

“When you were nineteen you brought that boy home and gave him your virginity.”

He slapped her so hard that her head whipped to the side.

He fast-forwarded the disk, then pressed play when it reached a spot he obviously anticipated. She was naked in bed going through the awkward motions of her first sexual encounter. They had both been seniors. Two days later, Ian had broken up with her for no reason. At least no good reason, nothing she understood at the time.

“I’m done,” he said.

“What?”

“I just—it’s not a good idea for us to see each other anymore.”

“What do you mean? But—” He’d said he loved her. She thought she loved him too, at least that’s how she felt when they were together. She hadn’t told him, because she wasn’t sure about anything in her life. She was still getting used to trusting someone, she’d thought she trusted him . . .

“I’m going away to college, and you’re staying here. I don’t want any ties.”

“You lied to me.”

He looked her dead in the eye. “Yeah, I did. I got what I wanted, and now it’s over.”

Ian had hurt her more than anyone . . . until Mitch. But what she’d felt for her first boyfriend was nothing compared to the complex emotions she had for Mitch. Mitch had touched a part of her she hadn’t seen or felt before. He’d brought out a better Claire, better all the way around because Mitch was the first person she had truly been herself with.

But he’d lied to her. Just like Ian, just like . . .

But her father hadn’t lied. He’d told the truth and she hadn’t believed him. Claire had seen what she wanted to see, the obvious, and blamed him.

She’d looked at the facts with Mitch, at the obvious, and accused him of using and manipulating her. And he had lied . . . but had he lied about what was most important? Had he lied about his feelings?

Did he love her like she loved him?

What was going to happen if he found her dead? After what she’d said to him. After he poured his heart out to her. She’d been angry with him, but mostly she’d been hurt. Hurt because she loved him so deeply.

More than anything, Claire wanted to live. She knew what Phil was doing. He was playing a psychological game to strip her of her spirit and will. She hardened her heart, ignored what was on the screen, pushed aside the theft of her privacy.

“Did you have anything to do with Ian breaking up with me?”

“He made his own choice. The right one.”

“But you pushed him?”

“I’ve always protected you.”

“You’re sick.”

He sighed. “I know.”

That was the last answer she expected.

“You pushed Dave to tell me about Mitch.”

“I didn’t know he was a Fed. That was unfortunate. But Dave took care of it. I knew he would.”

“Dave trusted you. I trusted you!”

“Then you only have yourself to blame for what’s about to happen.”

He finished taping her leg. It hurt like hell, but it wasn’t bleeding anymore. She certainly wouldn’t be able to run from him. He’d taken off her jeans, but he hadn’t touched her anywhere but her leg.

Yet.

Her only hope was to find a weapon. Disarm him, perhaps, and shoot him. She’d have to shoot him. Could she?

She stared at the television, at her young naked body. Oh, yes, she could kill him . . .

Her teddy bear. The room she’d woken up in, a replica of her bedroom when her mother had still been alive.

The perfect frame. Another killer, someone without a connection to the victims. Someone like Phil Palmer. He hadn’t moved to Sacramento until months after her mother was killed. How did he know what her room looked like? How had he gotten the picture of her and Amy? How had he found her teddy bear?

He’d been in her room before.

“You killed my mom.”

“Yes, I did.”

She reeled as if hit. She’d expected him to deny it, to yell at her, to slap her.

Her voice cracked, but she asked, “Why?”

All these years, she’d been friends with her mother’s killer. She’d blamed her father, and ate dinner and went to ball games with the real killer. She’d been so wrong, both about her father and about Phil. Phil was Dave’s partner. Phil had saved Dave’s life, made a lifelong friend in Bill Kamanski. He’d practically been family.

It was all a lie. All an act. He was a brutal murderer who had slithered his way into her life.

She wanted to throw up. And she wanted to kill him. He’d stolen everything from her: her mother, her father, her privacy, her life. She had lost everything, grew up practically an orphan, angry and lost inside. Unable to love anyone, unable to trust . . .

Until Mitch.

“It was nothing personal. I was blackmailed into it.” He sighed, as if it had been a minor irritation. “In college, I accidentally killed a girl. I didn’t know anyone had seen me bury her body. But they’re all dead now. I’m free. Or I will be free, as soon as I bury you.”

He stared at her forlornly. “I protected you all these years. I was supposed to kill everyone in the house. When you walked in, I was already there, hiding in your room. Waiting for the perfect time. I heard the door and feared it was O’Brien. That would have ruined everything. But it was you. I’d already fallen in love with you—I’d spent hours in your bedroom that morning—though I would have had to kill you if you’d seen me. But you ran out. Good thing. That gave me enough time to kill them and leave. You calling your father was icing on the cake. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. All I knew was that he was alone during his lunch hour while his wife was fucking another man. I did him a favor.”

“You bastard! You’re insane!” She pulled at her cuff; it tightened around her wrist. She tried to hit him with her free arm. He grabbed her wrist, holding it so tight it burned.

“It’s time for you to shower. I don’t touch any woman who’s not clean.”

She spat in his face.

He hit her and she tasted blood. Instead of swallowing it, she spat it in his face. He was going to kill her anyway, dammit, she wasn’t going to let him rape her too. Glancing at the television she felt violated already.

He wiped off her bloody saliva with a tissue from his pocket.

“You were always feisty. So smart. But not intelligent enough to put all the pieces together, were you?”

He unlocked the handcuffs and pulled her into the bathroom. He turned on the shower.

“Take off your clothes,” he told her.

“No.”

He took a knife from his pocket and cut off her shirt, nicking her skin in the process. He cut off her bra, leaving her breasts exposed.

He stared at them. Tears welled in her eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to cover herself, but he brought up the knife and sliced her forearm. She dropped them to her side. He stared at her breasts. “So beautiful. Even more beautiful than on tape.”

He reached out and touched one breast as if he were caressing a fragile glass figurine. She was shaking and closed her eyes.
Try for the knife, Claire. Try for the knife.

Through half-opened eyes, she realized she wouldn’t be able to disarm him. She couldn’t stand on her wounded leg while kicking his arm, and his hand was at an angle that would be hard for her to grab, almost impossible to twist without using her bad leg for leverage.

She would wait for the right time. Claire didn’t want to die. She would live to tell the truth about Phil Palmer. She stood shaking in front of him, dressed only in her small bright pink panties.

“Don’t move,” he said, and cut off the panties.

Tears streamed down her face.

“Shower.”

She stepped into the shower. Hot water stung the nicks on her chest and the gash on her arm. Her leg burned and she couldn’t stop herself from crying out in pain. Maybe she could buy some time. She could withstand the pain if only she had more time!

He was watching her through the glass. Watching her shower. She turned her back on him, but didn’t feel any safer or less violated.

“Use soap.”

She obeyed, more to relax Phil and give herself time to think of an escape. How could she get out of here? Running was out of the question.

Kill or be killed.

You don’t have a choice, Claire. First opportunity, you take it.

“You’re done,” he said after five minutes. His voice was thick. He was turned on by her nakedness. It made her ill.

When he handed her a towel, she noticed how dirty he was. His hands and fingernails were covered with dirt. Had he been gardening while she was drugged?

They’ll never find us. At least not until they find your grave.

He’d been out digging her grave while she’d slept off the drugs. She wrapped the towel around her body. He only had a knife in his hand now. What happened to the gun? She didn’t see it anywhere. She didn’t remember where he’d put it. In a drawer? There, on the dresser.

“I know what you’re thinking, Claire.”

His breath was on her ear.

“Accept your fate.”

He steered her at knifepoint to the bed. She let the towel drop to the floor “accidentally,” counting on his sick obsession with her breasts to distract him.

She reached down to pick it up. “Don’t,” he whispered.

She turned to face him, defiant. He stared at her breasts. He reached out and touched her nipple. She resisted the need to slap his hand away.

“Sit,” he said.

She sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned over her, his breath on her chest, and he reached for the cuffs that were attached to the bed.

“You hurt me,” she said, pointing to the three nicks on her chest where his knife broke skin when he cut off her shirt.

“I’m sorry.”

He actually sounded sincere.

“Please, Phil. Please don’t kill me.”

He gently touched her face. “I’m sorry I have to.”

The handcuffs clicked around her wrist.

“I need to shower now. You really are beautiful.”

He picked the gun up off the dresser, went into the bathroom, and shut the door.

The shower turned on again. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. She took the small fragment of soap she had clenched in her fist and rubbed it all around her imprisoned wrist. He’d been distracted by her breasts and hadn’t ratcheted it too tight. She made her hand as long and narrow as possible, pulling her thumb in toward the middle. Between the loose cuff and the soap, she slipped out.

She didn’t have a weapon, but she had time.

She slipped quietly out of his room, limping.

Get out of the house. Get out of the house now!

FORTY-THREE

It took the FBI twenty minutes to run a quick background check on Langstrom and find property he owned in rural eastern Sacramento County.

“Call the sheriff’s department,” Mitch said. “They may have a unit closer than we are.”

Richardson said, “Belay that. Mitch, this guy is a cop. He’s going to be listening for activity.”

“They all have cell phones nowadays,” Mitch said. “Can’t we do this off the radio?”

“You head over there right now, I’ll call the sheriff at home and get units sent over there without any chatter.”

Hans interjected. “He’s a cop and he’s a sociopath. He’ll be listening for chatter, as well as silence. When you talk to the sheriff, make sure he contacts only off-duty deputies, which will prevent
unusual
chatter.”

“Point well taken,” Richardson agreed.

Hans and Meg jumped in Mitch’s car. Two more cars followed. Mitch flew down the road as fast as he dared while Meg typed the address into the GPS system. “I’ll double-check the map,” Hans said. GPS was, unfortunately, often wrong. If they were off by a street, it might delay them from reaching Claire in time.

Mitch merged onto the freeway. It was dark, and traffic was light on Saturday night. He turned on the hidden police lights built into the grill of the small sedan. Cars moved out of his way.

“Take Business 80 to 50 east, exit Power Inn Road, to Jackson Highway. Langstrom’s property is off Dillard Road.”

“I know where Dillard is,” Mitch said, jaw tight. “It’s faster to get off at Watt.”

Hans was reading Langstrom’s file in the backseat. “He dropped out of Stanford shortly after Jessica White went missing,” he said. “Moved to L.A. His father is a renowned surgeon, Ander Langstrom. He died five years ago.”

“Mother?” Meg asked.

“Died when Langstrom was eight.”

“How did he steal an identity and go through the police academy?” Mitch asked. “Don’t they do background checks anymore?”

“It’s amazingly easy,” Hans said. “My guess is Palmer died and Langstrom assumed his identity. Or he killed Palmer and destroyed the body sufficiently to prevent recognition, then went about living the guy’s life. That’s going to take a little more research. But Langstrom all but disappeared fifteen years ago. He has a residence in Los Angeles, files taxes—on a sizable inheritance—and is considered a recluse. Palmer has also paid taxes, on a much smaller income.”

“None of this makes sense,” Mitch said. “Why would Langstrom kill two people he doesn’t know? Do you think Collier is credible, that Drake and his cohorts blackmailed Langstrom into murder?”

“As far-fetched as it sounds, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe it wasn’t simple blackmail. It looks like Palmer has a sizable bank account. His income is higher than what I’d imagine a fifteen-year veteran of the police force would make. But I don’t have his tax records. It’ll take our finance people to make sense of it.”