Playing Dead (8 page)

Claire’s father had been convicted because of opportunity and motive. His gun was used, but there were no prints on it. It had been wiped clean, which the prosecution claimed was O’Brien’s attempt to cover up the murders. There was GSR on his hands, but he’d been at the gun range earlier that morning. The prosecution claimed he’d premeditated the murders, and therefore made sure that he had a good reason to have gunshot residue on his hands.

Other than the timeline, there was no other hard evidence. The jury, like the prosecution, didn’t believe that anyone else had the means or motive to kill two people at that exact time. No one had seen anyone else—stranger or friend—in or near the house.

Claire had trusted the prosecutor, Sandra Walters. Ms. Walters wanted justice for her mother and Chase Taverton. She’d been kind and supportive from the beginning, treating Claire with kid gloves both on and off the witness stand. Dave and Bill Kamanski, whom she stayed with during the trial, made sure that Claire was treated well. Everyone seemed overly nice to her then, but those months were a blur.

Bill hadn’t wanted her to come to the trial at all, but Claire had to. She had to hear everything, to try to understand how her father could have killed two people. How he could have killed her mother.

Claire didn’t remember the specifics of the trial. It was as if she’d listened to every word, and imprinted the transcript in her mind, but when she tried to recall details of testimony they were fleeting, just snippets of conversation here and there.

Two weeks before she started her sophomore year in high school, her father had been convicted. The trial had only lasted eight days, but it had taken nine months to build the case.

Three days after the conviction, the judge sentenced Thomas O’Brien to death.

In the courtroom, her father had turned and stared at her, his eyes haunted.

She’d run to the bathroom and dry-heaved.

“I’ve told the truth.” Her father’s flat plea bounced in her head.
I’ve told the truth. I’ve told the truth.

She could not accept it. Who else? Who else could have killed them? And why?

Her father had never admitted that he killed Lydia O’Brien and Chase Taverton. Even fifteen years of prison time and a half-dozen appeals hadn’t changed that.

And today, he’d said the same thing.

Oliver Maddox had found
something.
At one time, the Western Innocence Project had been interested in the case, otherwise why would they have had the files in their office?

Still, maybe Maddox was just trying to grandstand and come up with some brilliant thesis, or get himself some press, but he had to have a reason to tell his girlfriend that he had proof of “The Perfect Frame.” He had to have a solid reason to come to Claire and tell her he believed her father was innocent. He had to have something to convince her father that proof of his innocence was attainable.

She owed her dad—Claire owed
herself
—the truth. If not now, when? When her father was dead? When it was too late?

Tammy said Oliver was supposed to meet with his advisor, Professor Don Collier, that Monday. The missing person report would have been filed with the Davis Police Department. She needed to talk to the detective in charge and see if she could get copies of his reports—who he talked to and what they said. She didn’t know if it would help, but it might give her another path to travel.

Right now, all she had was the advisor. She’d left a message for him after talking with Tammy. She tried his number again, but when voice mail picked up, she immediately hung up.

She glanced at the time in the lower right-hand corner of her computer screen. Damn, she had to put this aside and go to her interview with Ben Holman, the owner of the warehouse that had burned down. She turned off her monitor, washed her face, and reapplied the light makeup she wore during the day.

She left in her Jeep and just as she merged onto the Business 80 toward Roseville, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was Dave Kamanski’s cell phone number. Normally she loved talking to her “brother”—the son of the man who’d taken on guardianship duty when her father had been sent to prison. Dave was ten years older than her and had been a rookie cop when she’d moved into Detective Bill Kamanski’s house. Dave had trained under her father and they’d been friends. Tom’s actions had hurt him nearly as much as they had Claire.

But now . . . Claire didn’t dare tell Dave her dad had contacted her. He was still a cop, a solid cop, and he’d insist she report it.

“Hi,” she answered.

“Kings game, seven o’clock, my house. Phil, Manny and Jill, Eric. Phil’s cooking.”

“I sure hope so,” she teased.

“Think Jayne is free tonight?”

Jayne Morgan was the computer expert at Rogan-Caruso and the closest thing Claire had to a best friend. She suspected that Dave had a crush on Jayne, but sadly it wasn’t mutual.

“I can ask, but don’t count on it,” Claire sidestepped.

“But you’re game?”

“I don’t think I can.” Mitch was picking her up at eight. She hadn’t introduced him to her “family.” That would necessitate her explaining to Mitch about her father being a killer—and a fugitive. Not to mention that Dave and Phil Palmer, his longtime partner, always gave her boyfriends a hard time. Mitch could probably hold his own, but they’d jab at him about being a freelance writer with no visible means of support, and no real job.

“Okay, ’fess up. What are you doing?”

“I have a date.”

“Bring him by. Someone we know?”

“No.”

“New guy?”

“Sort of.” She’d been seeing Mitch for a few months.

“Well? Doesn’t he like basketball?”

“He likes to play, not watch.”

“You’re dating an athlete now?”

“No, though I’d bet he can beat you at racquetball.”

“Bullshit. Your boyfriends are all wimps.”

“That’s not true.”

“You should date someone who’s your equal, Claire, not someone you can mentally and physically run circles around.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell me something new.”

“So you’re not going to bring him?”

“Not yet. I haven’t told him—well, I just like things the way they are, okay?”

Dave softened. “Claire, if you want to talk about your dad—”

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly? She cleared her throat. Oliver Maddox had also talked to Bill, but Claire hadn’t wanted to listen to what they’d discussed. But now she needed information . . . Would they realize something was up if she started asking questions? She’d have to tread carefully. Dave, Phil, and Manny were all smart cops. She needed to get Dave’s dad Bill alone. Bill had a soft spot for her. She didn’t feel good about exploiting him, but right now she needed all the information she could get.

“How about if I come by for the first half?”

He snorted. “Your date won’t mind?”

“No need to be snide, David.”

“Ouch. You must be pissed to call me
David.
”

“Later. I have an arsonist to interview.”

“The West Sac warehouse fire?”

“Yep.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

She hung up and pulled off the freeway, then turned into an upscale development in Roseville, a sprawling suburban city with over one hundred thousand residents, halfway between Sacramento and the quaint Gold Country town of Auburn.

Before walking up to pound the final nail in Ben Holman’s proverbial coffin, she dialed Mitch’s cell phone number. Though she didn’t have time to talk, she hoped he’d answer. She loved his voice. No matter what mood she was in, talking to Mitch always made her feel good.

Voice mail picked up.

“This is Mitch Bianchi. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

He sounded far more formal on tape than in person. She said, “Hi, Mitch. It’s Claire. Slight change of plans. I need to make a stop tonight and it’ll take me awhile. I’ll meet you at the Fox & Goose about nine. Sorry. Call me if there’s a problem or . . .”
if you just want to talk.
That would sound stupid. “Or whatever,” she finished lamely. “ ’Bye.”

She pulled together her file and clipboard, checked her weapon, and walked up to interview Holman.

SEVEN

The assassin was anxious and excited. He’d be seeing Claire tonight. In the flesh.

When he came off duty he rushed home to shower and change. He didn’t want to be too early, so he tried to calm himself. He poured a glass of wine and sat on the edge of his bed, a towel around his waist. He turned on the television via remote.

The TV in his bedroom wasn’t connected to cable or an antenna; instead, it was hooked up only to his DVD player where he had one special disk. A compilation of the secret tapes he’d made of Claire. A “Best of Claire” movie.

He savored every moment. Every movement Claire made was burned into his mind; her every sigh, every word vibrated between his ears. It didn’t matter what she was doing as she lay in her bed. As long as he could see her, he was happy.

He’d had to be careful, play it cool, make sure that if the camera was found, it couldn’t be traced back to him.

When she’d been living in the apartment downtown, it had been much easier to tape her. It had been an old apartment with high, ornate ceilings. He’d planted the camera in the attic, a small hole drilled through an edge in the molding. It was perfect: virtually undetectable. The camera equipment had been expensive, but well worth it—and he had the money, considering he killed annually for the blackmailers.

But he’d been taping her since long before she moved out on her own.

The disk’s first scene was of Claire undressing. She’d been sixteen at the time. Perfect in every way.

She came out of her private bathroom wrapped in a white towel, black hair wet, slicked back. Her hair had been long then, very long and lustrous.

She sat on the edge of her bed, brush in hand, combing through her thick hair. She was looking off into a corner, and he’d always wondered what she was thinking about just at that moment. She’d looked so wistful.

When her hair was tangle free, she braided it down her back, as she often did before she went to bed.

“I really should cut my hair,” she said to her reflection in the mirror.

“No,” he said out loud, thirteen years after the tape had been made. She ended up cutting her hair short when she was twenty, never letting it grow past her shoulders.

She dropped the towel and stood naked in the middle of her room.

Perfect.

Her skin was white, with very faint tan lines from the bikini she had worn the summer past. Her brown nipples tilted up slightly, her breasts round and heavy. He loved those breasts, how he longed to touch them. She was slim and curved, a faint hourglass figure on her petite frame. She was a hair over five foot three, though she’d put five foot four on her new driver’s license.

Then she turned and he saw her magnificent backside, her beautiful shoulders, shapely hips. She bent over to pull underwear from a basket in the corner. One foot in, the other, sliding lacy panties over her hips. She grabbed a shirt out of the same pile, pulling it over her head, her body twitching, unknowingly seductive as she slid it down. A little shirt, it ended at the top of her panties. She sat at her desk and opened a book. Homework.

The disk cut to a scene in the same room, except that Claire was nineteen and not alone.

She was with a boyfriend. Because the assassin had watched her closely for years, he knew that this was the first time she’d had sex.

He hated it and loved it. He pictured himself in the role of Ian Clark, the asshole who’d taken Claire’s virginity.

Kissing her lips.

Licking her breasts.

Spreading her legs.

It was him, only him.

As he watched the disk, he pulled the towel off and took his hard cock in hand. He’d had the camera perfectly aligned with her bed, so he saw everything. The look on her face when the dipshit put his mouth on her breasts. She looked both nervous and excited.

Because she was Claire, she ended up taking over. She let the fool start, then she positioned him beneath her and controlled her own deflowering.

The assassin couldn’t see her face, so he closed his eyes. Listened. Claire’s moans. Gasps. Her “awww” as she controlled entry. Her “ummms” as she enjoyed new sensations.

He pictured himself taking Claire’s virginity. Felt himself entering her—but he would be on top. He would be in charge. He pummeled her, over and over, making her his, making her want him.

Closing his eyes, he watched Claire beneath him. Her black hair, long and silky, just like Bridget’s. Her eyes looked into his, so blue, so bottomless, so expressive.

It’s always been you.

With Claire, he never had problems with release. In his mind, he climaxed into her, then opened his eyes as the image that sent him over flashed in his head.

His hands around her neck. Her bloody eyes bulged, her hands clasped around his wrists in a death grip, her mouth open, lips blue.

No!

He didn’t want to kill her. Unlike the others, Claire was meant to be with him forever. But he wasn’t ready for her yet because he
would
kill her, and he didn’t want to, which is why he had to practice on others.

He wanted to protect Claire. The runaways died so she could live.

He opened his eyes, turned the DVD off, whipped the wet and sticky towel from his waist and tossed it in the hamper. He needed another shower.

He turned the water on cold. Dammit, he didn’t want it to be like this. He didn’t want to have to kill Claire. He wouldn’t. That’s why he hadn’t touched her in fifteen years. He’d had opportunities, but he never touched her inappropriately.

Fifteen years ago fate had stepped in and saved him. He’d never admit that to the blackmailers, but sending him to assassinate Chase Taverton had changed his life for the better.

*   *   *

He’d followed Chase Taverton three days to get a feel for his routine. Taverton didn’t have one, other than working long hours at the district attorney’s office. He’d considered taking him out that first day, but the blackmailers were concerned about the circumstances of Taverton’s death.