Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [145]
Meg walked briskly down the hall. “Palmer entered the police academy in January of ’94. But when the Los Angeles DMV faxed over his driver’s license, I called them about a mistake. They double-checked. There’s no mistake.”
She held up an enlargement of a DMV photograph of Philip Palmer. A large black man smiled back at them. “Palmer?” Mitch asked. He hadn’t met him before.
“The real Philip Palmer.” She held up another photo. White guy. “This is the man who stole the dead Philip Palmer’s identity and graduated from the L.A. Police Academy.”
“Then who is that guy?”
“We’re working on it. L.A. has his prints on file, but it’s Saturday and they need to find someone to get into the archives. I’m also having the Sac PD run the prints they have for Palmer.”
Meg’s secretary, Bonnie, rushed up to them. “Here’s the information you wanted from Stanford. Lexie just called it in.”
“What’s that?” Richardson asked.
“It’s the list of everyone the police interviewed at Stanford about the disappearance of Jessica White, the girl who was on Maddox’s flash drive.” Meg scanned the list. “Drake, Riordan, and Mancini are all on the list. They were members of one of the fraternities that Jessica was seen at the night she went missing.”
“This is perfect,” Richardson said.
“Is Phil Palmer on it?” Mitch asked.
“No,” she said. “Sorry. We ran all cars and property under his name, and there’s nothing but his house on Robertson and the SUV found in the garage.”
Mitch followed Richardson and Hans back into the interview room where Collier sweated.
“Time’s up,” Richardson said.
“We want it in writing before my client says anything,” the attorney said.
“You’ll have to be satisfied with it on tape,” Richardson said, handing over a tape to the attorney. “The clock is ticking on a young woman’s life, and I haven’t the time to play any more games.” He slammed the list of names in front of Collier.
“Do you know what this is?”
Collier frowned, read the list. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “I never knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Phil Palmer. That’s not his real name. I never knew he went to Stanford. I swear, all I knew was that Judge Drake had blackmailed someone into killing Taverton. I didn’t know before they were dead, I swear to God, it was after the fact. After they were already dead, Hamilton asked me to sit on Reny Willis and coach him in how to falsify the coroner’s report and testify in court. Hamilton had dirt on Willis—I don’t know what it was, but it was serious enough that Willis was willing to help frame Tom O’Brien.”
“Why did they want Taverton dead?”
Collier licked his lips. He was shaking. “Riordan, Hamilton, and Mancini—they killed Rose Van Alden and the judge forged a will so that she’d sell the land to Waterstone. She was old, she was stubborn.”
“Where does Frank Lowe fit into it?”
“He saw Riordan leaving the old lady’s house. He didn’t know who he was at the time, he was a nobody, but Lowe later figured it out and kept his mouth shut. I guess he wanted to live. Then he was arrested and facing major time, and he talked to Taverton. Taverton brought in Judge Drake, not knowing he had a hand in Van Alden’s death, and Hamilton called this guy from his fraternity. He told me later that they used this guy for murders. He was their own personal assassin. Hamilton thought that was funny.”
“He’s not laughing now,” Mitch said. “His blood is spattered all over 4th Street.”
Finger shaking, Collier tapped a name. “Bruce Langstrom. He changed his name to Philip Palmer, but they are one and the same.” He stared at them, his face white. “I’ve only met him once, but he’s the coldest bastard I’ve ever seen.