Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [149]
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.”
“An assassin,” Meg said. “They brought him up here for a job.”
“Why did he stay?” Mitch asked. “If he went back to L.A., he’d never have been connected to Taverton’s murder. A hired gun. He could disappear.”
“This is why.” Hans handed Meg a photograph over the seat.
“Jessica White?”
“Doesn’t she look familiar? I mean, I haven’t seen Claire O’Brien in person, but I’ve seen her photograph and they certainly look a lot alike.”
Mitch stole a glance at White’s picture. The resemblance was there. Black hair and blue eyes and pale skin. “That might mean nothing.” But Mitch didn’t believe his own statement.
“Hold on. I found something.”
Mitch glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Hans open his laptop and start pounding away on the keyboard. He asked, “What?”
“Let me pull up a photo if I can find it.”
“Photo of who?”
“There’s an odd thing in Langstrom’s file. Sealed juvenile records.”
“Not a criminal file,” Hans added. “He was a witness. Damn, I can’t access the file, but I have a name. State of California v. Bridget Lincoln.”
“Did he testify for the state or the defense?” Meg asked.
“Don’t know,” Hans mumbled, typing frantically. “Bingo!”
He handed his laptop over to Meg.
“Shit, Hans, she looks just like Claire.”
Mitch tried to look, but Meg said, “Keep your eyes on the road. You’re going over ninety. There’s Watt.”
“I see it.” He cut across lanes to exit.
“Trust me, she looks like Claire,” Meg said.
“What happened to her?”
Hans said, “She went to prison for five years for statutory rape. She was the principal of a private K–8 school in Glendale. I’ll bet a million bucks that Langstrom went to that school and was one of her victims.”
“That’s sick,” Meg said.
“Men aren’t the only pedophiles,” Hans said. “Women pedophiles and rapists are rare, but they exist. It’s usually a maternal situation instead of a violent attack. They provide a needed mother figure to the male victims—usually prepubescent without a mother in the home and often with a domineering or