Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [72]
“Yeah,” Dave admitted.
“We can check up on him,” Phil suggested. “Just a quick look. Make sure he doesn’t have a record or anything.”
“Last time we did that we learned what’s-his-name had two DUIs.”
“She was pissed,” Eric said.
“She thanked us later,” Phil reminded them. “She was madder at the jerk than she was with us.”
Claire’s best friend in high school had been killed by a drunk driver. She had zero tolerance for it, and Dave had known that when he told her about the boyfriend. His dad had jumped down his throat when he found out, telling Dave to stay out of Claire’s personal life or she wouldn’t forgive him.
“People need to screw up on their own. That’s how they learn.”
But Dave was overprotective of Claire, he couldn’t help it. He remembered when she first came to live with them—she never slept through the night, waking to terrifying nightmares that had him and Bill running to make sure she was okay. She’d been a scared teenager who needed them. Just because she was a grown woman who carried a gun and Taser didn’t mean she didn’t still need them.
“Just a quick look,” Dave said. “Make sure he’s clean, and we don’t say anything, okay?”
“Unless he’s a wanted mass murderer,” Eric teased.
Dave hit him on the arm as they walked to Dave’s desk in the bull pen.
“Mitch Bianchi isn’t a common name,” Dave said as he sat down at the computer. “We should have something—or nothing—pretty quick.”
He brought up the DMV database and typed in the name. Nothing. He typed in “Mitchell” for the first name. Nothing.
“Odd,” Dave said. “Maybe Mitch is a middle name or something.”
“Or he never got a driver’s license,” Eric said.
“In California? Rare,” Phil said.
“Maybe he’s not from California,” Dave said. “Claire said he was house-sitting in her neighborhood. He’s a writer.”
He put a search into the criminal database. Nothing popped up. “He’s clean,” Dave said.
“Except he doesn’t have a California driver’s license,” Eric said.
“Okay, what about a broader search,” Phil suggested. “Noncriminal.”
Dave was curious as well. He went into the full files.
Nothing.
“Shit,” Dave said. “Who is this guy? There’s nothing on him.”
He played around a bit more with the database. He could find nothing. He broadened the search nationally. Nothing. Then he decided to Google Mitch Bianchi and opened an Internet browser.
Fewer than two dozen webpages had the name. Most were genealogy related.
One article popped up.
It was a newspaper article from the Dillon Tribune, a small weekly paper out of Montana.
Sheriff Tyler McBride credited agents with the FBI in helping track the two San Quentin fugitives during the worst blizzard of the season.
“Hans Vigo and Mitch Bianchi went above and beyond helping protect residents of the Centennial Valley. I commend both of them, and consider them friends.”
* * *
“He’s an FBI agent?” Phil asked, shocked.
“Claire’s going to flip,” Eric said. “Why did he tell her he’s a writer? Is he undercover?”
“He’s using Claire to get to Tom.” Dave wanted to strangle him. How dare a Fed insinuate himself into Claire’s life, date her, lie to her?
“Shit,” Eric muttered.
“Bastard,” Phil said. “Do you think Claire knows where Tom is?”
“No,” Dave said, though after his conversation with her last night he wasn’t so sure. “I have to tell her.” His heart sank. The last person he wanted to hurt was Claire.
“Of course you do,” Phil said.
“Damn straight,” Eric concurred. “Do you want us to go with you?”
“No,” Dave said. “I have to do it myself.”
TWENTY
Claire rushed to Bill’s house, opening the front door as the big grandfather clock in the entry struck once to mark half past the hour. The warm aroma of fresh-baked sugar cookies filled the house. Bill had taken to baking after his wife died, when Dave was barely a teenager.
Bill walked down the hall from the kitchen and greeted her with a warm bear hug. “I thought I heard that Jeep of yours in the drive.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“We didn’t have a set time. Come into the kitchen. I have cookies in the oven.”
She loved Bill, more like