"But you know who did, you kept them informed of Maddox's investigation. You set the poor kid up. You listened to everything he learned, and when he got too close you sent him to his death."

"No," Collier whispered.

"Shut up," the attorney said.

Now Mitch wanted to smack the attorney more than Collier. "This is the only chance you're going to get to make a deal, and clear your conscience in the process." Mitch doubted Collier had a conscience, but he kept it to himself. Collier was weighing the pros and cons, Mitch saw it in his eyes.

Richardson said, "You have five minutes, then the deal's off the table. You'll be required to give up your license to practice law. You'll be required to answer truthfully all our questions, and a.s.sist us with information we uncover in the process of this investigation. In exchange, we will grant you immunity from prosecution. The U.S. Attorney is writing it up in my office as I speak. It's now or never. And I don't bluff."

"Leave me alone with my client," the attorney said.

The four men left the room. "He'll take it," Hans said.

"I hate letting him off," Matt said.

"Me too, but he may be the only one who can save Claire's life. And if he doesn't know where Palmer took Claire, she's going to die. I know it." Mitch was grim.

"If it's unconnected to this case, we just gave him immunity for nothing," Richardson said.

"Rest a.s.sured, we didn't," Hans said. "Collier knows who killed Drake and Mancini, and he knows who framed O'Brien and why. There's a lot at stake here, but Claire O'Brien needs to stay our number one priority right now. And while I just came into this case today, I don't see how her kidnapping isn't connected. It's the timing. If Palmer wanted to kidnap Claire for an unrelated reason, he had many, better opportunities to do so over the years. But when she was in a houseful of friends and with an FBI bodyguard? His actions tell me that Palmer feels cornered about something-perhaps information that we have, or he thinks we have, about the Maddox murder or O'Brien frame."

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 ident.i.ty 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 G.o.d, 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 n.o.body, 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 a.s.sa.s.sin. 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d I've ever seen. He'll kill me. I'm not leaving this room until you have him in custody."

FORTY-TWO.

Phil kept the large-screen television replaying her most private life while he bandaged her leg. Claire was numb inside. Her privacy, which had been so important to her especially since her father's conviction, had been violated in ways she'd never imagined.

This psychopath-someone she'd thought was a friend-had watched her for years. Getting undressed. Sleeping. Stretching. Doing crunches and push-ups and leg-lifts in her bra and panties. When Claire had thought she was alone.

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 G.o.d, 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 antic.i.p.ated. She was naked in bed going through the awkward motions of her first s.e.xual 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 h.e.l.l, 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...b..ien. 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 f.u.c.king another man. I did him a favor."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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?"