Allison Brennan - Playing Dead

Without the Van Alden property, the entire deal would fall apart and they’d be out millions. They wouldn’t recover for years. And some of the investors would take it out on them. But with the property, they were set for good. The money they’d make would launch their careers.

He’d attempted to charm, plead with, cajole Van Alden into selling. He hadn’t wanted to kill her. He’d always gotten what he wanted when he wanted it because of his charisma and good looks. None of it worked on the old lady. Jeffrey hated to fail. Failure was, simply, never an option.

So she had to die.

Rose Van Alden was a small woman. She looked like a gray, wrinkled child when she slept. Her mouth was open and she snored lightly. She slept on her back, which made the job easier. They didn’t want a struggle that could potentially leave suspicious marks on the body.

Jeffrey had the clear plastic garbage bag in his hands. Hamilton had come with him to hold the blankets down in case she tried to fight. Fighting would leave marks that might lead the police down the wrong path.

Jeffrey leaned over the body and placed the plastic over her face, holding it tight on both sides by pressing into the pillow, not her body.

Her eyes flashed open and in the black gloom of the bedroom her white pupils seemed to glow. Swallowing uneasily, he didn’t flinch as Rose Van Alden’s body twitched. He didn’t flinch when she reached up and hit his arm, her pitiful attempts unsuccessful. When she tried to grab his hand, Hamilton reached over to stop her, but Jeffrey whispered, “Don’t! You’ll leave a bruise.”

She never got ahold of any part of him. Just flailed about. Her eyes rolled oddly, and then closed. They briefly opened and he stared at death. His heart thudded, his blood pumped hot, but he saw everything with shocking clarity. The moisture on the plastic where her mouth and nose couldn’t draw breath; the knowledge of death in her blue eyes. Her skin, flattened by the plastic, distorted. In the moment of his first kill, he had never felt more alive.

Jeffrey had never told Hamilton and Richie how he felt killing Rose Van Alden. For them, it was a necessary evil. It was about money, not murder.

For Jeffrey, it was about both.

Hamilton was in private practice then. A new attorney with a new law firm, given a handful of clients, including Rose Van Alden. It wasn’t difficult to create a fake will that indicated that upon her death, she intended to sell her property for fair market value and give the proceeds to the Delta Conservancy.

It had been Richie’s idea to create the Delta Conservancy. It was a great place to launder money. Their investor group, solely controlled by himself, Hamilton, and Richie, bought the Van Alden property. The money that went to the estate was then turned over to the Delta Conservancy-secretly controlled by the three of them. They were able to build a sizable war chest, which then catapulted Jeffrey onto the Board of Supervisors. After that, the state house, then Congress. And now his chance at the U.S. Senate.

Brilliant.

His rise had been temporarily endangered when Chase Taverton made a plea agreement with Frank Lowe. How were any of them to know someone had seen them that night?

They’d taken care of those two.

And then came Oliver Maddox.

Also dealt with.

Now Claire O’Brien.

Jeffrey was not going to lose this election, his money, his stature, everything he’d built. He was on the brink of greatness. It was his turn!

Flushed, he leaned forward and put his hands on the dresser.

“Jeffrey?”

He’d almost forgotten that Julie was in his hotel bed. He didn’t make it a habit of keeping his women in bed all night. But they’d dropped Ecstasy last night and fucked like rabbits.

“I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“But first things first.”

“I’m kind of sore this morning.”

“I really don’t care. You want the room all weekend? It’s yours. Spread your legs or I’ll do it for you.”

She complied, because she was a good slut. The drugs messed with his performance. He was hard as a rock but couldn’t get relief. He pummeled her over and over. She begged him through tears to stop, that it hurt. Finally, he withdrew.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I want to, but-”

He flipped her over and held her mouth shut with one hand. He took her from behind, sweat pouring off his body, wanting, needing, release. He knew better than to fuck around with drugs. This had happened before. But the high had been so good. .

She bit his hand and he pulled her ear, growling, “Don’t. Or the only job you’ll get is on your back.”

Women should do what they’re told. He remembered Niki in the middle of the woods. The one who tried to screw him over. He remembered taking her against her will. The thrill, power flooding his senses.

When it was over, Julie was crying. Jeffrey rose. He was surprised to see blood on his cock and between her legs.

“Don’t say a word, Julie, or not only will you be out of a job, I’ll send the disk of you sucking my cock to your dad.”

He went into the bathroom and showered. He wanted to be on the road before the sun rose.

Time to take care of another bitch.

Mitch called Lexie on her cell phone. “Is Claire still at home?”

“This is the third time you’ve called since two in the morning. She’s still there.”

“You might have fallen asleep, or-”

“I’m going to forget you said that, Bianchi. She walked her dogs at seven this morning, stopped at Starbucks, brought back something in a Venti cup, and went inside. She hasn’t moved since.”

“Call me-”

“-when she leaves, follow her-but discreetly because she’s a PI and can spot a tail. Your concern is wearing thin. Let me do my job and you do yours.”

She hung up before Mitch could thank her.

Steve shook his head as he drove south on I-5 toward Isleton. “Lexie is going to explode if you call her one more time.”

“I promised Tom O’Brien that I would keep Claire safe.”

“And we’re doing everything we can, you know that.”

Mitch had called first Meg, then Steve, with the information from O’Brien’s phone call. He tried to sleep, but ended up watching Claire’s house until Lexie showed up. He managed a couple hours of shut eye before Steve picked him up.

Steve said, “Meg said she’d call with the terms of the surrender when she hears from the D.A. We can be back in thirty minutes.”

Steve turned off the interstate and drove along River Road, and Mitch called Meg. “Did you run Frank Lowe? The one who died in the fire at Tip’s Blarney the night after Taverton?” he asked her.

“Yes, Mitch. There’s nothing here. Petty thief, arrested for a home invasion robbery two weeks before the fire. I read the arson report. The final report said faulty wiring with a possibility it could have been intentional. Maybe Lowe preferred suicide to prison.”

“How much time was he facing?”

“I’m only guessing, based on his record, three to five.”

“Would you kill yourself instead of sitting in jail for three years?”

“You can’t think of it like that. Maybe he had more secrets. We don’t always understand human nature.”

“Self-preservation is usually at play in most decisions.”

“When did you get your psychiatric license?”

“Motivation is behind everything. Why would he kill himself?”

“Maybe it was just a coincidental accident. They’re known to happen.”

“Did you get his next of kin? Previous addresses?”