The Prey Page 10

  “You don’t have to stay here.”

  John raised an eyebrow. What Michael was really saying was, I don’t want you here.

  “I know,” John said, “but I want to.” He started down the hall to find a bathroom to shower in, then stopped and turned back to his brother.

  “Mickey,” he said, “I’m sorry about the Jessica comment. That was a low blow.”

  “It’s forgotten.”

  John hoped his brother meant that. Their argument was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and it bugged him. They often argued, but always came away friends. “Be careful, okay?”

  “I will.” Michael grinned. “And when all this shit’s over, we can battle for Rowan Smith fair and square.”

  “There’s nothing to battle.” But as John said it, he realized he had some feelings for the pretty blonde that he couldn’t reconcile with his desire to get her to talk. Where Michael often let his emotions cloud his professional judgment, John vowed not to let that happen with him.

  He found the shower at the end of the hall, stripped, and stood beneath the hot, stinging spray. He couldn’t get Rowan Smith out of his mind. Her hard profile and soft eyes. The way she watched everything that went on around her without moving her head. She absorbed her surroundings, taking pains to blend in, but John always knew when she was in the room, even if he couldn’t see her.

  Yeah, he had a thing for her. But unlike Michael, he knew the difference between lust and love. He didn’t believe in love at first sight or fate or any of that nonsense. He was practical, and could separate business and pleasure.

  The job came first.

  As he rinsed the beach run from his body, he planned exactly how he was going to get Rowan to open up. He had a feeling once she started talking, she’d have a lot to say.

  CHAPTER

  9

  The black-and-white crime scene photos were no less graphic for their lack of color.

  She stared at the picture of Karl Franklin, gun near his hand, the dark stain spread on the light carpet under his head. Half a head. The other half had been blown onto the wall when he’d shot himself.

  She’d read the reports from the Franklin murders and had been surprised to learn the case wasn’t closed. There wasn’t enough substantial evidence that Karl Franklin indeed killed his family, then shot himself. While it was clear that Franklin committed suicide, there were some discrepancies in the physical evidence that showed he might have died before the other victims—and that their deaths had all been quick.

  She hadn’t known. She hadn’t cared enough to even check.

  No, that wasn’t true. She cared too much. That’s why she’d almost had a breakdown and ran away. She’d been too weak.

  Technically, the case was ruled a probable murder-suicide but wasn’t closed. After four years, it was cold. Very cold.

  Unless Karl Franklin hadn’t killed his family. If someone had gotten away with murder. The file was surprisingly light. No known suspects other than Franklin. They’d interviewed neighbors and relatives and the only surviving immediate family member; Karl’s son from a previous marriage was in college and had a solid alibi.

  Because the timeline was so close, and establishing exact time of death difficult under the best of circumstances, the probable murder-suicide had put the case on the back burner.

  Rowan slapped the file down on the conference table and the contents skidded across the smooth surface. Quinn stared at her, shaking his head as he straightened the stack. Tess frowned from her spot in the corner at her laptop, and Michael—ever diligent—stood at the door, arms crossed, watching her.

  She didn’t care. They didn’t understand. Had her running away caused a murderer to go free? Was Karl Franklin innocent of the crime everyone thought him guilty of?

  And if he was innocent, was the guilty party after her for some unknown reason?

  “I was so positive something was here,” she said, her voice cracking. She glanced down at the file Quinn was putting back together and saw another photo. One she had avoided. As if penance for her weakness, the picture rested on top of the stack.

  “Stop.” She grabbed Quinn’s wrist until he pulled back.

  “What?” he asked. She ignored him. Hands shaking, she reached for the image that had haunted her for four years.

  And longer.

  Rebecca Sue Franklin. She should have been asleep, dreaming of the tea party she’d had with her stuffed animals and dolls earlier that day. Instead, she lay under her white comforter, the dark stain a stark reminder that she was dead. Shot in her sleep. A trail of dark blood streamed from her open mouth, frozen in time.

  Her dark pigtails, disheveled from sleep, contrasted with the starched white pillowcase. The dozens of stuffed animals and dolls and toys that stood sentry around her stared with blank, black eyes. Voiceless witnesses.

  Rowan didn’t notice the tears running down her face until one hit the photograph. It startled her, forcing her back to the present.

  “Nothing. Nothing conclusive,” she said, stuffing Rebecca Sue Franklin back into the folder and closing her eyes. “I think Roger should give priority to reviewing this case. I don’t know why, but there’s something familiar here. How else could the killer know about the pigtails? Why send them to me? I never wrote that.”

  “Coincidence,” Quinn said as he picked up the file.

  “Bullshit, and you know it. There are no coincidences.”

  “We could be chasing our tails, Rowan! Running after a cold case on a hunch—it’s a waste of resources.”

  “Do you have anything better?” She was shouting, but didn’t care. “Anything at all? Because none of my other cases gave us even a thread—this is the only anomaly.”

  “We’re still running through your other cases, testimonies, everything. It takes time.”

  “I know it does, but this case is different. It was my last. Dani—” she caught herself. “Rebecca Sue and her pigtails. What was sent to me. There has to be a connection.”

  “Danny?” Quinn asked, a quizzical look on his face.

  Rowan waved it away as a slip of the tongue, but didn’t miss Michael’s eyebrow arch up. She’d almost forgotten he was in the room.

  “Don’t you see?” she continued. “There’s something here. I want a copy of this file. I want to read it again.”

  “I can’t—” Quinn said, then stopped and rubbed his hands over his face. “All right. Take it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Quinn sighed. “We need to talk about protective custody.”

  She shook her head before he’d even completed his sentence. “I’m in this for the long haul.”

  “You’re no longer an agent. Don’t play the tough-cop routine with me. I can take you into protective custody like this—” he snapped his fingers “—if you so much as look at me wrong. And don’t think I won’t. Roger has given me the authority.”

  The audacity of him! She felt her temper reach the boiling point. “Never.”

  “It’s for your own safety, Rowan.”

  “I’m not hiding. I’m not running.” Not again.

  Michael intervened and stepped forward, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a slight squeeze. “We’ve all been under stress this morning. It’s already after noon. Why don’t I take Rowan out for a bite to eat? We’re done here, anyway.”

  “Can I stay?” Tess sat at a desk in the corner of the FBI field office conference room that had been converted into a headquarters for information about the Copycat Killer. She was typing away at the computer—doing what, Rowan had no idea. Michael had mentioned earlier that she’d been tagged as a civilian consultant by the FBI because of her computer expertise, after passing a security check. It wasn’t uncommon.

  “Sure,” Quinn told Tess. “I have some work to do. I’ll call in some sandwiches.”

  “I need to get out of here.” Rowan pushed back her chair and stood. She picked up the file and hugged it to her chest. Tonight. Tonight she’d l
ook at it again and talk to Roger.

  She shot a glance at Quinn and walked out. She’d had enough of him today. He just didn’t get it. Just like he never understood how he had betrayed Miranda. For all his brains and all his good looks, Quinn Peterson could be clueless at times.

  Protective custody? Never.

  Michael followed. She’d expected nothing less. Damn, but she wanted privacy. The ten minutes she’d had alone in the shower this morning was simply not enough time to think. And now with the picture of Rebecca Sue Franklin etched in her brain, she didn’t want to eat, let alone have a conversation.

  She pulled a Motrin out of the pocket of her jeans and dry-swallowed it.

  Michael grabbed her wrist. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” She jerked her arm away from him.

  “That pill. It’s the third time this morning that you’ve taken one. What are you doing?” He put both hands on her shoulders, his lips a tight line.

  Rowan glanced around the office to see if anyone had heard Michael’s accusation. If they had, they were wise enough to ignore the scene.

  “Let go of me,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Michael dropped his arms and ran a hand through his hair. “What are you doing to yourself?”

  She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out three more Motrin. “Satisfied?”

  He had the sense to look sheepish, but she was still pissed off. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Forget it.” She walked through the office and opened the main door. Michael slammed it closed.

  “I go first,” he reminded her.

  “Shit,” she muttered under her breath. “I really hate this.”

  “I know.” His voice was laced with sympathy, but he didn’t understand.

  John did. John understood her. And she hated him for it.

  She sensed he’d been a Fed at one time. Not FBI. Possibly CIA, but most likely DEA. He had the stealth presence and lithe movements that screamed drug enforcement, at least to her. She’d known enough DEA agents in her career that she could pick them out.

  Definitely military. He’d told her Delta Force, the best the Army had to offer. He was older than Michael, but still too young for Vietnam. Delta was big in Desert Storm, and with the hostilities in the Middle East for the past two decades, the clandestine assassinations, the rescue ops—she wondered when he’d left. Why he’d left. If he’d left.

  Perhaps he had as many secrets as she did.

  “Rowan?”

  She blinked, almost having forgotten where she was and whom she was with. “Woolgathering,” she said, turning away from him.

  “Where do you want to eat?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “You need to keep your strength up.”

  “I’m fine.” She glanced up the street, motioned toward a fast-food restaurant. “That’s fine.”

  Michael grimaced. “Junk food? I don’t think so.” He steered her in the opposite direction. “I saw a little Italian place around the corner.”

  “Sure,” Rowan said, allowing Michael to lead her. It was easier than arguing. But food just didn’t matter right now. Not after the murders, the pigtails, the waiting and watching and wondering when the hidden face of evil would strike next.

  He’d gone through her first three books picking one murder from each. Doreen Rodriguez. The florist. The Harper family. One more book; then it was her. One more victim; then she would see his face.

  Unless he wanted to toy with her more. Use her fifth book, due out next week. Wait and kill one more.

  “Stop,” she said, almost shouting.

  Michael hovered in front of her, looking over his shoulder. “What? What do you see?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. I need to make a call.”

  “Not here on the street.”

  “It’s important.” She pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed Roger’s private mobile line.

  “Collins.”

  “Roger, it’s me.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Call my publisher and stop the shipment of books. They’re due out next week.”

  He paused. “I’d need a court order, and—”

  “No, no, they’ll do it. Explain the situation and ask them to hold off. Until this guy is caught. If they don’t, then we can get a court order for a delay.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I need to talk to you later. About the Franklin murders.”

  “Did you find anything?” He sounded optimistic.

  “No, not yet. But I took the file and I’m going to review it again.” She glanced at Michael, who was watching the street carefully. “I’m sure I won’t see anything anyone else didn’t, but fresh eyes—I don’t know.” For the first time, she doubted herself. Maybe they were barking up the wrong tree, wasting time and resources. But what other choices did they have?

  “We’re leaving no stone unturned, Rowan. I promise you that.” Roger’s voice was forceful, even three thousand miles away. “We will catch him. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “But who else is going to die first?”

  She hung up. She’d talk to him tonight, but didn’t expect anything new.

  Did she know the killer? Had she seen him? Or had he affixed on her for some insane reason and learned everything about her, her past, her present? Would she recognize him if she saw the killer?

  How long was he going to make her wait? The first three murders happened in a week. But she suspected this killer wanted her to suffer. To worry. Be afraid. She could almost feel him living off her fear, as if he enjoyed watching her tremble and cower. She straightened her back. If he fed off fear, it wouldn’t be hers.

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  All week, Adam felt guilty for playing the trick on Marcy, even though she had deserved it for those mean things she said about Barry. Barry was his friend and never yelled at him and was always nice and let him hang out in the old prop room to look at all the neat stuff. But the trick upset Rowan, and Rowan was his friend too. She listened to him and cared about him like his mother never did. He sometimes wished Rowan were his mother, though that was silly because she was too young. But she would be a nice mother and wouldn’t yell or say you were worthless and should never have been born.

  Adam had apologized to Barry every day until today, when Barry said not to say “sorry” anymore because it didn’t mean anything after awhile. Adam didn’t understand that, because he really was sorry, but Barry was smart and knew how things worked so Adam stopped saying he was sorry.

  But he hadn’t seen Rowan all week. She hadn’t been to the studio or to visit him or anything and he missed her. What if she was mad at him? She’d said she wasn’t, but people lied all the time. Rowan had never lied to him before, but maybe she was lying this time.

  He hadn’t been able to eat or sleep the last two days because he worried Rowan didn’t like him anymore. He had to find her and tell her how sorry he was.

  Adam didn’t have a driver’s license, but Barry let him drive around the lot all the time. He didn’t think twice about borrowing one of the studio trucks and taking it to Malibu. It was exciting to drive on the freeway. So much power! For the first time he felt almost normal, almost like he belonged.

  He’d been to Rowan’s house once. Last month, when he’d told her he had never seen the ocean even though he’d lived in Los Angeles his entire life, she’d driven him to her house.

  The ocean was a little scary, but he didn’t tell Rowan that. From her deck it was very pretty and she let him stay until the sunset, and that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Well, almost. Rowan was prettier than the sun. She had a happy smile on her face as the colors changed in the sky.

  He couldn’t remember how to get to her house, so he copied a map from the computer.

  Rowan never treated him like he was stupid. Not like Marcy and the other actors who called him the retarded prop kid. Barry didn’t li
ke that word and talked in quiet words whenever he heard it, and Adam knew Barry tried to make him feel better, but it didn’t work. Only Rowan made him feel better, because she didn’t pretend. She told him what was what, and if he didn’t understand, she explained it again until he did understand, and she never sighed or frowned or got that look in her eyes that said she wanted to be anywhere else but talking to him.

  He turned onto Highway 1 toward Malibu and saw a flower stand by the side of the road. Would Rowan like flowers? He’d heard Barry tell one of the cameramen to get a dozen roses for his girlfriend to say he was sorry because women liked that sort of thing. Rowan was a woman and she would like flowers, too, Adam reasoned.

  He pulled over onto the gravel turnout, frowning as the truck bounced so hard his head almost hit the roof of the cab. He slowed to a stop and paused, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. Maybe this driving thing wasn’t as easy as he thought. He cautiously stepped out of the truck, the cool wind slapping his face. Steep cliffs only feet away dropped off to the ocean below. Adam felt woozy, and finally understood how Scottie had felt in Vertigo. He walked as far from the cliff as possible without actually walking onto the busy highway.

  The man selling flowers had dark skin, but not black, small brown eyes, and a really nice smile that made Adam feel less nervous. After all, he’d never bought flowers for a girl before.

  A dark car pulled up behind Adam’s truck, but Adam barely noticed. He pointed to the roses. “Those are roses, right?” he asked.

  “Yessir,” the man said. “Roses. Dollar each or dozen for ten.”

  A dozen, a dozen. “That’s twelve roses for ten dollars?”

  “Yessir.”

  Adam had ten dollars. He had a twenty and a ten and three ones in his wallet. “O-kay,” he said slowly, wanting to make sure he was making the right decision. He really liked the roses, but would Rowan like them? They were so pretty. White or red, red or white. Maybe six of each. “Can I have some white ones and some red ones?”

  “Yessir.”

  The man from the dark car walked up to them. “Buying flowers for your lady?”