The Prey Page 17

  “Hmm. And I joined the FBI because I wanted to be Dana Scully.”

  A joke? From Rowan? But John didn’t smile. He saw Denny’s empty-eyed death stare as if he’d found his body yesterday.

  “I had an idyllic childhood,” he said after a moment. “A regular Leave It to Beaver house. My dad was a cop, straight as an arrow, honorable. My mom stayed home. Baked cookies, drove us to every activity under the sun, always there to listen. It was a good life. Hell, it was perfect.”

  He missed his parents. They’d died less than a year apart. His dad from an unexpected heart attack, his mother—John suspected—from a broken heart. That was three years ago, but it still hurt.

  “They’re not around anymore?” Rowan asked softly.

  “No.” He cleared his throat, swallowing the sudden sorrow that had crept up. “My best friend was Denny Schwartz. He lived down the street and we did everything together. Michael usually came with us, but Denny and I were the same age, in the same classes; we both liked the same games. Mickey always wanted to be a cop, like our dad. So when we played cops and robbers, he was always the cop.”

  “You were the robber?”

  “Sometimes. Usually, I found some other role to fill, sometimes siding with Mickey, sometimes with Denny. We had other guys in our little gang as well, but Denny was—the best.”

  Denny had always come up with the most original and complex role-playing games. Had always smiled. Always made him laugh. John was surprised at the intense emotion that swept through him when he almost heard Denny chuckle in his ear. Can’t believe you’re mourning me when you have that hot mama in your arms.

  “Denny was a joker. Practical jokes. My mother didn’t particularly cotton to him, but she accepted him into her house because he came from a broken home. His father left when he was five and he had two younger sisters. His mom worked two jobs to make ends meet. It wasn’t easy, but Denny never complained.”

  I have a plan, Johnny. I’ll take care of Mama and the girls, you’ll see.

  “I wanted him to join the Army with me. I enlisted when I was eighteen. Didn’t really care much about going to college, though I did end up there after my five years, courtesy of the GI Bill.”

  “Good program.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. Well, Denny didn’t want to go. He had plans. Always a new scheme.” He paused, stifled an urge to scream. Had he known what Denny’s big plan was, he would have quit the Army and hauled him as far from L.A. as he could.

  “This big plan of his involved drugs. Big-time.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t even suspect.” He was still disgusted that he’d been so clueless about his friend’s illegal activities. “We were young, didn’t write back and forth much, e-mail wasn’t around yet. Tess wrote, told me Denny had gotten into a rough crowd, but she wasn’t that close to him, didn’t know how rough, how bad. And Mickey was still in high school, then the police academy and night school—Denny didn’t have anyone else.”

  “You blame yourself for leaving.”

  Of course John blamed himself. Had he stayed in Los Angeles, Denny wouldn’t have died. He’d never have gotten involved in drugs, sold them to kids, gotten himself killed for stealing from the hand that fed him.

  Rowan’s hand roamed his chest. Not in lust, but in understanding. He took it with his free hand and brought it to his lips. She smelled of soap and sex and he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else but here, with her. Sharing a story he hadn’t shared with anyone, not in any detail.

  “I came back to L.A. and started classes at UCLA. Looked up Denny. He wasn’t living at home, and his ma hadn’t seen much of him. Which was strange. He’d always been close to his mother and sisters.”

  Mrs. Schwartz looked tired, worn out, from years of two jobs and raising three kids on her own. “Johnny, I don’t know where he’s living now,” she said with a shrug. “He comes by every now and then, hands me a roll of money, and leaves. I don’t know where he gets it.” She paused, looked at him with watery eyes. “I can’t spend it. I think—I think he’s doing something wrong.”

  “I tracked him down through old friends. Right away I knew he was up to something. One of his get-rich-quick schemes. One of his big plans. Of course he didn’t tell me about it. Didn’t clue me in to the fact that he was hawking drugs to high school kids. And younger.” His voice cracked. “No, I had to learn that on my own. When I followed him.”

  “I’m so sorry. That must have hurt.”

  “No, it didn’t hurt. I was too pissed off for it to hurt. I brought my father down to talk to him, straighten him out, when I couldn’t do it on my own. Dad could do anything. He was that kind of guy. Knew how to talk sense into young punks who thought they knew everything. Punks like Denny. Because that’s exactly what he’d turned into. A drug-dealing punk.”

  “Denny boy,” Pat Flynn said as he looked around the opulent house in Malibu that Denny had somehow bought at the age of twenty-four with no known job or means of support, “I think you’ve gotten yourself in too deep.”

  John watched from his father’s side, positive he could talk sense into Denny. His arms were crossed, defiant.

  “Uh, Mr. Flynn, you shouldn’t be here.” Beneath his cockiness, Denny looked scared.

  He should be afraid, John thought. He was getting kids killed over a temporary high. Using the stuff himself, judging by his runny nose and red-rimmed eyes. Dammit, they’d made it through four years of high school, never giving in to drugs except for one time when they were sixteen and pretty Mandy Sayers shared a joint.

  “Denny, I can help you. I can get you out of this mess.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Flynn. I’m not in any trouble.”

  Denny ran a hand through his hair and grinned while his other hand played behind his ear. He’d always been a damn awful liar.

  “My father tried. Damn, he tried. I’d never seen him so frustrated. He ended up yelling at Denny. My dad never yelled. Not in anger like that. But Denny was in total denial that he was doing anything wrong. Lying to my dad. Lying to me.”

  “It was like he’d betrayed you.”

  John squeezed her hand. “Yeah,” he said softly.

  “What happened to him?” Rowan asked after a time.

  “He was executed.”

  He’d spent a week trying to convince Denny to turn over his dealers and be the good guy for a change. When that failed, he just wanted him to get out before it killed him. Denny never even admitted he was dealing, never admitted he was in too deep.

  “It was my fault.”

  “How? Denny made all his own choices. No one forced him to start dealing.”

  “Neither my dad nor I gave up. One night, the night before Denny was murdered, he told me he was a marked man. That his boss had seen the cops at his house. I knew he meant my dad, but he didn’t say it.”

  “I’ll lay it straight for them. It’s not what you think, Johnny. But—but I think you’d better stop coming around, okay? Just steer clear for a while, okay?”

  “He wanted me out of his life, told me as much. I left. I was hurt and angry and didn’t know what to do. I went back to my dad. That’s when he told me he’d told Narcotics about Denny. They were tailing him, hoping to catch Reginald Pomera.”

  “Pomera,” Rowan muttered, familiar with the name.

  “Yeah. He wasn’t top dog back then, but he was lethal. The major courier from South America into southern California. My dad didn’t tell me the details. Not then, not ever. I learned later that Pomera was in the country and they hoped to catch him. Denny was their best lead. He’d been approached with witness protection but denied he needed anything, that he was doing anything wrong.

  “The next night, I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t want to betray my father, but I knew something was wrong with Denny. He had to get out, and fast. I didn’t have much money, but enough to take us to some hole-in-the-wall city where I could talk or beat sense into the jerk.”
His voice cracked again, the hot sting of unshed tears caking his throat.

  A memory of him and Denny. They were twelve. Riding bikes in the flood control channel. Laughing, taking jumps they had no business taking. They were lucky they hadn’t broken an arm or leg or worse. Denny always kept his hair too long, and it would hang over his eyes like a sheepdog’s.

  “I went back, one last time, and that’s when I found him.”

  The house blazed with light, as if on fire. But it wasn’t fire. It was cold death.

  The smell of death wasn’t foreign to him. He’d lost a friend or two in the line of duty. The coppery scent of blood, mixed with the foul stench of bodily fluids at the moment of death when the body relaxed . . . death surrounded Denny’s house.

  Denny’s death.

  “He’d been shot execution style. I touched him, flipped over the body, to see if I could save him.”

  The glassy eyes stared at him, dark and empty. He stared back, as if seeing his best friend for the first time.

  “He was already gone. But his body was still warm. I’d missed his killer by minutes.”

  “You would have been killed, too,” Rowan said, her voice tinged with emotion.

  “I know.” He took a deep breath, finished up. “Against my father’s wishes, I did my own undercover work. Found out Pomera was in town. Learned from Denny’s lowlife friends that Pomera had ordered the hit because Denny was stealing from the deals.

  “But,” he continued, his voice laced with intense hatred, “I think Pomera pulled the trigger himself. From everything I’ve learned about the bastard, he’d have gotten a sick thrill out of killing a pathetic, doped-up, mid-level drug dealer like Denny.”

  “And that’s why you joined Drug Enforcement.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And why did you leave?”

  Shit, she asked the hard questions. He hadn’t thought about this in so long, but he owed it to her, especially after dragging out her past. After what they’d shared.

  And didn’t they say confession was good for the soul?

  “It’s sort of complicated.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “I want to.”

  The doorbell chimed, breaking the moment. Rowan stiffened next to him, then extracted her limbs from his and jumped up. She hurried to the walk-in closet and closed the door firmly behind her.

  Bad timing. Bad planning, too, he thought as he picked up his dirty sweatpants, still damp from their run. He quickly slid into them, pulled on his T-shirt, grabbed his gun, and jogged downstairs. Sex, then purging demons—he pulled himself together and hoped Michael couldn’t read every minute of the last twelve hours on his face.

  He peered through the peephole and frowned. Quinn Peterson, the Fed. His disheveled appearance and day’s growth of beard suggested he hadn’t slept much the night before.

  Not another murder. That meant Rowan was next. He stiffened at the thought. No, not Rowan. He wouldn’t let the killer even get close.

  He braced himself for the bad news and opened the door. “Peterson.”

  “Flynn.” Peterson stepped in and John closed and bolted the door behind him, reset the alarm. “Where’s Rowan?”

  “Shower,” he said.

  “I’m here,” Rowan called as she came down the stairs.

  John sneaked a look at her. She was composed, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair brushed and pulled into a wet ponytail. A flush that hadn’t been there yesterday coated her skin. He couldn’t help but be pleased he was the cause of her improved mood.

  But her glow disappeared when she looked at Peterson’s face. John glanced back at the Fed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s sit down.” He crossed the foyer and walked over to the windows facing the ocean. He didn’t look at them.

  “Quinn, what happened? Did he kill someone else?” Rowan’s voice cracked.

  Peterson turned to face them, eyes red. “It’s Michael. The bastard shot him.”

  John barely heard Rowan’s shocked gasp. His heart pounded; his ears rang. His brother. No.

  “What hospital? Where—”

  “He’s dead.”

  “No.” John shook his head. “Goddammit, No!” He kicked the glass coffee table with his bare foot, and it toppled over and shattered against the end table.

  Michael. Not Michael. John stared at Peterson and knew there was no mistake.

  Michael was dead.

  An intense, physical hollowness spread through his chest, ten times worse than anything he’d ever felt before. His father’s death had been a shock that jolted the family. His army buddies who’d died had hurt his soul. Denny’s senseless murder had rocked everything John believed in, had finished forming his path.

  But Michael. His best friend. His brother.

  All the death, all the pointless drug murders. He’d seen more blood and guts than most people see in their lifetime. Nothing had prepared him for this.

  He pictured Michael, blood seeping from his lifeless body. His eyes open, glassy . . . He shook away the vision, his eyes blurry with unshed tears.

  “What. Happened.” His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to control his rage.

  “He went to a bar last night, a few blocks from his apartment. The Pistol; apparently it’s a dive bar that doubles as a cop hangout.”

  John knew the place. Michael went there when he was troubled. And he’d been plenty pissed last night.

  “He was there for an hour or so, drank on the heavy side of moderate. The bartender didn’t think he was drunk, just tipsy. He went to a fast-food restaurant, ate there, walked home. He was talking to someone at the bar for a short time, and the police are working with the bartender on a description. The guy—dark blond hair, forties—left before Michael, but . . .”

  Quinn paused, cleared his throat, then continued. “Michael entered his apartment and the police believe an intruder was waiting for him. He was shot three times in the chest. Died at the scene.”

  John’s fists clenched at his side. He wanted to punch someone. He wanted to kill someone. “No. I don’t believe it.” But his tone said the opposite.

  “He didn’t bother hiding it. Three neighbors called in gunfire to 911. I would have been here sooner, but it took time for the local police to realize there was a connection. It was the chief who ultimately called me less than an hour ago. I came straight here.”

  Quinn stared at him, his own face twisted with hurt and regret. “It’s the same bastard. He—left a note. I’m sorry, John. I’m really sorry.”

  John’s mind was a jumble of memories and plans and vengeance. The killer went after Michael. Why? It wasn’t in the books. He did it because he could. To show Rowan he could get to her.

  He whirled around and stared at Rowan. Complex and conflicting emotions assaulted him. Anger. Grief. Pain. Guilt. It was his fault. He’d sent Michael away to get Rowan to talk.

  To get her into bed.

  He’d wanted her from the beginning, knew there was an invisible bond joining them from the moment they met. Michael had cared for her, but John didn’t give him any credit for knowing his feelings. He threw Jessica back at him. He pushed Michael aside, manipulated him out of the picture. They fought and John pulled his ace, got the FBI to insist Michael take time off.

  John had sent his own brother to his death.

  He could never tell Michael he was sorry.

  A deep, low, guttural moan escaped John’s throat and he couldn’t look at Rowan or the tears that streamed down her face. He needed air. He had to get out of here.

  “Tess,” he said, his voice hoarse with barely constrained grief.

  “She doesn’t know. She’s meeting me at the headquarters at nine, but—”

  “I’ll tell her.” He passed Rowan without looking at her. He left the house without another word.

  Rowan watched John leave, agonizing for him. For herself.

  It was all her fault.

  The bastard wanted to hu
rt her, but he was hurting innocent people in the process.

  Who was it? Who knew about her past? She had to call Roger. She had to find out what he knew, what he’d found out. He was the damn FBI! They couldn’t be in the dark for this long. They had to suspect someone.

  And if the killer knew about her family, he might know about Peter. If anything happened to him—

  But she couldn’t stop thinking about Michael.

  John. Tess.

  Dear God, why? Why did he go after Michael?

  Because he could.

  “Rowan.” Quinn walked to her side, crunching glass into the carpet. He frowned at the mess, but said nothing. “We need to put you into a safe house.”

  “No.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Her headache that had disappeared sometime last night was now back with a vengeance.

  “Be reasonable! Roger would not allow you to—”

  “Just, no. The killer will come for me. I’ll kill him.”

  “He’s elusive. Smart. I can’t let you put yourself in danger.” He put a hand on her shoulder; she shrugged it off.

  “It’s not your choice. I’m not going to run so he can kill more people. If he can kill Michael”—her voice hitched and she swallowed back a sob—“he can get to anyone. You. Tess. Roger. But it’s me he wants. He’s deviating to show me he’s smarter. Stronger.”

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “He doesn’t know who the hell he’s up against.”

  Rowan sat on hold for a good five minutes. Finally, Roger came on the line.

  Without preamble, she asked, “What have you found out?”

  “Rowan, I spent all night going over your files. I have a team tracking down every cop who was assigned to the investigation. And—well, the thought came to me last night. What about the families of the two guards Bobby killed? I can’t see how or why they would go after you, but it was the only thing that came to mind.”

  Her heart beat faster. Revenge. They were tormenting her because her brother had brutally killed their father, their brother, their son. It was plausible, especially since Bobby was dead and in hell and they couldn’t go after him. But why now? Why like this?