The Prey Read online

  “My book?” Her voice was barely a whisper. She sipped her coffee, using the normalcy to try to gather her thoughts.

  He nodded. “Crime of Opportunity. In case we were too stupid to figure it out, he highlighted the passages describing the murder of the fictional Ms. Rodriguez.” His deep voice was steeped in anger, the kind cops tried hard to keep in check.

  Her book left at the scene. “Anything else? Any notes to me, comments, a hint that he’s going to do this again?”

  Jackson leaned forward. “Just the highlighted passages. What do you think?”

  Rowan looked Jackson in the eye and shook her head. “I don’t work for the FBI anymore, and I wasn’t a profiler. You want an expert opinion? Call them.”

  But her mind was already working overtime. Was someone singling her out? Was one of the criminals she’d locked away carrying out some sort of twisted vendetta against her? She should get a copy of all her case files and look closely—though she remembered every violent criminal she’d helped put away.

  Barlow spoke for the first time since the introductions. “I’ve read your books, Ms. Smith. I guess you could say I’m a faithful reader of yours. Your stories are quite horrific. Authentic.” He paused. “I think he’s going to strike again. Denver’s looking at Rodriguez’s old boyfriends, friends, colleagues,” he said, almost dismissively. “But your book being put there, that sets off alarms.”

  Rowan breathed deeply, not saying anything. Her bells were ringing, too. A whole friggin’ orchestra clamored in her head.

  Jackson spoke. “My superiors are speaking with the Feds already, looking for some cooperation. But we thought you might have some insight, so I took the chance on coming out here to talk to you. Are any of those criminals you put away on the loose? Anyone threaten you?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh, though the hollow sound held no humor. “Threaten me? You’ve been a cop for longer than me. I’m sure some of your arrests didn’t take too kindly to being locked up.”

  Shaking her head, she continued, “I’m contacted when anyone I testified against or arrested is released or up for parole. I can honestly say that everyone I arrested is either dead or in prison.”

  Jackson smiled slightly. “Wish I could say the same. Impressive record.”

  She shrugged. “Not really. I didn’t catch every murdering bastard.”

  “What about a relative of one of these criminals? Someone wanting revenge for putting their father, brother, cousin, lover behind bars?”

  Rowan shook her head. “I don’t know. You’d have to go over my case reports. I can’t think of anyone who stands out, but I don’t have my notes and I haven’t given it a lot of thought.” But she knew that her days and nights would now be haunted by past cases until this murderer was found. She’d get a copy of her files herself. Make sure she didn’t miss something during the seven years she’d been with the Bureau. Miss something that cost Doreen Rodriguez her life.

  He might never be found. And though he had killed only one person—at least, that they knew about—Rowan’s instincts told her he would strike again.

  Soon.

  “What about a fan? Someone who’s written or called you or maybe even tried to visit you?”

  “A fan? Taking it upon himself to recreate my imaginary murders?” It was possible, but she didn’t think likely, and she told Jackson so. “This killer is no fan of mine.”

  “Why do you say that?” Barlow asked.

  “He’s making my fictional murders real. I didn’t go far enough, in his mind, so he has to. He has to prove his own genius, that he’s capable of far greater acts than a mere fiction writer.”

  “So he has a screw loose.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “He’s sane.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He planned this perfectly.” She put her mug down, stood, and crossed to the open window. But she didn’t see the ocean waves or hear the calling gulls. Instead, she pictured evil.

  “He found a woman with the same name and occupation as one of my characters and killed her in the same manner in a similar location. Did a lot of planning and research to get all the details just right. Perfection. Next, he leaves my book with her body. Arrogance. He’s smart, but he thinks everyone else is stupid and he has to give you the why or you’d never figure it out. This wasn’t a crime of passion or a crime for money . . . it was a crime of opportunity.” She realized, as she spoke, it was the name of her book. “This was premeditated, proving his sanity. I’d venture to state that he has an agenda, something that has nothing to do with the victims.”

  “Something to do with you?” Barlow asked, causing Rowan to flinch. As much as she wanted to deny it, there had to be a connection. Unless he committed another murder using another writer’s book as a blueprint. She shrugged, turning a blank face to the cops, not wanting to give anything away. Not until she gave this more thought.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The FBI will probably contact you.”

  “Of course.”

  Rowan already dreaded it. Someone was playing a game with her, and she had no idea who or why. Though she had controlled her emotions throughout this interview, she felt her insides quivering. But she was the consummate professional; she would keep it together. At least until she was alone.

  “Have you received any threats?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure? What about your fan mail?”

  “My agent handles correspondence. I receive reports on what comes in. I’d expect him to tell me about any threats.” She’d look into that herself.

  Jackson made a note. “What about the studio? The actors in the film you’re working on? Anyone receive any threats, or notice anything strange?”

  “The producer is Annette O’Dell. You can find her office at the studio. I don’t work there, I’m just working on rewrites of my screenplay.” Again, Rowan didn’t think any threats had been made. Annette would have told her.

  “What about a personal motive? Any former boyfriends who might turn vicious? A friend who might have felt slighted by your success?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t had much of a personal life since I came to California two months ago to work on this film.” She sat back down and sipped her now lukewarm coffee. It landed like a lead ball in her churning stomach. “Even before that, I completed the screenplay and started working on my new book. I’m as busy now as I was working for the FBI.”

  “You have four published books?” Jackson asked.

  She nodded. “My fifth will be released in a few weeks.”

  “And this is your second film?”

  “Third. The second is being released in two weeks. This one won’t be out until the end of next year.”

  “You’ve done pretty well since leaving the Bureau.”

  “Your point?” Rowan asked, irritated. She wanted to help, but these questions were irrelevant. She wanted to take her morning run, then a hot shower. Most of all, she needed time alone to think.

  “We’re trying to fit together all the details.” But the detectives exchanged a look that meant they were through. Rowan’s sigh of relief was almost audible.

  She walked them to the door. Detective Jackson turned to her. “You should consider taking extra security measures. Do you have an alarm system?”

  “Yes, detective, and I use it.”

  He nodded approval and extended his hand. Rowan shook it, feeling warmth and strength. “Call me Ben. We’re on the same team here. Either Jim or I will call you later and fill you in. I’m heading back to Denver this afternoon. In the meantime, be careful.”

  “Thanks, I will.” She closed the door behind them, turned around, and leaned against the solid oak surface. Slowly, she sank once again to the cold tile floor, her head in her hands.

  One brutal murder a thousand miles away had destroyed in minutes the years of relative peace she’d painstakingly built. The realization of her complicity in the crime grew within her. She c
lenched her uneasy stomach. How could she live with herself if her imagination had manifested itself into evil? While someone else had stolen a life, the manner of evil was her idea, her conception. Her casual decision to name the first victim in Crime of Opportunity Doreen Rodriguez had resulted in the death of the real Doreen Rodriguez from Albuquerque. It was perverse and cruel.

  Rowan had learned again and again that death was inequitable and brutal. It cut a path of misery in the hearts of everyone it touched. And death wasn’t blind. It saw the pain, the heartache, and grew stronger.

  It had started when she was ten, and it seemed it would never end.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Michael Flynn followed the directions Annette O’Dell had given him to Rowan Smith’s house, but he didn’t need the house number to figure out which of the large beachfront homes was hers. Even now, a day after the story broke, a dozen cars, vans, and a single motorcycle—all sporting press credentials—lined the highway in front of number 25450.

  He turned his black SUV down the steep driveway. The house looked deceptively small and nondescript from the front, but Malibu homes in this neighborhood were spacious inside and maximized their ocean view. Smith’s place was at the end of a secluded row of such homes that shared a rare private beach. If he wasn’t mistaken, several of these homes had been destroyed a few years back in a terrible storm. As evidence of the destruction, he noted that cement reinforcements lined the cliffs around the home to prevent the mudslides that were the primary culprit of coastal property damage.

  He locked his vehicle on the chance a member of the predatory press was interested in his identity. They must have been warned about trespassing. Though they noticed him, they stayed on the street—and off Smith’s property.

  He breathed deeply, relishing the sharp bite of the salt air. He could get used to a place like this.

  Glancing around the outside of the house, he frowned. Beachfront property was hard to protect. There were no gates or fences between houses, making the dwelling accessible on all four sides. However, the far side of the Smith residence butted up against a steep cliff. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to access the house from that direction.

  That left three sides unprotected.

  A bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle practically flew into the driveway, screeching to a halt behind his truck. Michael winced at Tess’s erratic driving. He had been shocked when she’d passed her driver’s test on the first try. She jumped out of the car, laptop computer in hand, and ran to his side, her dark curly hair bouncing. He shook his head. His sister always seemed to have energy to spare.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, her wide grin revealing two dimples.

  “You’re not late. You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “What do you mean? I’m your partner.”

  “I meet clients. You run the office.” The little he knew about this case troubled him. He would not endanger his sister’s life. She was a computer expert, after all, not a bodyguard.

  She sighed melodramatically. “Not anymore, Mickey. John’s out of town, so you’re stuck with me.” She grinned and winked.

  Michael couldn’t help but smile. Tess had done everything he and John commanded for the last two years, willing to take self-defense and gun-training classes, read every book they tossed her way, and put up with the spontaneous drills they created to help prepare her for fieldwork. But neither he nor John intended to allow their baby sister to work in the field, even as she’d become increasingly valuable to their team. In the office, that is.

  “This time,” he said, a note of warning in his voice. “From what Annette said, I think we’ll need your computer wizardry.”

  Tess patted her laptop and smiled brightly. “Let’s go.”

  “Just remember who’s boss.”

  “John is, but he’s in South America.”

  “Tess,” Michael warned, eyes narrowed.

  She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I won’t forget, boss.”

  Rowan dropped the blinds in her den, cutting off the view of the two people talking on her driveway. This must be the security team Annette wanted to hire. Great. Her producer, now lurking somewhere outside Rowan’s den door, expected her to consent to protection from a guy who hadn’t seen a barber in months and his teenybopper wife or girlfriend or whoever, who drove a screaming yellow Bug, the model of discretion.

  Rowan had locked herself in the den thirty minutes before because she’d finally had enough of listening to Annette treat her like a child. She looked down at the Glock now gripped with both hands.

  Sometimes she wished she had died in the line of duty, because taking her life was not an option.

  She’d gone round and round with her producer. Annette meant well but was so out of her element here, planting herself in the house yesterday and refusing to leave. She seemed almost excited by the whole thing, which turned Rowan completely off even though she knew it was simply Annette’s way. She’d even insisted on staying in the guest room, though the petite producer was woefully ill-prepared to defend anyone. Not that Rowan thought for a minute she needed defending.

  Rowan didn’t know what she’d done to earn such a good friend, and she appreciated the sentiment. But Annette was driving her crazy.

  Ultimately, the phone call the previous night from her ex-boss had resigned her to the fact that if she didn’t accept the security offered by the studio, the FBI would assign a team to her.

  “Are you okay?” Roger had asked when she picked up the extension in her den.

  She heard the fear in his voice, and her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t want to worry him. He’d been more than just a boss. He’d saved her life. “I’m fine, Roger.”

  “You’re lying. How can you be fine?”

  “You know the details?”

  “Every last one. Had the Denver Police fax over a copy of the report. Four agents are assigned to review your old cases looking for anyone who might be capable of this, particularly male friends and relatives.”

  “Good. I want a copy of all my files. Maybe something will jump out at me, something I missed, an interview, a relative—hell, I don’t know.” She took a deep breath, then slowly blew it out. “I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

  “I’ll contact the L.A. Bureau chief and they can download the files. You can pick them up by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “Uh, you don’t think, I mean, there’s no way that my father could have—”

  Roger interrupted her. “I called Bellevue. MacIntosh is in the same condition.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes. After all this time, I should have better control over my emotions.

  She hadn’t expected that after twenty-three years her father would suddenly have regained his sanity, but ever since Detectives Jackson and Barlow left the previous day, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She was relieved he was still wrapped up in his own mind. She hoped he was living through hell.

  “Gracie and I are worried about you. Come back to Washington. You always have a room here with us.”

  “I know,” she whispered. She hated that Roger worried about her; she didn’t want to burden his heart. Not after everything he and Gracie had done for her. “But I can’t leave.”

  “I’ll send out a team to protect you.”

  “No,” she said, louder than she intended.

  “Dammit, I read the reports. I think this guy is after you.”

  She pictured Roger standing behind his big, dark, scuffed utilitarian desk, his square jaw set, his dark eyes narrowed, wrinkles of worry across his forehead.

  “We don’t know that,” she countered. “Let the police continue their investigation. It could be completely unconnected to me.” She didn’t believe it, even though sometimes ex-boyfriends or violent husbands went to great lengths to cover up their crimes. Maybe that’s what had happened with Doreen Rodriguez.

  “Yo
u’re obviously not thinking straight if you disagree. He’s playing you. I won’t rest until we find this bastard. I’m going to protect you whether you like it or not.”

  “Roger, please don’t send anyone. You can hardly afford to, with the department stretched so thin after 9/11.” But she knew his tone left no room for negotiation. And she knew him well enough to find an acceptable alternative for both of them.

  “The studio said they’d hire a security company.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Annette O’Dell, my producer, wants to. I told her I didn’t want anyone, but—”

  “You’ll take them. Right?” He wouldn’t take no for an answer, she knew.

  “Yes, I will,” she said, resigned. “Tomorrow, Annette is sending over someone for me to interview.”

  “They’d better be good, Ro, not some nose-picking grocery guards.”

  Rowan couldn’t help but smile. “Knowing Annette, they’ll be good. And discreet. I don’t want the press digging around any more than they already are.” It was highly unlikely anyone could uncover her past. She didn’t want to have to live through that nightmare in public, even if she lived with it every day of her life.

  “If you think this team is inferior, let me know and I’ll get a recommendation from the bureau chief in L.A. Agreed?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I love you,” Roger said quietly. “Please be careful.”

  She swallowed a sob. It would be so easy to leave everything in Roger’s capable hands and go back to Washington. Let Gracie baby her. Or better, hide away in her cabin. She missed the pine trees, the cool nights, the crisp mountain air of her Colorado home.

  But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t run when she had obligations and responsibilities. “I promise,” she said.

  After Roger’s call that night, disturbing dreams had interrupted Rowan’s sleep. She’d risen early for her morning run on the wet beach, well before the sun crested the low Malibu mountains, pushing herself until she couldn’t go any farther. After showering, she holed up in the den while Annette took care of business from the dining room.