The Prey Page 6

  Focus on the case at hand. “Think he’s getting too close?” It wouldn’t be the first time, but Michael was a good cop. Yes, he’d let his personal feelings interfere on occasion, but he’d never screwed up on the job.

  She nodded. “Just like with Jessica.”

  John remembered Rowan Smith’s picture on the back of her book, primarily because it was so unusual for a novelist. Instead of a close-up, or half body shot, she stood in the distance, leaning against a pine tree of some sort, snow on the ground and branches above her head. It wasn’t even a front shot, but her profile: aristocratic, elegant, defiant.

  Most people wouldn’t be able to recognize her from the picture; she was dressed all in white, with long hair so blonde it looked as white as the snow in the background. It hung smooth and silky down her back. The picture conveyed an overwhelming sense of loneliness, of separation.

  “I’m worried about him,” Tess said.

  John took her hand and squeezed, shaking his head. “Mickey’s a big boy. He’s a good bodyguard. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “I’m not talking about his professional abilities. I’m talking about his personal involvement in this case.”

  “It’s kind of quick to make that kind of assessment, don’t you think?” Even as John objected, he guessed that his sister’s instincts were correct. Michael jumped feet first with women. Ever since Missy Sue Carmichael, the senior who took his brother’s virginity when he was fifteen. Then Brenda the following year, Tammy, Maria . . . hell, John couldn’t keep track of all the women Michael had fallen in love with over the years.

  Tess looked at him, her little nose scrunched up in disbelief. “Right, John.”

  Yeah, Tess knew Michael as well as he did. “Don’t worry about him, Tessie. He can take care of himself.”

  “Maybe, but I just feel that this case is different somehow. Higher stakes.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” John promised.

  After thirty minutes of ultra-polite, frustrating, and tension-filled conversation with Special Agent Quinn Peterson and Rowan, Michael left the room, closing himself off in the den. He had calls to make.

  The good news was the FBI had reviewed the security procedures Michael implemented and the L.A. field office was assigning two more agents though Rowan had argued against it. Tomorrow they would interview Rowan’s Malibu neighbors. Four of the dozen or so houses on this stretch of beach were vacant, either vacation rentals or closed up while their owners lived in another of their homes. The FBI was alerting each property management company to watch those houses closely and notify the Bureau if anything looked amiss.

  Teams would be dispatched as needed, but resources being thin they couldn’t commit to full surveillance—only one around-the-clock team, aside from Peterson and his partner. But the FBI was working closely with local law enforcement to help coordinate information and offered priority use of their lab facilities at Quantico.

  Peterson had brought a box packed with copies of Rowan’s case files. She had kept reaching for it, obviously antsy to get started, making no secret that she thought Peterson should go.

  Michael had sensed there’d been something more than a professional relationship between Rowan and this FBI agent; Rowan’s invisible shield had gone back up. Michael’s efforts to get inside her mind, understand her, coax her to bring down her defenses, were stymied once Quinn Peterson showed up. Michael felt a bolt of jealousy, but quickly tamped down that emotion.

  He couldn’t let himself get emotionally involved with another vulnerable woman. Not that Rowan was vulnerable in the traditional sense—he greatly admired her strength and focus. But she needed him, and Michael was well aware of his past with women who needed him. Two sides within him battled, and he was determined to stay his distance.

  But he had to admit he was intrigued by Rowan. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever met.

  In the den, Michael picked up the phone and dialed a friend with the L.A. Bureau of the FBI. “Tony, it’s Michael Flynn.”

  “Hey, long time. What’s up?”

  “I need some information.” He told the agent about the case and asked him to look into Rowan’s FBI background, on the Q-T. Though the Feds were already working the investigation, Michael wanted to know everything they did.

  Tony whistled softly. “You’re asking me to get involved in the affairs of upper management. I’m just in bank fraud.”

  “You’re the only one I know over there. Can’t you see what you can find out?”

  Tony paused. “I’ll try, but don’t count on it. Why don’t you ask your brother? He has better connections, and they’re probably in Washington.”

  “John’s out of the country.” Besides, Michael didn’t want to bring him in. He’d ask for his brother’s help if he really needed it, but not a minute before. John would take over. Like he always did.

  “Hmm. Okay, Mick, I’ll see what I can come up with for ya. But seriously, I doubt I’ll get anything without raising a helluva lot of red flags.”

  “Thanks, Tony, I appreciate whatever you can dig up.” He hung up. Tony was right about one thing: John had valuable contacts. It would be prudent to bring him in, but Michael preferred not to ask his brother for help.

  Still, after the florist . . . he should call him, if only for advice. He picked up the phone and dialed John’s home number, knowing he wasn’t there but would check his messages. “John, it’s Michael,” he said into the answering machine. “Call me when you get back to town. I want your opinion on a new case I’m working.”

  Well, he should be back in L.A. in a couple of days, Michael thought. He’d talk to him then.

  The phone rang as soon as Michael hung up, and he let the answering machine get it. “Rowan, call me.” Pause. Click.

  A male voice, concerned.

  Michael frowned. Could be harmless, maybe an old college friend or a former colleague from the Bureau. Or not.

  Was Rowan keeping something secret? Something that could get her killed?

  Michael made another call.

  Rowan closed the double doors of the den and breathed deeply. She’d finally convinced Quinn to leave, and she’d then asked Michael for a few minutes alone to unwind.

  Seeing Quinn had brought back a flood of memories, both good and bad. They’d become friends while she trained at the FBI Academy in Quantico. For Rowan, friends were rare. She’d never deluded herself—Quinn made a point to befriend both her and Olivia because he was involved with their roommate, Miranda Moore. It wasn’t exactly protocol for a field-rated agent to be romantically attached to a trainee, so making sure she and Olivia liked him enough to keep the secret was a priority.

  But Rowan certainly wouldn’t forgive him for taking from Miranda the one thing that mattered most to her: her dreams. After everything Miranda had been through—Rowan shook her head. It wasn’t fair, and it was all Quinn’s fault.

  Rowan had been so caught up in her memories she missed the message the first time. She pressed rewind, play.

  “Rowan, call me.” Pause. Click.

  Peter.

  She dialed the number in Boston, her hand shaking so badly she had to hang up and redial. It was after eleven on the East Coast.

  On the third ring, a quiet voice answered. “Saint John’s.”

  “Father O’Brien, please,” Rowan asked quietly. She glanced at the den door. It was closed.

  A minute later, her brother’s familiar voice answered. “This is Father O’Brien. How may I help you?”

  Tears she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back flowed freely. “Peter, it’s me.”

  “Thank God you called. I was so worried.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I—I didn’t think.” I didn’t want you to be in danger.

  “Don’t kick yourself. I saw the newspapers and couldn’t reach you. I knew you were okay, but I had to make sure. I needed to hear your voice.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You’re crying.”


  She sucked in her breath, slowly let it out. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. I pray for you every day.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  Silence. “Rowan—”

  “All right, I’m sorry.” Rowan felt Peter’s comforting presence even three thousand miles away. They didn’t see each other often. Rowan’s fault, she knew. Peter would have moved anywhere in the country to be near her, but she didn’t want to use him as a crutch. He would fill the role all too happily, but Rowan couldn’t do that to him. Or her. The only time she’d run to him was four years ago—but then it had been either Peter or the loony bin, and she wasn’t ready to give up her sanity for her job. Peter had helped pick up the pieces.

  “Are you taking precautions?”

  “Yes. The studio hired a bodyguard and the FBI’s involved.” She bit her fingernail, thinking of Michael. As soon as Quinn left, he’d offered her a comforting hand. It was easy to fall into the protective trap, to hold on to someone who offered a potent dose of sanity and strength. But that wasn’t fair to Michael, and it certainly wasn’t what she needed right now.

  “Good.” The relief in Peter’s voice was evident.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “You think you can.”

  “I can. Really. But, to be honest, I’m glad I have help. A partner, if you will. Of course, I wouldn’t tell him that.” What surprised Rowan most of all was that she was glad to have Michael around. He was smart, experienced, and gave her the space she needed. He was comfortable. Like Peter. If only she hadn’t felt him watching her with more than cop’s eyes.

  “Independent to the last. God is with you.”

  “Don’t preach to me, Peter,” Rowan snapped, instantly regretting it. She didn’t want to hurt him. He was the only person who truly mattered to her now that she didn’t fight for the victims anymore.

  “I’m not preaching, I’m only telling the truth.” He paused. “Do you want to come out here for a while?”

  “Absolutely not. I won’t put you in jeopardy.” Though there was nothing she wanted more than to see her brother.

  “No one knows about me.”

  “And I don’t want to change that. I shouldn’t have called you from home. I need to be more careful.”

  “Anyway, what would anyone think if you came here? You’ve spent time in Boston before.”

  “Even if they didn’t know who you really are, I still worry about my friends. Anyone I know could be a target.”

  “You have no friends. You’re a hermit.”

  “That’s not true. I have friends.”

  “Name one.”

  “I can name two. Miranda and Olivia.”

  “Your old roommates?” Peter sounded skeptical. “Do you keep in touch?”

  “Of course,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt at the lie. When was the last time she’d spoken to Liv? More than a year ago, though she had sent her an e-card for her birthday just last week, before all this happened. Miranda? She’d had a hard time after being booted from Quantico. An occasional note or postcard in the mail—nothing since Christmas. But Rowan didn’t blame her; Miranda was on a mission, one Rowan understood all too well.

  “Rowan?”

  “Sorry, woolgathering.”

  “You don’t really have anyone to support you right now, do you?”

  “I don’t need anyone. Really, Peter. I’m fine.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Don’t.” She wiped some tears from her face, took a deep breath, and resolved to stand strong. “I—I love you, Peter.”

  “I love you, too. Call me if you need anything. Anything.”

  “I will. And Peter—be careful. Just in case.”

  She hung up the phone and dialed Roger at his Washington home. She had to make sure her brother was kept safe.

  John whistled softly as he and Tess walked up to the Malibu house. “Nice spread.”

  “It’s not hers. A friend or something. She has a cabin in Colorado and is just in L.A. because her book’s being made into a movie.”

  “You sound jealous,” John teased.

  She shrugged and playfully hit him in the arm. “Not really. Maybe a little about the house and everything, but she doesn’t seem to be the happiest woman in the world, regardless of the money her books and movies are bringing in.”

  Michael answered the bell, surprise in his eyes as he looked from John to Tess and back at his brother. “I thought you were in South America until the end of the week.”

  “Wrapped up early.” He walked in, closed the door, and surveyed the surroundings. “Cush job, Mickey.”

  “While you were sunning it up in Bolivia, I got the call.” Michael broke into a wide smile. “Glad you’re back in one piece, Johnny.” He embraced his brother, slapping him on the back in a bear hug.

  “Me, too.” John stepped back, squeezed Michael’s shoulders and grinned. “It’s really good to see you.” He dropped his hands and looked around. Cold, sterile, artificial. He certainly wouldn’t want to live in this expensive tribute to minimalism. “Can you use help?”

  Michael stood back, hesitating. John understood how hard it was for Michael to ask for his help. Tess, yes. Cops, yes. His older brother, no.

  “Sure, always. I left a message for you, actually. Tess didn’t tell me you were coming back early.” Michael narrowed his eyes at Tess, but wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head.

  Their brief reunion was interrupted by a female clearing her throat. John turned his eyes to Rowan Smith for the first time.

  He was surprised at his reaction. He wasn’t a first-sight-attraction kind of guy. But the impression he had of Rowan from her book jacket was nothing compared to the woman in person. She still had the rigid, distant look of her profiled picture. Elegant and classy. A blend of the 1930s temptress with the cool estrangement of a twenty-first-century professional. No doubt a beautiful, remarkably striking woman, but there was something more. Her intelligent, stormy blue eyes, watching and curious. John noted how she kept herself detached from them, her body turned at a slight angle, almost as if she were ready to bolt even as she looked him straight in the eye.

  Captivating.

  He glanced at Michael and saw the familiar look on his brother’s face. He was smitten. Michael glanced at him and frowned, almost imperceptibly. He probably considered John a rival—at least as far as Ms. Rowan Smith was concerned.

  They stared at each other briefly, and John tried to judge how hard Michael had fallen. Without a doubt, his brother was in deep, but he seemed to be keeping his emotions in check. If John didn’t know Michael as well as he did, he wouldn’t see the competition in his eyes.

  When they were in high school, they’d instituted the “First Sight Rule” to avoid fighting over girls. They were only a year apart and were frequently attracted to the same women. To keep the peace in the family, they had agreed that whoever saw the girl first had first right of refusal.

  Not this time.

  John dumped the rule then and there. By the look on Michael’s face, he knew it too.

  I’ll make it up to him.

  Besides, they didn’t have time for fun and games while a killer was on the loose. And protecting his family—and now Rowan Smith—was John’s number-one responsibility.

  CHAPTER

  6

  She stood outside the picturesque two-story white colonial, heart pounding, a light sheen of perspiration on her back. Her skin was clammy, and she wondered if she was coming down with something.

  The house was familiar, but she’d never been to this part of Nashville before. She glanced at local Agent Tom Krause, a seasoned veteran she’d worked with on another multiple homicide in Tennessee two years before.

  Mature trees, evenly spaced, grew tall on the recently mowed lawn. Trimmed hedges stood sentry, marking the bottom of every closed window, every blood-red shutter. Yellow crime-scene tape slashed the serene landscape,
a stark reminder of what awaited her inside.

  Rowan had walked through hundreds of crime scenes. She’d seen the worst that man could do to his fellow man. Gathering her emotions, she pushed them down as far as she could, deep down, behind her soul. But today, she was having a harder time separating herself from the crime scene. Somehow, this murder was different. Familiar.

  She stood in the entry hall of the immaculate home. Clean, comfortable, expensive furnishings, polished wood. There was the general disturbance associated with law enforcement presence, but the house was otherwise neat as a pin. The smell of a lemon-scented cleaner mingled with the coppery scent she knew too well, the metallic taste of blood already in her nostrils, her mouth. She closed her eyes, gathering her strength.

  Why was it so hard to proceed?

  “Agent Smith, you okay?”

  Tom’s voice cut through her hesitation. She snapped her eyes opened and nodded. “Of course, just thinking. Who were the victims?”

  Tom glanced at his notepad. “Karl and Marlena Franklin and their children. Suspected murder-suicide, but the techs haven’t been through the scene except to photograph it.”

  She nodded and continued to survey the surroundings. The bottom of the staircase landed in the foyer, curving elegantly as it approached the second floor. Displayed on the wall were pictures of a growing family, arranged step-by-step, year-by-year. The mother and father, dark-haired and blue-eyed, together. Together with an infant. Then an infant and a toddler. A toddler and a kindergartner. Two kids and a baby. Two kids and a toddler and a baby. Dark hair, blue eyes, attractive family.

  Three boys and a baby girl.

  At the top of the stairs was the last portrait this family would ever take together. Three boys, the oldest about twelve. A little girl, three, with dark pigtails and red ribbons in the hair.

  Pigtails and ribbons.

  Run! Her mind screamed, but she was compelled to move forward. She heard Tom talking, but didn’t hear his words.

  Run!

  Her feet were rooted in the too-familiar house.

  The blood in the first room was confined to the bed. Oldest boy, Packers football fan, baseball awards on his shelves and walls. Second room, bunk beds, more blood. She smelled it, tasted it, breathed it into her lungs and gagged.