The Prey (14 page)

The other stacks of papers appeared to be copies of bills, notes for her books, printouts of chapters. Michael had said she was working on another book, as well as the screenplay for the movie being filmed now. He’d mentioned something about how her first movie had been trashed and she wasn’t about to let anyone rewrite her books into something they weren’t.

John understood that as well. In fact, he found he had deep insight into Rowan that he couldn’t explain. It was as if he knew how she would react, what she would think in any given situation, how these murders were eating her up inside. She was angry and rigid on the surface, but when he looked into her eyes, he saw in them so much she didn’t say.

Rowan Smith kept her emotions close to the vest. Just like him.

John sat at the computer when he found nothing more of interest in the papers. Her e-mail was mostly from studio people, the majority related to the screenplay she was working on. She didn’t save old e-mails. He could grab his laptop, plug it in, and run undelete on her old files, but somehow he didn’t think she had anything sensitive on her computer. It appeared to be used primarily for writing.

Crime of Passion
was the movie coming out at the end of the week.
Crime of Clarity
was the movie currently being filmed. Looking through her documents, he saw that
Crime of Jeopardy
was the book coming out next week, and
House of Terror
was her work in progress.

John frowned. Rowan was certain there would be one more victim, from her fourth book,
Corruption
, and then the killer would come after her. But what about the latest book? And her current work? Her current work didn’t keep the theme of her “crime of” series. He wondered why. He wanted to ask her. But if he did, she’d know he’d been on her computer.

Could the murderer have gotten a copy of the unpublished book? Was he someone Rowan knew well? Well enough to let into her house?

John shut down the computer and started going through her desk. The file drawer contained little that wasn’t personal correspondence or directly related to her books.

Except for one folder.

Newspaper articles, slightly yellowed and dated four years earlier, reported a mass murder in Nashville, Tennessee.

Businessman Karl Franklin Kills Family, Self.

The story documented that Karl Franklin came home after work late one Monday night and killed his wife and four children while they slept in their beds. Everyone was shocked; he was a successful businessman, had no financial problems, and had always talked about his family glowingly.

No apparent motive, no reason. The man broke and murdered his family when nothing should have made him break. Then he killed himself, and no one was able to ask him why.

Four years ago. This was the case that Rowan had been having nightmares about. This was the case she was reviewing at FBI headquarters right now.

Something tickled the back of his mind, and he drew out his cell phone and called a contact in Washington. “Hey, Andy, it’s John Flynn.”

“Flynn. Second time this week. You must be working.”

“You could say that. I’m helping my brother with a case. Have anything for me?”

“Nope. I told you it would take awhile. Digging into the life of the assistant director could get me fired, friend. I hope you have a job waiting for me in the wings.”

John laughed. “You can partner with me next time I head down to South America.”

“Hell no. I’d rather work at McDonald’s. Did you want a status report? I’m empty. Call back next week.”

“No, another question. Should be easy.”

“Right.”

John heard a vehicle slow in front of the house and he crossed to the blinds. He peered out but didn’t see anything.

“When did Rowan Smith leave the FBI? It was four years ago—I’d like an exact date.”

“That I can do. Hold on.”

“Thanks.”

While John waited, he continued to look out the blinds. He could only see the roofs of cars as they whizzed by on the highway fifty feet away, up a steep embankment that separated Rowan’s house from the busy road.

Before Andy came back on the line, a beat-up truck heading south slowed in front of her house but didn’t stop. If the driver was looking for a house, it could be any of the dozen on this stretch of Pacific Coast Highway. It passed and left his line of sight. But John never doubted his instincts, and he waited by the window, adjusting the blinds in such a way that he could see out but no one could see in.

“John?”

“Still here.”

“She was paid through August thirty-first of four years ago, but she resigned from active duty on May second.”

John didn’t need to look at the newspaper article again to know that Franklin murdered his family on May first. Not only was this her last case, it was the reason for her resignation. Why? He’d read through her other cases. Some were far more brutal crimes, yet she’d investigated them without a break in stride.

“One more thing.”

Andy sighed dramatically. “I
am
going to be fired.”

“Can you run any similar crimes to the Franklin murder-suicide?”

“Where? When?”

“United States. Whenever.”

“Shit, John, you don’t ask for the hard stuff, do you?”

John couldn’t help but grin. “I owe you.”

“Damn straight. I’ll call you back. Don’t know when; that’s a lot of territory to cover.”

“Thanks, buddy. As soon as possible would work for me.”

“I don’t know if we’re buddies anymore.” Andy hung up.

John smiled. Andy would never change. It was nice when people were predictable.

He stood at the window and waited. Ten minutes later, he concluded that the driver was visiting someone else on this strip. Moving from the blinds, he glanced around the den one last time.

Nothing more could be learned from this space. But he felt like he knew much more about Rowan Smith.

He left the den, taking a minute to make sure it was exactly as he’d left it. Computer off, papers stacked, drawers closed. Check.

It was well after lunch and he was starving. Though he couldn’t cook half as well as his brother, he could make a mean sandwich. Tess had told him Rowan had little food in the house until Michael came by. As John looked through the well-stocked pantry and refrigerator, he couldn’t help but wonder just how long Michael intended to stay. By the look of supplies, it seemed he planned on being here damned near forever.

It was Jessica all over again. And worse, Michael couldn’t see it.

John fixed himself a sandwich, eating it more out of habit than because he liked the taste.

If his instincts were right, Rowan had been assigned to the Franklin case and resigned after visiting the scene. She’d probably been forced to take a leave of absence before her resignation was accepted, in the hope that she’d change her mind. John knew agents who worked hard cases often needed mental health time; otherwise they’d burn out.

Rowan Smith, classic burnout. But instead of joining some small police force as John knew others did, or working as a private consultant, or taking a desk job, Rowan had begun a second, very successful career writing crime fiction. Her books detailed the evil man could do to man, something she would have seen on a regular basis, particularly with the cases she worked.

Maybe she wasn’t a classic burnout.

John heard a creak on the deck outside and paused, sandwich halfway to his mouth. His body tensed, alert. His ears practically twitched as he listened for a prowler.

Creak creak creak creak.

Someone was on the back stairs, leading from the beach.

Soundless, John put his plate down and withdrew his gun. His sneakers made no sound on the tile floor as he walked to the side door. He silently jogged down the stairs, then turned toward the beach.

Careful to keep out of sight from the intruder by hugging the support pillars of the deck, he scooted along until he reached the back stairs. He’d checked them out when he first arrived and knew that keeping to the outside of the stairs minimized the squeak the boards made.

He paused a dozen stairs from the top and peered over the railing. Intruder. The man was young, about twenty-one, tall and skinny with dark hair. He carried a huge bouquet of flowers. Had he come to the front door, John wouldn’t have thought twice about him.

The boy knocked on the back door and cupped his hand to peer inside. He tried the door carefully.

Stealthily, John walked up behind him and said, “Don’t move. I have a gun. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The kid turned abruptly, eyes darting left and right. “I-I-I’m looking f-f-for R-Rowan.” His eyes widened at the sight of John’s gun and he clutched the flowers tighter.

“Who are you?”

“Adam. Adam. Um, Adam Williams. Four-four-five West Toluca Boulevard Unit B.”

John sensed the kid was legit. There was something off about him. But the best of criminals played the game well. He kept his voice stern. “How do you know Rowan?”

“She, uh, she got me my job. I’m her number-one fan. I read all her books. She got me my job. I work for Barry at the studio. Barry is really nice but Barry got mad at me about the joke I played on Marcy, and Rowan got mad too and I said I was sorry but I thought Rowan would like flowers because she’s a girl and my mama said all girls like flowers, stupid.”

John holstered his gun, confident the kid was who he said. “Adam, I’m John Flynn. I’m a friend of Rowan’s, too.”

Adam narrowed his eyes. “How do I know you’re not lying? Rowan said there was a bad man hurting people.” He stepped back.

John put his hands palms up to show he wasn’t an enemy. “We can call her. Do you want to call her?”

Adam nodded vigorously, then stopped and shook his head just as hard. “No, no, it could be a trap. You could be trapping her. No, she should stay away. She has a bodyguard, you know.”

“I know. He’s my brother, Michael. Have you met him?”

Recognition crossed Adam’s face, but he was still wary. “Maybe,” he said like a defiant kid.

John reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell phone. “I’m going to call Rowan and she’ll come home and talk to you, okay?” When the kid still looked undecided, John said, “You can talk to her, too. She’ll tell you I’m okay, then we’ll go into the house and wait.”

“Okay,” Adam said in a small voice.

John dialed Michael’s cell, mentally hitting himself that he didn’t have Rowan’s direct line. “Mickey, it’s John. Let me speak to Rowan.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a delicate situation here that I need her help with.”

“Tell me.”

Damn him. He wanted to play tough guy. “Adam Williams stopped by to say hello and he isn’t sure I’m not the bad guy Rowan warned him about. I’d like her to talk to him.”

“Adam? The retarded kid?”

John winced and hoped Adam hadn’t heard that. “Yes, Rowan’s number-one fan.”

“I suspected he was up to something. Keep him there. I’ll call the police and—”

“No, Michael,” John said, harsher than he intended. “Would you just—”

“Listen, John, I’ve been working this case a lot longer than you and—” he stopped, and John could hear Rowan’s voice in the background, but not what she was saying. Muffled, he heard Michael’s voice say, “But you don’t know he’s safe. Why don’t we have the police talk to him?”

“Absolutely not!” Rowan exclaimed loud enough for John to hear. Another mumble, and then Rowan got on the phone.

“John?”

“It’s me.”

“Let me talk to Adam.”

John couldn’t help but smile, but a glance at Adam’s scared face sobered him up. He was strangling the poor lilies in both hands. “Adam, Rowan would like to speak to you.”

Hand shaking, Adam reached for the phone. “H-hello?”

John watched as Adam’s expression turned from scared to worried to calm. Then worried again. “I-I didn’t ask Barry. I-I watched him enough, I thought I could do it. I didn’t hurt his truck, I promise!” It took several minutes, but whatever Rowan was saying seemed to appease Adam. “Can I wait for you?” The answer must have been yes, because Adam smiled broadly and handed the phone back to John. “Rowan wants to talk to you.”

“Rowan?”

“John, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I told Adam he could wait for me. I’m going to have to get him back to Burbank. He doesn’t have a driver’s license.”

“I’ll take him.”

She paused. “You’d do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

What did she think he was, an asshole? Obviously, Adam was a bit slow. He also worshipped Rowan. He didn’t mean her any harm, and he probably didn’t get a lot of breaks in the city.

“I—all right. Thank you.”

She hung up, and John stared at the phone for a minute. Rowan Smith was not a trusting soul, which didn’t bug him, except that she didn’t seem to trust
him
.

Then again, he’d deliberately invaded her space, asking her tough questions—most of which she hadn’t answered yet. And he found her captivating.

What was it about her? Sure, she was good-looking. Her white-blonde hair appeared soft and silky, something he would love to run his fingers through. She smelled fresh and natural. And her eyes—those blue-gray eyes showed him her feelings, so much better than her words and mannerisms.

She was trying so hard to figure out what she’d done to deserve the attention of this maniac. He admired her focus, her determination, her past career. He didn’t understand why she’d quit, but obviously something about the Franklin murders got to her. Burnout? It was unexpected from her personality—at least the strong, independent persona she showed to the world.

But Rowan was closed and private, kept information from him that she might not think was important, but damn well could be. John didn’t like deception, intended or not, and expected everyone he worked with to be on the up-and-up. To trust him. That code of honor was necessary in the jungles of South America, on the streets of Mexico, and in every drug port along the American coastline. If he couldn’t trust her, what did he have?

And if she didn’t trust him, how could he get closer?