The Prey (5 page)

She hoped Michael would forgive her for calling their brother John, but she needed an unbiased opinion. Michael was a good cop, good bodyguard, but he sometimes let personal feelings cloud his professional judgment. Rowan intrigued him, Tess could tell.

She called John’s private line. “It’s Tess.”

Pause. “What’s wrong?”

“We have a new assignment, but I think we may be over our head on this one.” She told him about Rowan Smith, the murder, and the funeral wreath. “Michael asked me to do a background check.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“So?”

“Just that—nothing. It’s as if she was born eighteen years old and just started college.”

“Maybe you’re not as good as you think,” he teased lightly.

“John, I’m worried. That funeral wreath really freaked me out. I read about the murder of Doreen Rodriguez in the papers, then I read the chapter in her book. It’s identical.”

“What did you find on her?”

“She graduated from Georgetown twelve years ago and went directly into the FBI Academy. Graduated top of her class. She has several marksmanship awards, and I found a couple of newspaper articles where she had a hand in apprehending a criminal, but she’s never quoted. She resigned four years ago, about the same time her first book was published.”

“Sounds like typical burnout. It happens.”

“I’m getting to that. There’s a court document from more than twenty years ago. Name change.”

“Oh?”

“She was a minor. And it’s sealed.”

“Okay, you’ve piqued my interest.”

“I’m not done. She listed her address in Washington, D.C., so I did a search on property ownership. The house is in the name of Roger and Grace Collins.”

“That name sounds familiar.”

“Roger Collins is assistant director of the FBI. There’s something strange in that, don’t you think? That she had a name change as a minor and was living at the home of one of the FBI directors?” She paused. “What if she knows more about this killer than she’s letting on? Why would a kid need a name change? Witness protection?”

“I can think of a lot of reasons, not all of them nefarious.”

Tess ignored him. “And I can already tell Michael’s getting emotionally involved. I’m worried, John.” She felt bad about giving this information to John before she told Michael, but she knew John’s instincts were better. She’d tell Michael tomorrow.

“I’m ready to wrap up down here. Give me two days.”

Tess hung up, feeling better. While she trusted Michael, John had more experience dealing with federal law enforcement agencies. Michael tended to be too trusting, while John was the exact opposite—so distrustful that it sometimes bothered Tess. She’d never met anyone so driven, so focused on his job—whatever it happened to be—than her oldest brother.

If anyone could get to the heart of the Rowan Smith case, it was John.

John snapped closed his cell phone and pushed aside Tess’s worries. He had work to finish quickly if he was to get back up to California to help his brother. Though more confident in Michael’s ability than Tess was, he wondered about Smith and her background. He knew how deceptive the FBI could be, especially when they protected one of their own.

He couldn’t give this operation any more time. He called his DEA contact with the longitude and latitude of the warehouse where over ten thousand kilos of pure heroin was stored. He’d hoped to track down the elusive Reginald Pomera, but not this time.

He looked down and saw his clenched fists. He’d thought for sure this was the time he’d confront Pomera. He was so close. So close he could almost smell the bastard.

He forced himself to relax, taking slow, drawn-out breaths. Reminded himself that his consulting assignments for the DEA were sporadic work, at best. His new career was the security business with Michael and Tess. He was no longer an agent, no longer in the employ of the government.

Unless, of course, they needed his specialized skills in tracking down and hunting big-time drug lords like Pomera, he thought bitterly. Then he reminded himself that it had been his choice to walk away from that career.

Not as though he’d had much of a decision. Sell your soul to the devil to catch a devil. It wasn’t a choice he could have made.

He paced, checking the status of the warehouse through the electronic sensors he’d planted earlier. Four guards around the perimeter, two inside. No one was on alert. Business as usual.

Even if Tess hadn’t called him about returning to L.A., he would have needed to call in the raid soon, anyway. The drugs were scheduled for transport tomorrow night—and his gut told him Pomera was not going to make an appearance.

There was no way he could allow those drugs to end up on the streets of America. It was a small blow to the huge drug cartel, but a blow nonetheless. And if one kid didn’t die—it’d be worth it.

If all went well, he’d be in Los Angeles in thirty-six hours.

A quiet knock awakened Michael. Early-morning light streamed through the curtains. He jumped from bed, alert, not mindful that he wore only briefs. Rowan stood in the doorway.

She averted her eyes. “I’m going for a run.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m going with you. Give me three minutes.”

He hadn’t slept well, and it showed in his reflection. His dark whiskers made him appear even shabbier than he felt; his green eyes were bloodshot, making them seem brighter. He splashed water on his face, finger-combed his hair, and dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt.

The smell of coffee lured him to the kitchen. Rowan stood at the sink drinking a tall glass of water, her long, straight blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore no makeup, yet Michael found her just as attractive this morning.

“Let’s go,” he said, pushing aside his personal interest in Rowan. He wouldn’t let her distract him from the job he had to do. Not that she was doing it on purpose, he thought. If anything, she kept a wide physical and emotional distance from everyone.

“It’s a three-mile run from here to the other end of the beach and back. I run it twice. Up for it?”

“No problem,” he said. “Let me look around.” He noticed she had a gun in a holster at her back. Not the Glock; this one was a little Heckler & Koch, the “Rolls-Royce” of 9mm semiautos. “Nice piece,” he commented. “Writing must pay well. I’m sure you couldn’t afford that on a government salary.”

She was beautiful when she smiled, he noted. “Yeah, it was a treat when I could walk into the gun store and pay cash for it. Maybe we should go to the range today, get in a little target practice. I’ll let you try it.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he said.

After checking the deck and beach, he said, “In the future, you might want to consider driving somewhere else if you feel the need to run.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t sound like she had any intention of taking him up on his suggestion, and she set off at a vigorous pace, preventing further conversation.

Rowan was surprised at how comfortable she felt with Michael Flynn. If she didn’t think about him as a bodyguard, she could almost get used to the company. As long as she thought of him as merely backup, she could live with the lack of privacy. For now.

She loved running on the beach, the packed, wet sand hard enough for traction but soft enough to cushion each step. It was early and cold, the air salty and thick, the churning water caressing the land, then pulling back, a never-ending cycle of tides in, tides out. The edge of the world, where the vast Pacific met land, humbled any human who appreciated its strength.

Two laps later, she jogged up the steps to her deck. She was about to enter the house when Michael commanded, “Stop.” He brushed past her, unlocked the door, and looked around. When all was clear, he told her to come in.

A reminder of who he was and why he was here.

Rowan and Michael had no opportunity to go to the shooting range that day. She was needed at the studio for a rewrite. Annette had suggested all parties involved meet in Malibu, but Rowan put her foot down, saying, “I need to get out of this house.”

Tess met Michael and Rowan at her closet-sized office in the studio. Rowan looked at them skeptically. “Michael, I thought we agreed I’d be safe here.”

True, they’d spoken with studio security when they’d arrived and Michael was comfortable that the head of security understood the threat. But he wanted his own person there, someone who answered to him. Since John was out of town, Tess was the only option.

“Humor me, okay?”

Rowan rolled her eyes and changed the subject. “I’m going to call the Bureau and see where my old case files are. I thought they’d have been sent over by now. We can pick them up at FBI headquarters on the way back.”

“Fine. Be careful, Rowan.”

“Always.”

He watched Tess follow Rowan out and felt a pang of regret that he was leaving. But he wanted to check in with LAPD and see if they’d traced the flowers. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure the chief knew he was on the case. Might get them better information on the status of the investigation.

Rowan would be safe as long as she stayed within the confines of the studio.

He arrived at the police station just before three that afternoon, but the chief and Detective Jim Barlow were both in a meeting with the Feds. Michael waited, chatted with his former colleagues, and grew antsy as his wait stretched into an hour.

Finally, just as he was thinking of leaving, the chief’s secretary motioned to him. “You can go in now.”

Chief Bunker stood behind his desk, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder.

“Flynn, good to see you. Wish it was under better circumstances.” He slammed the phone down with a frown and shook Michael’s hand. “Barlow just left with the Feds to a crime scene. They tracked down the flowers.”

“And?”

“Shop near the San Fernando Mission. Records show that Christine Jamison sold a funeral wreath on Sunday to be delivered to Ms. Smith on Tuesday. Two uniforms went to her apartment. She’s dead.”

Michael was getting into his SUV when his cell phone chirped. Caller ID told him it was Tess. “What’s up?”

“Mickey!” She sounded breathless.

Adrenaline pumped. Something was wrong. “What happened?”

“Get over here quick. There was an incident on the set.”

“Is Rowan hurt?” His heart pounded.

“No, she thinks it was a prank. She told me not to call you, but—”

“I’ll be right there.” He ended the call, then dialed the chief’s direct line and asked him to send a patrol to the studio, even though he didn’t have all the details.

He made record time to the studio. On the movie set, the uniformed cops were already talking to Annette, who looked like she wanted to strangle them. He spotted Rowan standing at the back of the set. Safe. Tess ran up to him, launching immediately into an explanation.

“We were watching a rehearsal here in Studio B when the actors took a break, and David Cline—he’s the director—started talking with Rowan about changes and then someone screamed. I yelled for Rowan to stay put. I had my gun out, but so did she, and she led the way to the stage.”

Michael’s heart clenched at the image of his kid sister running around with a gun. While he’d trained her, she was still not ready for fieldwork. He should never have assigned her to watch over Rowan today. But in all honesty, he hadn’t thought anything would happen at the studio. Not with all the security measures they already had in place.

“Marcy Blair, one of the actresses, the one who screamed, was standing over a puddle of blood,” Tess continued. “No one was hurt. Rowan stared at it a long time, and I thought she was going to lose it. Then she bent down and touched it. It was fake. No one saw who dumped it. Everyone was on break. Marcy Blair was the first one back.”

Someone touched Michael’s arm and he whirled around, tense from the news and the lack of facts.

It was Rowan. Her pale face was drawn, but determined. “Michael, trust me. There’s no crime here. Send the police away.”

“How do you know?” He mentally hit himself for assuming security was sound. If something had happened to Tess or Rowan . . . he didn’t want to contemplate the thought. He would not leave them alone again. It was
his
job to protect Rowan, after all, studio security notwithstanding.

Rowan brought her face close to his and he swallowed. Something about this woman drew him in, but right now he was too angry and frustrated to dwell on it.

“Michael,” she said softly, “I know who spilled the fake blood. He’s a good kid, and I don’t want him to get in trouble. I’ll let you talk to him if you downplay this. Please tell the cops there was a misunderstanding.”

He almost refused. He felt like scaring the living shit out of someone, and a bratty kid seemed like a good target. “You’d better be right,” he said through clenched teeth.

Michael approached the uniforms, explained there was a misunderstanding, and said he would speak personally to the chief. That appeased them, and they left. Annette tried to lecture him about calling in outsiders like the police, but Michael ignored her. He’d call in whoever was necessary to get the job done.

Michael walked Rowan to her office, where she gathered her belongings. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Adam Williams is my number-one fan,” she said a little ruefully. “He’s nineteen and comes from a troubled home. I met him two years ago when I came to L.A. to work on my first screenplay. He started following me around and I confronted him.” She locked her office and they walked outside to Michael’s SUV.

“He’s a good kid,” Rowan continued. “A little strange, but he doesn’t have anyone to talk to outside of cyberspace. When I went back to Colorado last time, we kept in touch through e-mail. I like him. I got him a job in the prop department when I came out here two months ago, saw him around Studio B today. This is something he’d do.” She shrugged and gave him a half-smile. “He likes scary jokes.”

“I should have him arrested.” Practical joke? Perhaps. Michael would be his own judge of the kid’s intentions.