The Prey

CHAPTER 10

John stood outside Rowan’s office door, staring at the knob. Guilt nudged his conscience. He knew he shouldn’t invade her space. But he’d already been in her bedroom, and there was nothing of interest there except two loaded clips for her Glock in her bedside drawer and a shotgun under her bed.

What did she fear?

She spent a lot of time in the den. Her computer was there. When she wanted to be alone, she went to the den. Why?

And why did he feel guilty? He’d done far worse in his life than rifling through the personal property of a woman he was responsible for protecting. Of course, it wasn’t his case; it was Michael’s. But she was hiding something, something important, even if she didn’t know it. And Michael might be the one to pay for her omission.

Or possibly Rowan herself.

John wouldn’t allow that to happen.

He opened the door before he could change his mind and closed it behind him, his heart pounding. He simply didn’t want to pry into Rowan’s life. Not without her invitation.

The den differed from the white starkness of the rest of the house. Dark cherry paneling, built-in bookshelves, and a large corner desk unit dominated the small room. Two white leather love seats faced each other in the middle; a reading chair, table, and lamp were grouped in the corner. The tile from the hall extended into the den, but was mostly covered by a thick off-white shag rug.

Classic, cozy, and definitely more suited to Rowan than the bright, empty void of the immaculate Malibu beach house.

Clutter on the desk, stacks of books on the reading table, and a coffee mug with an inch of cold, congealed coffee told John this room was Rowan’s home. He felt worse invading this space than her bedroom upstairs.

The books were mostly true crime, crime fiction, and literary classics. A worn copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest sat on her desk. Other well-read classics littered the shelves. She may have been leasing the place, but evidently she’d brought boxes of books with her. Somehow, John didn’t think the owner of this sterile abode read Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath or Capote’s In Cold Blood.

John focused on the desk. He flicked on the computer. While waiting for it to finish booting, he searched for anything to give him more insight into Rowan and her past.

The papers on top of the stack closest to the computer were printouts from online newspapers all discussing the recent crime. Denver. Los Angeles. Portland. He’d already read them. The police had managed to keep the detail of the books being left at the crime scene to themselves, but the press had made the connection between the victims and Rowan’s books.

The connection must be killing her. Spending six years fighting serial killers and mass murderers, only to end up being connected to one.

John knew how she felt. He’d lost count of the years he’d been fighting the endless War on Drugs, and sometimes he lost track of where the bad guys ended and the good guys began. But it was a battle he vowed to keep fighting until the one bastard who kept slipping through the cracks was dead and burning in hell.

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?

He wanted to. He wanted to find out what made her tick. Like her friend Adam. Mentally slow, but Rowan had shown him some attention when it was obvious the kid had received few breaks in his life. Another facet of her complex personality.

“Adam, how about we go into the house?”

“It’s locked.”

“I know, but I have a key to the side door.” John led the way and in just a few minutes had Adam seated at the island bar. The kid was still worrying the poor flowers in his hands. “Why don’t I put those in water?”

“They’re for Rowan.”

“I know. But flowers need water.”

“Oh. Right, they need water.” He looked sheepish, and John felt bad for him. From his comments earlier, his mother hadn’t been any kind of support. Rowan obviously had taken him under her wing and had the patience of a saint. John couldn’t help but admire that in her.

John found a vase on the top shelf of the pantry and filled it with water, then poured in the packet of crystals that came with the lilies for preservation. He arranged the flowers in the vase and shook his head. “I’m not too good at this.”

Adam moved them around a little and they looked surprisingly better. “I broke one,” he said with a frown.

“That’s okay, it’s still standing.” John picked up the vase and carried it into the dining room, centering it on the table. He called through the opening into the kitchen. “Is it okay here?”

Adam looked over the pass-through and smiled. “Yes. That’s pretty.”

John came back into the kitchen. “Do you want some water? A Coke?”

Adam nodded. “Milk. And Rowan said she had chocolate chocolate chip cookies and I could have one.”

John hunted for the cookies and found them in the pantry, a half-eaten bag of gourmet double chocolate chip cookies. Rowan had a sweet tooth, and John couldn’t help but smile. She was real after all, and not just the outer shell of a perfect woman.

Rowan walked into the kitchen, Michael right behind her. John and Adam were eating cookies and drinking milk at the island. John looked up sheepishly, a milk mustache across his top lip. He looked so silly, it made her want to smile. Big tough ex-military guy walking around with milk on his upper lip. Because she found it endearing, she quickly turned to Adam and pushed the image of John from her mind.

“Adam, why did you drive all the way out here?” she asked.

Adam glanced up at her, worrying his glass in his hands. He looked both embarrassed and excited.

“I wanted to tell you I was really, really sorry about Marcy.”

“You already apologized. I told you I wasn’t mad.”

Adam frowned and stared into his almost empty glass of milk. “I know,” he mumbled. “But Barry was mad, and he still acts mad sometimes. He says Marcy might try to get me fired.”

“I won’t let Marcy get you fired. I told you that.”

“Or Barry?”

“Or Barry.”

“Promise?”

“I’ll do my best.” Rowan put her hand on Adam’s chin, making him look at her. “But what you did today was wrong. I called Barry and told him about the truck. He didn’t even know it was gone. What if he had called the police, thinking it was stolen?”

“I-I hadn’t thought about that. I wasn’t going to be gone a long time, just to bring you the flowers and go.”

“I understand, but you don’t have a driver’s license, Adam. You could have hurt someone because you don’t know all the rules of the road. I told you when you want to learn to drive, I’ll teach you and help you get your license. But you can’t do it whenever you want.”

“I’m sorry. I’m stupid. Are you mad at me?”

Rowan tried to look stern, but couldn’t pull it off. Not with Adam. She cared about him so much and wanted to strangle his mother for her cruel indifference and verbal abuse. “You’re not stupid, Adam. I don’t want to ever hear you say that again. Understand?”

“But-”

“Adam.”

“Yes, Rowan. You’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad. Just don’t do it again.”

He heaved a huge sigh of relief, and Rowan gave him a hug. She glanced at John, who had a thoughtful expression on his face. She quickly turned away. She didn’t want to be drawn to John Flynn. He was dangerous. Dangerous to her.

John’s cell phone rang and he answered it. Rowan couldn’t hear the conversation, but John’s face turned from contemplative to blank like a switch. It was about her. She wanted to confront him, but she’d do the same thing in his shoes. She didn’t have to like it though.

“Thanks, Andy,” he said and hung up. He caught her eye, but his expression remained closed.

He was up to something. What?

“What was that about?” Michael asked.

Rowan had almost forgotten Michael was there. He leaned against the doorway, his casual stance belying the tension she saw in his neck and shoulders. At first she’d thought John and Michael were close, but there was a growing unease whenever they were in the same room together.

“Business,” John said, sliding the cell phone into his jeans pocket. “Adam brought flowers.”

John had deliberately changed the subject, and Rowan was certain he was checking up on her. The thought angered her, but her impulse to push him was interrupted when Adam started talking, excited.

“John found a vase, I hope that’s okay, but I didn’t want them to die. I broke one, so you can throw it out, but they’re still pretty.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely, Adam, but you didn’t need to bring me anything.”

Adam nodded his head vigorously. “Oh, yes. Barry always gets Sylvie flowers when she gets mad at him. And even though you said you weren’t mad at me about tricking Marcy, I knew you were a little bit mad, and I wanted to tell you I was sorry, but not just say it, you know?”

Rowan smiled. “I know. That was very thoughtful.” She looked around the kitchen. “Where are they?”

“John put them in the dining room.” Adam jumped off the stool and grabbed Rowan’s hand, pulling her into the next room. “I was going to get roses, but the man said the calla lilies were better for friends. We’re friends. Aren’t they pretty?”

Rowan smiled until she saw the flowers.

Lilies.

Her eyesight faded from the periphery, until all she saw were the white lilies. A dead voice, as clear as if her mother were standing right next to her, said, “Aren’t they pretty? Just like you, Lily.”

Lily looked up at her mother and smiled. “They’re prettier, Mama.”

Mama laughed and shook her head. “You’ll be such a charmer with the men when you grow up, sweetheart.” She ran her soft, slender fingers through Lily’s hair, and Lily leaned into the caress with a smile. “You know I named you Lily because your daddy gave me lilies on our first date.”

“I know, Mama.” But she loved the story. She couldn’t picture her father giving her mama flowers. He was so serious all the time. And sometimes he yelled at Mama. She didn’t see him much. She was in bed before he came home from work most nights, and the only time she ever really talked to him was on Sundays. And sharing his attention with her two brothers and two sisters was hard. She preferred to read or play out in the backyard.

Three sisters, she reminded herself as she looked over at the bassinet. Danielle was beautiful.

“Why didn’t you name the baby Rose so you can get roses all the time? Roses are prettier than lilies.” Lily wrinkled her nose. She really didn’t like bouquets of flowers all that much. They were nice when they were freshly cut and arranged in a vase, but they died and Mama threw them in the garbage, almost as if she didn’t care. Lily didn’t know why someone would want flowers around the house all the time when they died so fast.

Outside in the garden, flowers lived forever. They slept in the winter, but they came back every spring. Those flowers Lily liked.

Mama laughed and kissed Lily’s head. “You are a funny girl.”

Danielle started squeaking. It wasn’t really a cry, just a little squawk. “I think she’s hungry, Lily. Will you get her for me?”

“Me?” Lily wanted so much to hold the new baby, but her father told her not to touch, that babies weren’t dolls.

“Of course you.”

Lily walked over to the bassinet and looked at her baby sister. She’d loved her the minute Daddy brought Mama and the baby home last week. But knowing that she could hold her, bring her to Mama to be fed, brought that love to a new level. She could help be the mama. She couldn’t feed her because she didn’t have breasts yet, but she could change her diaper and her clothes and bring her to Mama.

She smiled brightly.

“Hi, baby,” she said in her best mother voice. “I’m your big sister Lily. We’re going to be best friends.”

Carefully, tenderly, she picked up the newborn, supporting her head just like Mama had taught her. She walked three steps to the couch.

Mama put the baby to her breast. She suckled, and Mama got a dreamy expression on her face. “Lily, there is nothing in the world better than feeding your baby. One day, you’ll grow up and be a mama.”

“I want lots of kids.”

Mama smiled. “You can have as many as you want. You can do anything with your life, sweetheart. You can be a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher or a mother. All are important.”

“But mamas are the most important because babies need them,” Lily said, feeling very smart.

“Yes, babies need their mamas.”

A loud thump upstairs made Lily jump, and she stepped closer to her mother.

“Stupid brat! Get out of my way.”

It was Bobby. He sounded mad. Even madder than Daddy got when Mama didn’t do something right.

“Honey,” Mama said, worried. “Go take care of Peter. Hurry.”

Lily ran from the room, her fear for Peter greater than her fear of Bobby. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up.

“No!” she screamed.

Bobby pushed Peter and his little toddler legs buckled. He grabbed at the railing as Bobby stomped down the stairs.

Lily ran up the stairs, and Bobby laughed at her. “Hope you break your neck, Lily Pad.”

Lily ignored him and watched as Peter stumbled and fell three stairs, then grabbed a rail. He cried out, but she caught him. “Are you okay, baby?” she asked as she helped Peter back up the stairs. A door slammed. Bobby was gone. She hoped he never came back. He scared her so much.

She hated him.