The Prey

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.

“You’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.

One violent murder three days ago and then nothing. The calm before the storm. She shuddered.

Rowan had been sitting at her desk in her locked den doing nothing but feeling guilty for a crime she hadn’t committed when she heard the cars arrive. No one came to the door immediately, so she looked out the blinds and saw the two security people standing there, talking, their body language showing that they were comfortable together. A team.

She’d never had that. Even with her partners in the FBI, she’d never grown close to anyone. She couldn’t. What if something happened to them?

The doorbell rang. She needed a few more minutes to compose herself. She loved Roger dearly, but talking to him last night on top of everything else had brought back black memories she needed to re-bury, at least until she was alone.

“Nice place,” Tess said.

Michael looked around, frowning. He appreciated the aesthetics, but right now he was most concerned about security. “Lots of windows. Where are the blinds?”

“The owner never put coverings on the west-facing windows.” Annette tossed her black bob with a subtle shake of the head. She was a trim and attractive woman with bright, intelligent blue eyes. “He’s quite eccentric. So it can get hot in here in the late afternoon.” The trendy producer always spoke with strong inflections. At times it was irritating.

“I thought Smith was a woman.”

“She is. The owner’s a friend of mine, an actor, who’s in Australia filming. He’s leasing the place to Rowan.”

Michael surveyed his surroundings, absorbing the layout.

Everything was blinding white and glass. The furniture, the paint, the carpets. The only color came from bright, primary-toned abstract paintings sparsely decorating the walls. Sterile, cold. He sure wouldn’t want to live here.

They stood in the large, sunken living room. Three tall windows showcased the ocean. To the right was a raised sitting area or library of sorts with a high-end entertainment center on one wall. To the left was an elevated dining room with its own picture window. All three rooms had sets of double glass doors leading to the deck.

The house was a damn fish bowl.

“What’s wrong?” Annette asked.

“We need to do something about these windows.” He motioned with his hand.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“But no one can see in. The house faces the ocean.”

Michael struggled to be polite. “True, but at night someone could be outside on this deck and see everything inside with the house lit up like a Christmas tree, and we wouldn’t even know it.” He looked around. “Where’s Ms. Smith?”

“In her office,” Annette said. “I’ll get her.”

Alone? Michael thought. Already he didn’t like the feeling of this assignment. He knew nothing about Smith except that she was a former FBI agent turned writer working on a screenplay for Annette and living in a virtual glass house. And, of course, what he’d read in the newspapers about the murder in Denver.

Michael watched the producer walk down the open hall and stop at the first set of double doors. He knew Annette and trusted her for the most part, but made a mental note to have Tess do a little clandestine research on the producer and her company. While he’d never heard of committing murder for publicity, he had been privy to some illegal stunts to bring attention to a fledgling star or poorly reviewed movie.

“Rowan?” Annette said through the door. “The security people are here.”

A muffled response.

Annette turned to Michael with a half-smile. “She’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Look, she can’t be alone. If someone is trying to kill her, she needs to be within sight at all times.” He passed Annette and rapped loudly on the door. “Ms. Smith, this is Michael Flynn. Please come out.”

“I said five minutes!” she called from behind the door.

“Now. You’re not safe in there.”

He heard her laugh, followed by the distinct sound of a round being chambered. His heart raced. Was she alone? He tried the door. Locked. Then one knob slowly turned. He stood back against the wall. The door opened slightly and he waited for her to emerge. When she didn’t, he scooted along the wall, pushed the door in all the way.

In the middle of the den stood a tall blonde with eyes the color of the ocean. Her face was blank, emotionless, her long hair clasped in the back.

She had a gun pointed at his chest. “Bang, you’re dead.”

“Put the damn gun down! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Protecting myself.”

Michael whirled on his heel and started for the door. “Tess, let’s go.”

“Michael,” Tess said, biting her lip.

“Now.” To say he was furious was an understatement. He would tolerate no one pulling a gun on him. Was she crazy?

“Please, Michael.” Annette laid a manicured hand on his arm. “Rowan’s upset. Just listen. She needs you.”

Michael looked from Annette to the blonde emerging from the den, arms crossed, holding a Glock casually in one hand, pointed down. Her body rippled with tension, belying her casual posture. While too skinny, he noted well-toned muscles under the short sleeves of her shirt. Pale, but still a beautiful woman. Her face was as blank as when she’d pointed that damn gun at him. But her stormy eyes stopped him from walking out the door. He finally understood the phrase “eyes are windows to the soul.” Rowan Smith’s eyes told him she was scared but strong, troubled but defiant. A captivating combination.

“I’ll give you ten minutes to explain,” Michael said through clenched teeth.

It took him days to find the perfect flower shop. It would have been so much easier had she named it.

His gloved hands opened the book to the page he’d marked.

The front of the simple flower shop reminded him of the neighborhood where he’d grown up. A large picture window framed by a green-and-white awning, metal carts spilling over with an array of colorful carnations, red roses the color of fresh spilled blood, ferns newly misted, dripping dew like tears.

Perfect, down to the red roses and misted ferns.

He opened the glass door, a bell ringing overhead. The fragrant aroma of flowers, soil, and plants greeted him, along with a cheerful, “Hello, may I help you?”

He breathed in the earthy scent, looking at a display of bright spring arrangements just inside the door while he waited for two chatty women at the counter to finish their order and leave.

One arrangement in particular caught his attention: a brilliantly designed triangular piece with majestic pink and purple larkspurs framed by bright yellow daffodils, white and pink mums, and purple lilies, quivering in the air-conditioned store.

It would have been perfect for her on any other occasion, but not for a funeral. Too bad.

He turned to another worn page in the book. Though he had the passage memorized, he liked to look at the words. They gave him an almost giddy sense of pleasure, as if he were leaning over her shoulder as she typed them into her computer.

Casa Blanca lilies, carnations, roses, moluccella, snapdragons and gypsophila, all in pure white, framed the funeral wreath, soft trailing plumosus lending a green backdrop, making the white even brighter. The fragrant flowers, so alive, should never have hung next to the closed casket, a casket that held the dead, dismembered body of a life taken too soon.

“May I help you?”

He turned, smiling at the young clerk who leaned forward to wait on him. Under thirty and blonde. Thankfully, there was no other description of her in the book. Even though there were hundreds of florist shops in Los Angeles, it might have been difficult to get both the setting and the victim just right had there been more detail. It had taken him six months to track down a waitress named Doreen Rodriguez in Denver.

And he had a flight to Portland in less than two hours.

“Yes, I’d like to purchase a funeral wreath.” He watched as the other customers left the store, chatting, ignorant. They had no idea they’d brushed shoulders with a god. Energized by his duplicity, he smiled at the pretty clerk.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the pretty young woman said. Her name badge read Christine.

Doreen hadn’t been much of a loss. In fact, she hadn’t put up much of a fight, but he wasn’t about to tell his next victim that small tidbit.

Closing the book, he described the flowers he wanted in the wreath. Christine attempted to make suggestions, showing him other exquisite arrangements, flowing greenery, and explaining that wreaths had become passé. He politely demurred. “This is what she would want,” he explained.

“I understand.” The florist smiled warmly, with just the right hint of sympathy in her pretty blue eyes.

A shame he would have to kill her.