The Prey (2 page)

She started for her bedroom to dress for her run when a familiar pounding on the front door interrupted her. Cops.

That was fast.

“Ms. Smith!” a mumbled voice called. “Ms. Smith, this is the police. We need to talk.”

She turned toward the door. It had started.

They sat at the dining room table, in front of the picture window that framed the blue-green Pacific Ocean. From here, twenty feet above the beach and a good hundred feet inland, one could still see the individual waves and whitecaps, tossed up by a light wind. The tide was out, the beach empty of people.

Rowan placed two mugs of hot black coffee in front of the detectives, then opened the window. The tangy, salty sea air relaxed her as she breathed in deeply. She needed to be calm and alert, but above all else, she needed to maintain control.

She sat across from the cops, holding her own coffee mug with both hands.

Ben Jackson was a short, thin man with skin the same color as the rich coffee in his mug. His poker face couldn’t disguise intelligent eyes. His rigid posture and the hint of muscles under his impeccable coat told Rowan he was fit and took his job seriously. He had flown out from Denver this morning just to talk to her.

The Denver P.D. wouldn’t waste scarce budget dollars. Obviously they believed the Rodriguez murder was connected to her book.

Jim Barlow was from L.A.P.D. He was older, his skin ghostly compared to Jackson’s. He looked like the stereotypical, slightly overweight cop in wrinkled slacks and too-tight blazer with worn leather patches on the elbows. His pale blue eyes seemed to take in everything, while his hands fidgeted, as if he were holding a cigarette. An ex-smoker. Rowan sympathized.

She liked them both. Her instincts told her she could trust them.

Jackson began. “You’ve heard about the murder of Doreen Rodriguez.” He motioned loosely toward the front of the house where the reporters were dissipating. The newly arrived cops’ threat of arrest for trespassing had held some weight, she thought with a slight smile.

Rowan nodded. “I read the article from the Denver paper online.”

“You were with the FBI.”

“Six years.”

“Probably made a lot of enemies. I know
I
have.”

“Your point?”

“I believe your life is in danger and you should consider hiring security.”

“I’m a trained FBI agent, detective. I know how to protect myself.”

“You probably do. You probably still sleep with a gun under your pillow.” He nodded, noting some minute reaction on her face, then continued. “This was a brutal crime and it was directed at you. You must be aware of the similarities between the murder victim and a character in your book.”

“I told you I read the article.”

It was all Rowan could do to maintain eye contact. She didn’t want to accept the fact that this murder had anything to do with her. But her instincts shouted the contrary. This was personal.

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” she said. “If there’s another crime, maybe this maniac will pick another writer to mimic. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be extra careful.”

Damn, she sounded sarcastic without meaning to. Her defenses were up.

Jackson paused before speaking. “Did you know the real Doreen Rodriguez? Did you use her for your book?”

She shook her head. “I just made up the name. The character needed a name.”

“There was one thing we managed to keep from the press,” Jackson said. “Under the body, the bastard left a copy of your book.”

“My book?” Her voice was barely a whisper. She sipped her coffee, using the normalcy to try to gather her thoughts.

He nodded. “
Crime of Opportunity
. In case we were too stupid to figure it out, he highlighted the passages describing the murder of the fictional Ms. Rodriguez.” His deep voice was steeped in anger, the kind cops tried hard to keep in check.

Her book left at the scene. “Anything else? Any notes to me, comments, a hint that he’s going to do this again?”

Jackson leaned forward. “Just the highlighted passages. What do you think?”

Rowan looked Jackson in the eye and shook her head. “I don’t work for the FBI anymore, and I wasn’t a profiler. You want an expert opinion? Call them.”

But her mind was already working overtime. Was someone singling her out? Was one of the criminals she’d locked away carrying out some sort of twisted vendetta against her? She should get a copy of all her case files and look closely—though she remembered every violent criminal she’d helped put away.

Barlow spoke for the first time since the introductions. “I’ve read your books, Ms. Smith. I guess you could say I’m a faithful reader of yours. Your stories are quite horrific. Authentic.” He paused. “I think he’s going to strike again. Denver’s looking at Rodriguez’s old boyfriends, friends, colleagues,” he said, almost dismissively. “But your book being put there, that sets off alarms.”

Rowan breathed deeply, not saying anything. Her bells were ringing, too. A whole friggin’ orchestra clamored in her head.

Jackson spoke. “My superiors are speaking with the Feds already, looking for some cooperation. But we thought you might have some insight, so I took the chance on coming out here to talk to you. Are any of those criminals you put away on the loose? Anyone threaten you?”

She couldn’t help but laugh, though the hollow sound held no humor. “Threaten me? You’ve been a cop for longer than me. I’m sure some of your arrests didn’t take too kindly to being locked up.”

Shaking her head, she continued, “I’m contacted when anyone I testified against or arrested is released or up for parole. I can honestly say that everyone I arrested is either dead or in prison.”

Jackson smiled slightly. “Wish I could say the same. Impressive record.”

She shrugged. “Not really. I didn’t catch every murdering bastard.”

“What about a relative of one of these criminals? Someone wanting revenge for putting their father, brother, cousin, lover behind bars?”

Rowan shook her head. “I don’t know. You’d have to go over my case reports. I can’t think of anyone who stands out, but I don’t have my notes and I haven’t given it a lot of thought.” But she knew that her days and nights would now be haunted by past cases until this murderer was found. She’d get a copy of her files herself. Make sure she didn’t miss something during the seven years she’d been with the Bureau. Miss something that cost Doreen Rodriguez her life.

He might never be found. And though he had killed only one person—at least, that they knew about—Rowan’s instincts told her he would strike again.

Soon.

“What about a fan? Someone who’s written or called you or maybe even tried to visit you?”

“A fan? Taking it upon himself to recreate my imaginary murders?” It was possible, but she didn’t think likely, and she told Jackson so. “This killer is no fan of mine.”

“Why do you say that?” Barlow asked.

“He’s making my fictional murders real. I didn’t go far enough, in his mind, so he has to. He has to prove his own genius, that he’s capable of far greater acts than a mere fiction writer.”

“So he has a screw loose.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He’s sane.”

“How do you figure?”

“He planned this perfectly.” She put her mug down, stood, and crossed to the open window. But she didn’t see the ocean waves or hear the calling gulls. Instead, she pictured evil.

“He found a woman with the same name and occupation as one of my characters and killed her in the same manner in a similar location. Did a lot of planning and research to get all the details just right. Perfection. Next, he leaves my book with her body. Arrogance. He’s smart, but he thinks everyone else is stupid and he has to give you the why or you’d never figure it out. This wasn’t a crime of passion or a crime for money . . . it was a crime of opportunity.” She realized, as she spoke, it was the name of her book. “This was premeditated, proving his sanity. I’d venture to state that he has an agenda, something that has nothing to do with the victims.”

“Something to do with you?” Barlow asked, causing Rowan to flinch. As much as she wanted to deny it, there had to be a connection. Unless he committed another murder using another writer’s book as a blueprint. She shrugged, turning a blank face to the cops, not wanting to give anything away. Not until she gave this more thought.

“I don’t know.”

“The FBI will probably contact you.”

“Of course.”

Rowan already dreaded it. Someone was playing a game with her, and she had no idea who or why. Though she had controlled her emotions throughout this interview, she felt her insides quivering. But she was the consummate professional; she would keep it together. At least until she was alone.

“Have you received any threats?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure? What about your fan mail?”

“My agent handles correspondence. I receive reports on what comes in. I’d expect him to tell me about any threats.” She’d look into that herself.

Jackson made a note. “What about the studio? The actors in the film you’re working on? Anyone receive any threats, or notice anything strange?”

“The producer is Annette O’Dell. You can find her office at the studio. I don’t work there, I’m just working on rewrites of my screenplay.” Again, Rowan didn’t think any threats had been made. Annette would have told her.

“What about a personal motive? Any former boyfriends who might turn vicious? A friend who might have felt slighted by your success?”

“To be honest, I haven’t had much of a personal life since I came to California two months ago to work on this film.” She sat back down and sipped her now lukewarm coffee. It landed like a lead ball in her churning stomach. “Even before that, I completed the screenplay and started working on my new book. I’m as busy now as I was working for the FBI.”

“You have four published books?” Jackson asked.

She nodded. “My fifth will be released in a few weeks.”

“And this is your second film?”

“Third. The second is being released in two weeks. This one won’t be out until the end of next year.”

“You’ve done pretty well since leaving the Bureau.”

“Your point?” Rowan asked, irritated. She wanted to help, but these questions were irrelevant. She wanted to take her morning run, then a hot shower. Most of all, she needed time alone to think.

“We’re trying to fit together all the details.” But the detectives exchanged a look that meant they were through. Rowan’s sigh of relief was almost audible.

She walked them to the door. Detective Jackson turned to her. “You should consider taking extra security measures. Do you have an alarm system?”

“Yes, detective, and I use it.”

He nodded approval and extended his hand. Rowan shook it, feeling warmth and strength. “Call me Ben. We’re on the same team here. Either Jim or I will call you later and fill you in. I’m heading back to Denver this afternoon. In the meantime, be careful.”

“Thanks, I will.” She closed the door behind them, turned around, and leaned against the solid oak surface. Slowly, she sank once again to the cold tile floor, her head in her hands.

One brutal murder a thousand miles away had destroyed in minutes the years of relative peace she’d painstakingly built. The realization of her complicity in the crime grew within her. She clenched her uneasy stomach. How could she live with herself if her imagination had manifested itself into evil? While someone else had stolen a life, the manner of evil was her idea, her conception. Her casual decision to name the first victim in
Crime of Opportunity
Doreen Rodriguez had resulted in the death of the real Doreen Rodriguez from Albuquerque. It was perverse and cruel.

Rowan had learned again and again that death was inequitable and brutal. It cut a path of misery in the hearts of everyone it touched. And death wasn’t blind. It saw the pain, the heartache, and grew stronger.

It had started when she was ten, and it seemed it would never end.

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.