The Prey (23 page)

“Don’t you dare lay this at Rowan’s feet, Flynn. She’s been through hell and back, and—”

“I don’t give a damn.” John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. All he saw was Rowan’s wretched face when she’d told him about her mother’s murder. Shit.

But Michael was dead.

“Why didn’t you dig deeper, Collins? Even if Rowan didn’t know or understand the full implication of what happened to her as a child, you certainly did.”

“I’ve been looking at the old files, interviewing people—”

“Obviously, that wasn’t good enough.”

“I have six agents tracking down the family of the two guards Bobby MacIntosh killed when he attempted to escape.”

“It should have been done at the beginning.” John’s jaw was so tight he could barely speak.

“Flynn, we’re doing everything we can. Can’t you see this is a complex situation?” Roger sounded frustrated, speaking too loudly and too quickly.

Complex? “What are you hiding?” John asked. Something wasn’t quite right.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roger snapped back. “I’ve been working this 24/7 since Doreen Rodriguez was killed. Don’t think I’ve been slacking off. I care about Rowan more than you can possibly imagine. As if she were my own daughter.”

Daughter. That reminded him about the priest. “I expect that Peter O’Brien will be checked out in full, and that you’ll look into the murder of Rowan’s family a little more closely. Someone who has intimate knowledge of her family killed my brother.

“And,” John continued, his voice low, “he will kill Rowan if we don’t find him.”

“I know.” Collins’s voice shook with anger.

Good, John thought. He needs to be pissed off.

“Flynn, I know this is a difficult time right now, but are you staying on the job? Do I need to replace you?”

John closed his eyes. The revenge he sought felt thick on his tongue, clouded his judgment. Could he do it? Could he protect Rowan?

Or would he, too, end up dead, his reflexes hindered by rage instead of alcohol? But what else could he do? Without being a part of this, he’d be out of the loop. He couldn’t stay on the outside looking in, wondering if Michael’s death would be avenged, or if the bastard would get off with life in prison.

Or if Rowan would end up dead, too.

His emotions were too raw where she was concerned, so he banished her from his thoughts and said to Collins, “Tomorrow I’ll be back. Today I need to take care of my family.”

“I understand.”

“Keep me informed,” John said as he hung up.

He couldn’t think about Rowan. Not now. This was a job, and more than just a job. He’d keep her in the back of his mind, at least for today.

He went to Tess’s room. He’d thought he heard her stirring when he was on the phone and wanted to make sure she was all right. “Tess?” He knocked lightly.

No answer.

He opened the door and stared at the rumpled bed. She wasn’t there. A quick look through the apartment showed that she’d left.

He knew exactly where she’d gone.

Rowan heard the familiar buzz of a Volkswagen in the driveway and suspected Tess was here to say her piece. She closed her eyes and leaned back into her favorite chair, the overstuffed reading chair she’d loved since walking into the sterile beach house with Annette months ago.

She’d planned to be here through July, then go back to her cabin outside of Denver. She missed the only place she’d ever considered home since that fateful night twenty-three years ago.

But would Rowan be able to leave in two months? Would this killer be caught? Or would she be his next victim? Would she be the last?

It might be worth sacrificing her life if she were the last. If she could take him out at the same time.

The thought actually soothed her. Revenge, justice, peace. After Michael’s murder, nothing short of death would give her peace. Though she hadn’t pulled the trigger, how could she live knowing she was responsible for his death? Michael’s murder sat raw in her soul, a wound she doubted would ever heal. Michael had joined Dani. And Rachel and Mel and her mother.

While she’d been content in John’s arms, Michael had been gunned down.

She didn’t know if she even could face John again. The pain and agony he must be experiencing—the grief on his face. She knew exactly how he felt. Her stomach churned painfully.

The den door swung open so hard the knob hit the wall and dented the paneling. Tess stomped in, her face wet with tears but set with determination. Pain. Hatred. Her short dark hair was a mess, her clothing wrinkled.

Quinn was behind her looking concerned, but Rowan gave him minimal attention. She focused on Michael’s sister.

“It’s all your fault!” Tess screamed.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan said. “Believe me, I am sorry.” She stood, turned to face Tess, ready to take any punishment.

“You
lied
! You kept secrets and Michael is dead. John told me everything. I-I-I’ll never forgive you. I hope he gets you. I hope you both burn in hell!”

What could Rowan say? She hoped he came for her, too. Then she would have a chance to stop him. And if she died in the process, what loss to the world would that be?

“I know,” she said simply.

“Tess, you don’t mean that,” Quinn said, putting his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged him off and stepped forward.

“Yes. I. Do.”

Rowan hadn’t noticed before, but Tess had the same green eyes as her brothers, only lighter. They all looked alike. Tess. Michael. John. She couldn’t think about John or what they’d done last night. What a foolish, selfish mistake! A mistake that cost Michael his life. Michael should have been here, safe.

But if John had gone home, would the bastard have gone after
him
?

Michael wouldn’t have been preoccupied, angry at his brother for forcing him to take a break. Angry at John because of
her
.

The realization hit her and she stumbled backward. Michael had known, at least sensed, the tension and attraction between her and John. He was jealous. He’d fought with his brother because of
her
, not just because John insisted he take time off.

It was her fault.

She tilted her chin up and nodded at Tess. “I don’t blame you, Tess. Michael was a great guy, and I’m—”

“Don’t!” she screamed and approached Rowan, hands bunched at her side. “Don’t talk about him! He was
my
brother! You bitch!” She started pounding Rowan with her fists and Rowan let her. She was numb, dead inside. Did she have any grief left to give? The pain from the punches couldn’t compare to the agony of death, the added nightmares, the guilt seizing her soul with its piercing grip.

“Tess, please.” Quinn rushed over and tried to gently pry her off.

The front door slammed, and Quinn pulled his gun and ran from the room. A moment later, John burst in, Quinn behind him.

“Tess!” John grabbed her and spun her around. Tears streamed down her face and she pounded her brother in the chest. He took hold of her wrists and gently wrestled her under control. “Tess, honey. Stop. Please, sweetheart, stop.” His voice was calm, soothing, very much in control.

Tess’s bottom lip quivered; tears streamed down her face. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

John caught Rowan’s gaze before he led Tess from the room. The mixture of pain and rage she saw in his hard, chiseled expression stabbed her heart.

Quinn crossed to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and eased her into the reading chair.

“Rowan, it’s not your fault.” He rubbed her back and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “Don’t blame yourself.”

She didn’t say anything. What could she say? The last two weeks were one big living, breathing nightmare. Would it ever end? Would he finally come after her so she could have peace?

Justice.

She couldn’t let him get away. When he found her, would he glowingly tell her of his crimes, seeking her praise? Her horror? Her anger? Whatever he wanted from her, she wasn’t going to give him anything but a bullet.

But first, she had to make sure Roger had done what she’d asked.

“Rowan, Tess didn’t mean any of that. She’s distraught.”

Rowan looked up at Quinn. His handsome face was long with sadness and worry. “Protect her, Quinn. When people get upset, they do stupid things. And call the Dallas and Chicago police and Bureau field offices. Make sure they understand the seriousness of warning prostitutes. Particularly high-paid call girls.”

“We already took care of that—”

“Do it again!” Rowan yelled, then pinched the bridge of her nose. It didn’t do any good to yell at Quinn. It wasn’t his fault.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Rowan, it may surprise you, but I know what I’m doing. I’ve been an agent for fifteen years. And Roger hasn’t rested since the beginning.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She rested her hand on Quinn’s arm. “It’s just—” She absently waved an arm toward the shelf that housed copies of her books. She walked over to them and stared.

“It felt so cathartic to write these books, to always have good triumph over evil when we both know the bad guys often win.” She stared at the shelf.
Crime of Opportunity. Crime of Passion. Crime of Clarity. Crime of Corruption
. And her latest book, the one they were holding until this bastard was caught,
Crime of Jeopardy
.

Twenty advance copies had been sent to her, but she had only brought five to Malibu, in case she wanted to send them to someone. She’d given one to Adam . . .

There were three on her shelf.

She stared at them, her heart beating fast. Three left. There should have been four.

“Rowan—” Quinn began.

“He’s been here.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Who?”

“The killer. He’s been here. Right here.” She pointed to the shelf of books. “He has the last book. He could kill anytime.”

Three more days.

He stood at the window and looked out into the blackness. It was three in the morning and very, very dark here on the coast. He hated it. Hated the ocean, hated the cold, foggy mornings, hated the salt air. How she ran on the wet beach every damn morning in the soggy air was beyond his understanding, but she’d always been odd. His opposite.

Except for one thing. She came up with exquisite ways to murder.

In
Crime of Jeopardy
, Rowan’s counterpart, Dara Young, investigates the murder of a prostitute in Dallas that is linked to an unsolved series of murders in Chicago. The victims are mutilated and vital organs removed with precision.

He’d been studying basic surgical procedures in anticipation, but he read the good parts—the details about each murder—three times to get it just right. Exactly as Rowan envisioned.

Turning from the window, he crossed the spacious, sparsely furnished living room and finally went upstairs to bed. He pulled a book off his nightstand and caressed the cover.
Crime of Jeopardy
. It wouldn’t be in bookstores for another three days, but he had taken this copy out from under Rowan’s cocky little nose weeks ago. Weeks. Before Doreen Rodriguez took her last breath. Before he’d finished planning each payback, before he planned what he would do to Rowan.

But he knew now, and it would be good. Very, very good.

But first,
Jeopardy
. Dallas or Chicago. Chicago or Dallas. Hmmm. He was a little nervous about going back to Texas, but the challenge thrilled him as well.

Chicago, Dallas. Dallas, Chicago. It made no difference to him. Some stupid whore was going to die and lose her innards, one way or the other.

He lay back on the bed dressed in nothing and pulled the warm comforter over him. He had some serious planning to do.

He was running out of money. He couldn’t very well take out the whore when he didn’t have the plane fare to get to Dallas. Robbery really wasn’t his thing, but every few months he hit a couple stores and pulled in enough money to get around. The trick was to pick businesses with women behind the counter. They’d fork over the money quick and easy and he’d be out in less than five minutes. He’d only had to kill once.

Tomorrow he’d take care of his finances, then finalize his plans for the whore.

How much did they know? Obviously enough to keep Rowan under lock and key.

There were several Feds watching Rowan. A pair outside her house in a so-called nondescript sedan, and they rotated every twelve hours. That agent she was friendly with. And the bodyguard’s brother. He was a little worrisome. Elusive, harder than the bodyguard he killed. More like a seasoned Fed, an undercover cop.

He wouldn’t underestimate the brother. No, that might be a mistake. But he had time. One whore in the Midwest, and then Rowan was his.

He smiled as he drifted off to sleep.

It was after hours when John went to the morgue.

He’d asked his aunt to stay with Tess, then spoke to the chief of police, Michael’s old boss, to arrange the viewing.

John barely registered the cold temperature of the basement as the assistant coroner led him down the hall and into one of the many body storage rooms. He unlocked drawer B-4, second row from the bottom, but didn’t open it.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” the assistant said, then crossed the room to give John privacy.

John stared at the drawer.

Michael. Michael was in drawer B-4.

John reached down, clasped the handle tightly, and closed his eyes.
How can you be dead? How can you be gone
?

They hadn’t always had an easy relationship, even in childhood. They weren’t much more than a year apart in age, rivals in both sports and women. But they’d always been friends, even when they sparred. John went Army, Delta Force, and Mickey became a cop. Both had their father’s strong sense of justice; both had their mother’s compassion for victims. When their dad died of a heart attack at the age of fifty, they’d bonded to take care of their mother and sister. And when their mom died the following year, they remained close. Started their business. Watched out for Tess.