The Prey (13 page)

“I go first,” he reminded her.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. “I really hate this.”

“I know.” His voice was laced with sympathy, but he didn’t understand.

John did. John understood her. And she hated him for it.

She sensed he’d been a Fed at one time. Not FBI. Possibly CIA, but most likely DEA. He had the stealth presence and lithe movements that screamed drug enforcement, at least to her. She’d known enough DEA agents in her career that she could pick them out.

Definitely military. He’d told her Delta Force, the best the Army had to offer. He was older than Michael, but still too young for Vietnam. Delta was big in Desert Storm, and with the hostilities in the Middle East for the past two decades, the clandestine assassinations, the rescue ops—she wondered when he’d left. Why he’d left.
If
he’d left.

Perhaps he had as many secrets as she did.

“Rowan?”

She blinked, almost having forgotten where she was and whom she was with. “Woolgathering,” she said, turning away from him.

“Where do you want to eat?”

She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“You need to keep your strength up.”

“I’m fine.” She glanced up the street, motioned toward a fast-food restaurant. “That’s fine.”

Michael grimaced. “Junk food? I don’t think so.” He steered her in the opposite direction. “I saw a little Italian place around the corner.”

“Sure,” Rowan said, allowing Michael to lead her. It was easier than arguing. But food just didn’t matter right now. Not after the murders, the pigtails, the waiting and watching and wondering when the hidden face of evil would strike next.

He’d gone through her first three books picking one murder from each. Doreen Rodriguez. The florist. The Harper family. One more book; then it was her. One more victim; then she would see his face.

Unless he wanted to toy with her more. Use her fifth book, due out next week. Wait and kill one more.

“Stop,” she said, almost shouting.

Michael hovered in front of her, looking over his shoulder. “What? What do you see?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I need to make a call.”

“Not here on the street.”

“It’s important.” She pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed Roger’s private mobile line.

“Collins.”

“Roger, it’s me.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Call my publisher and stop the shipment of books. They’re due out next week.”

He paused. “I’d need a court order, and—”

“No, no, they’ll do it. Explain the situation and ask them to hold off. Until this guy is caught. If they don’t, then we can get a court order for a delay.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I need to talk to you later. About the Franklin murders.”

“Did you find anything?” He sounded optimistic.

“No, not yet. But I took the file and I’m going to review it again.” She glanced at Michael, who was watching the street carefully. “I’m sure I won’t see anything anyone else didn’t, but fresh eyes—I don’t know.” For the first time, she doubted herself. Maybe they were barking up the wrong tree, wasting time and resources. But what other choices did they have?

“We’re leaving no stone unturned, Rowan. I promise you that.” Roger’s voice was forceful, even three thousand miles away. “We will catch him. It’s only a matter of time.”

“But who else is going to die first?”

She hung up. She’d talk to him tonight, but didn’t expect anything new.

Did she know the killer? Had she seen him? Or had he affixed on her for some insane reason and learned everything about her, her past, her present? Would she recognize him if she saw the killer?

How long was he going to make her wait? The first three murders happened in a week. But she suspected this killer wanted her to suffer. To worry. Be afraid. She could almost feel him living off her fear, as if he enjoyed watching her tremble and cower. She straightened her back. If he fed off fear, it wouldn’t be hers.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

All week, Adam felt guilty for playing the trick on Marcy, even though she had deserved it for those mean things she said about Barry. Barry was his friend and never yelled at him and was always nice and let him hang out in the old prop room to look at all the neat stuff. But the trick upset Rowan, and Rowan was his friend too. She listened to him and cared about him like his mother never did. He sometimes wished Rowan were his mother, though that was silly because she was too young. But she would be a nice mother and wouldn’t yell or say you were worthless and should never have been born.

Adam had apologized to Barry every day until today, when Barry said not to say “sorry” anymore because it didn’t mean anything after awhile. Adam didn’t understand that, because he really
was
sorry, but Barry was smart and knew how things worked so Adam stopped saying he was sorry.

But he hadn’t seen Rowan all week. She hadn’t been to the studio or to visit him or anything and he missed her. What if she was mad at him? She’d said she wasn’t, but people lied all the time. Rowan had never lied to him before, but maybe she was lying this time.

He hadn’t been able to eat or sleep the last two days because he worried Rowan didn’t like him anymore. He had to find her and tell her how sorry he was.

Adam didn’t have a driver’s license, but Barry let him drive around the lot all the time. He didn’t think twice about borrowing one of the studio trucks and taking it to Malibu. It was exciting to drive on the freeway. So much power! For the first time he felt almost normal, almost like he belonged.

He’d been to Rowan’s house once. Last month, when he’d told her he had never seen the ocean even though he’d lived in Los Angeles his entire life, she’d driven him to her house.

The ocean was a little scary, but he didn’t tell Rowan that. From her deck it was very pretty and she let him stay until the sunset, and that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Well, almost. Rowan was prettier than the sun. She had a happy smile on her face as the colors changed in the sky.

He couldn’t remember how to get to her house, so he copied a map from the computer.

Rowan never treated him like he was stupid. Not like Marcy and the other actors who called him the retarded prop kid. Barry didn’t like that word and talked in quiet words whenever he heard it, and Adam knew Barry tried to make him feel better, but it didn’t work. Only Rowan made him feel better, because she didn’t pretend. She told him what was what, and if he didn’t understand, she explained it again until he did understand, and she never sighed or frowned or got that look in her eyes that said she wanted to be anywhere else but talking to him.

He turned onto Highway 1 toward Malibu and saw a flower stand by the side of the road. Would Rowan like flowers? He’d heard Barry tell one of the cameramen to get a dozen roses for his girlfriend to say he was sorry because women liked that sort of thing. Rowan was a woman and she would like flowers, too, Adam reasoned.

He pulled over onto the gravel turnout, frowning as the truck bounced so hard his head almost hit the roof of the cab. He slowed to a stop and paused, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. Maybe this driving thing wasn’t as easy as he thought. He cautiously stepped out of the truck, the cool wind slapping his face. Steep cliffs only feet away dropped off to the ocean below. Adam felt woozy, and finally understood how Scottie had felt in
Vertigo
. He walked as far from the cliff as possible without actually walking onto the busy highway.

The man selling flowers had dark skin, but not black, small brown eyes, and a really nice smile that made Adam feel less nervous. After all, he’d never bought flowers for a girl before.

A dark car pulled up behind Adam’s truck, but Adam barely noticed. He pointed to the roses. “Those are roses, right?” he asked.

“Yessir,” the man said. “Roses. Dollar each or dozen for ten.”

A dozen, a dozen. “That’s twelve roses for ten dollars?”

“Yessir.”

Adam had ten dollars. He had a twenty and a ten and three ones in his wallet. “O-kay,” he said slowly, wanting to make sure he was making the right decision. He really liked the roses, but would Rowan like them? They were so pretty. White or red, red or white. Maybe six of each. “Can I have some white ones and some red ones?”

“Yessir.”

The man from the dark car walked up to them. “Buying flowers for your lady?”

Adam glanced at the man, who looked vaguely familiar but he didn’t know why. He had dark blond hair, a little long, and wore sunglasses. He was nice-looking and his clothes matched. Adam sometimes had a problem with his colors. He thought orange and brown went together, but Marcy always teased him about the way he dressed. Retro gone bad, she called it and laughed.

“N-no,” Adam said, looking down and shuffling his feet. By the way he dressed, this man had money, and men with money didn’t like to talk to prop boys. A lot of the men who came by the studio had money, and none of them talked to him, and if he talked to them they got mad.

“A friend?”

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet and he glanced at the proprietor, who watched them.

“What were you thinking of buying?”

“The roses.”

“Ah, roses. Roses are lovely.”

Adam perked up. “Really? You think so?”

He nodded. Adam tilted his head, wondering how he knew this man, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen him. He frowned. He hated being dumb. That’s what his mama called him. Dumb and stupid.

“Yes, I think roses are very pretty,” the man said.

“I want a dozen roses,” Adam said confidently to the brown-skinned man.

“But,” the money man said, “I know the perfect flower for friendship.”

Adam frowned. Hadn’t he just said that roses were lovely? “Better than roses?”

“Oh, yes.” He reached over and pulled out a stalk of a large, pretty white flower that looked almost like a cup. “Smell this.”

Adam breathed in. He couldn’t smell anything. But the flower was pretty. Just as pretty as Rowan.

“What’s this?”

“A calla lily. And I think your lady friend will love it.”

“Better than roses?”

“Oh, yes.”

The man with money seemed to know what he was talking about, and Adam didn’t know anything about flowers. “All right,” he said slowly. “A dozen calla lilies.”

“Good choice,” the man said.

The brown-skinned man wrapped the flowers in paper and Adam paid him, fifteen dollars instead of the ten for the roses. But that was okay because Adam knew how to count change and took five ones from the man, carefully placing them back in his wallet before picking up the flowers.

As he started back to the truck he remembered his manners. He turned back and waved at the nice man. “Thanks, sir,” he called.

The man raised his arm. “Glad to help.”

Adam bounded back to the truck he’d borrowed, tickled that he’d bought the perfect flowers for friendship. Calla lilies.

Carefully, he laid them on the seat and admired them. They smelled so beautiful, and they were white, just like Rowan’s hair. Yes, she was going to like them.

He started the truck and carefully pulled into traffic, unmindful that the man watched him drive away.

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.