Now survival was all that mattered.
John had been in harrowing situations, including a South American prison, and he’d never broken. He simply changed his boss from the government to himself and went right on fighting for justice. It was damned admirable, and Rowan hated that she hadn’t been able to do that four years ago.
But she had thought she was losing her mind.
She couldn’t help but wonder about John’s past. What did he do in Delta Force? What about after? Roger said he was DEA turned independent consultant—why had he left? To start his business with Michael? Or were there other, deeper, private reasons? Everything she’d learned about John intrigued her. She wanted to know more.
Rarely was her curiosity piqued as it was now. She didn’t focus on other people, because that meant she might start to care. And if she started to care, she might care too much.
She feared she’d already crossed the first threshold with John. She already cared.
When she walked downstairs, John and Michael were standing in the foyer talking to Quinn. All three men in tuxedos, all remarkably handsome.
John caught her eye. Her breath hitched in her chest and for a split second she saw something, sensed something, that went beyond a professional relationship.
He raised his eyebrow. He sensed it too.
Then Michael was at her side and she felt tension between the two brothers.
The last thing she wanted was to cause friction in their family. When John first came back from South America, she’d seen the quiet affection between the brothers. They would be family long after this case was settled, long after she was a dim memory.
“Rowan,” Michael began, his hand on her arm.
Quinn interrupted. “There’s been another victim. Melissa Jane Acker, twenty-four, brunette, picked up by the unknown subject at the Metro station in Falls Church, raped and strangled.”
Rowan had tried to steel herself against the pain, but it hit hard and she almost staggered. “When?” she asked, her voice dull and clipped.
“Last night. When she didn’t come to work this morning, her employer called her apartment, got no answer. Her mother went over to see if she was all right and found her.” Quinn paused, his voice softer. “I’m sorry.”
Rowan closed her eyes. She felt Michael’s hand rub her arm, trying to support her, to share his warmth. He was a comforting presence, and right now she appreciated his coddling. The way John stared at her, he seemed to be accusing her. Or maybe it was her imagination. You can trust me, he’d said when she freaked out over the lilies. But could she?
How could her past have anything to do with what was happening now? Even Roger thought her fear was misplaced. He, more than anyone, should know. He’d been there—he’d fought for justice for Dani and everyone else who died.
But, dammit, that fear bubbled and brewed and threatened to burst through the surface. Just because her fear was misplaced didn’t mean it wasn’t real. How long could she keep it under control?
“You don’t have to go,” Michael said. “No one will blame you.”
Rowan glanced from his concerned eyes to John’s intense glare. They both waited for her answer, but John seemed to be waiting for something more.
“I’m going,” Rowan said. “If he’s watching, he’ll know he got to me if I don’t go. I can’t let him see that I’m—worried.” She’d almost said scared. But she wasn’t going to admit it in front of these three men.
John smiled, almost imperceptibly, but Rowan felt his approval. “The place is covered. Peterson walked me through today and it’s clean.”
“Bomb-sniffing dogs are going through it right now,” Quinn said, “and you’ll go in through the back.”
“The back? If he’s watching, he won’t see me.”
Quinn glanced at Michael, his expression one of concern. “It’s the reporters, Rowan. We didn’t think you’d want to face some of the questions they might have.”
Damn, she didn’t want to, but she wasn’t going to show the killer she was afraid. “I’m not going to slink around like some scared rabbit. I’ll go in through the front.”
“Do you think that’s wise? The reporters won’t be kind.” Michael looked at her with a mixture of worry and something else, something more personal. Rowan quickly looked away. His emotional protection was convenient to avoid John’s intensity, but she didn’t want to mislead Michael into thinking she wanted more than the crutch. It was simply there and she’d been using it. Was she that shallow?
“I’m used to aggressive reporters,” she said, taking a step away from Michael. His hand fell from her back and she could breathe normally. She was making the right choice, she knew. Stand back, don’t use Michael’s offered strength. It wasn’t fair to him. “I want to know about the case. Any evidence? Did he screw up?”
Quinn touched her shoulder. “Olivia is heading up the evidence response team,” he said. “She volunteered.”
Rowan felt awful. She hadn’t called either Olivia or Miranda to tell them what was going on. She’d do it tomorrow. “I didn’t know she was field rated.”
“She’s not a field agent, though she has clearance. Roger okay’d it and I wouldn’t want anyone else processing the evidence. If the killer left anything of himself, Olivia will find it.”
“Who’s Olivia?” John asked.
“We graduated together from the Academy.” Rowan shot a glance at Quinn and he turned away, jaw clenched. Still a touchy point, she thought. “Olivia now heads up the Trace Evidence lab at Quantico.”
“John told us about your friend Adam Williams possibly seeing the suspect,” Quinn said. “He got a description from the proprietor, but it’s rough.”
“I heard.” John had called her after driving Adam back to the studio and told her what he’d learned. Unfortunately, the vague description rang no bells for her. It could have been anyone.
“Was Adam able to work with the sketch artist?” she asked, though she didn’t have much hope.
John shook his head. “He tried. Not enough detail. Maybe if we had a photo of the suspect, but even then I’d question Adam’s memory over time.”
“But, if that was him,” Quinn interjected, “and he was in Washington last night, it means he had to have flown out sometime after one P.M. Wednesday and arrived before five P.M. Thursday, Eastern time. That gives us a narrow window.” He grew excited as he talked. “Colleen’s working the airlines and we’re searching the databases for lone men traveling from Los Angeles or Burbank to Dulles or National. We can then pull all the pictures from the security cams and if we’re lucky and smart, get a clear shot.”
Rowan’s heart leapt to her throat. This might be it. He might have made a mistake. Would she recognize him? Would he be someone she knew? Someone she should have suspected, a relative, a fan? A friend? She shivered. She had few friends; that betrayal would hurt.
Not a friend. Wouldn’t she be able to see it in his eyes?
“You might want to broaden it to San Diego, Orange County, and Ontario,” she said. “He’s smart. He isn’t going to do what we expect. And check return flights. Not necessarily the same airport, but he’ll be around tonight. Just to watch. See if he’s gotten to me. I feel it.”
Damn, she was beautiful.
John’s loins stirred as soon as he saw her walk down the stairs in the simple black sheath that hugged her lean, athletic body. Her long, straight blonde hair hung like liquid silk down her back, and the single strand of pearls caressed her bare neck like a lover’s hand. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked, if her icy, hard exterior would melt when the right man touched her in just the right place.
He wanted her.
But she was a liar.
Not a liar in the traditional sense, but she was hiding something and that disturbed him down to his core. He’d seen it many, many times in his business. Deception not only by criminals like Pomera, but by his own government. Whether in the pursuit of crime or the pursuit of justice, se
crets killed.
Yet he still wanted her. And he sensed she wanted him as well.
John glanced at his brother and saw Michael staring at him. He knew. He knew, and John wasn’t about to tell Michael he’d keep his hands off. He didn’t think he could live up to the promise, and he didn’t lie to family. He felt like a damned hypocrite and that rubbed him wrong. Hadn’t he just told Michael not to get too close?
Rowan had stopped leaning on Michael, John noted with interest. He wondered why. If she didn’t hide behind Michael’s calm understanding, John knew he could make her confess whatever secret she held locked in that beautiful head of hers. Whether or not it was relevant to the case, he needed to know.
Rowan brushed past him on her way to the kitchen. He turned to follow, but Michael crossed in front of him. Just then his cell phone rang.
He excused himself and went into Rowan’s den for privacy when he saw it was a restricted Washington-area number. “John Flynn.”
“It’s Andy.”
John straightened and crossed over to the blinds to look out onto the driveway at nothing in particular. “You have something?”
“You owe me big time.”
“You know I’m good for it.”
Andy snorted. “I could get fired. This goes up to Roger Collins.”
“Shit. Bad?”
“Don’t know. Just the facts. He and his wife Grace were the legal guardians of Rowan since she was ten.” John’s entire body tensed as Andy continued. “It was buried deep, but I found it on her name change papers. Her name was changed when she was ten.”
“Ten years old?” John repeated.
“She was born Lily Elizabeth MacIntosh.”
“Her parents?”
“You asked me to run similar crimes to the Franklin murders? Well, at first I came up with the standard murder-suicides.” He paused. “You really owe me, Flynn.”
“Go on,” John said, teeth clenched. His head started pounding, as if sensing what Andy had discovered.
“Well, all Rowan Smith’s juvenile records are sealed, but I found that name change, and then started searching MacIntosh. On a hunch.”
“And?”
“Nearly twenty-five years ago Robert MacIntosh killed his wife. Two minor children were taken into protective custody. Their names were expunged, but guess who the FBI assigned to the case.”
John’s stomach sank. “Roger Collins.”
“Bingo.”
MacIntosh. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Roger Collins took ten-year-old Lily MacIntosh into his home, became her guardian. Why? Witness protection program? Didn’t she have other family?
What about the other surviving sibling—male or female?
“Did the father kill himself?”
“He’s in a mental institution in Massachusetts.”
“Are you sure?”
“Shit, John, I couldn’t exactly call them and ask. Collins has markers all over these files. If I didn’t trip something already it’d be a damn miracle.”
John was going to have to push Rowan. Tonight. He had no other options. “Thanks, Andy. I really appreciate it.”
“If I get fired, I’m coming to you for a job.”
“You’ll have one.” John hung up and pondered the incredible information Andy had dumped in his lap. He always trusted his gut. And his gut told him Rowan’s past was crucial to this case.
Lily. She’d freaked out when she’d seen the lilies, and if Adam did in fact speak to the murderer, the killer knew about Rowan’s past and was using it to torment her. The surviving sibling? A brother? A brother who was possibly as dangerous as his father?
John couldn’t help but wonder if the dark pigtails were connected. Or the nightmare she’d had about Danny. Her boyfriend? Husband? Son? Brother?
Tonight, she was going to tell him. John didn’t doubt he could get her to talk as long as Michael wasn’t around to hover over her like a mother hen. If Rowan didn’t tell him everything, and soon, the bastard would go after her.
The thought made him ill.
CHAPTER
13
Hours after Rowan’s movie premiere, Michael stepped into a North Hollywood dive spoiling for a fight.
He sauntered over to a stool near the end of the bar and nodded to the bartender. “Scotch, double. And a draft.”
He was off duty, after all, put on leave by his traitorous brother. John had told Quinn Peterson, the arrogant prick, that he hadn’t had time off in a week, and Peterson agreed. Dismissed him.
Leaving John alone with Rowan.
He downed half his Scotch and let the heat of the alcohol warm the icy pit in his stomach. He scowled at some hooker making eyes at him from the other end of the bar and turned away from her.
John had had the audacity to throw Jessica in his face yet again. John didn’t know what had really happened between Michael and Jessica. If he had, he’d know it had been even worse than he thought.
Jessica was a beauty. Long, dark hair and big chocolate-brown eyes. She was being stalked by her ex-boyfriend. Michael had been assigned the call.
She’d been so grateful for his help, truly feared for her life, so Michael gave her his cell phone number and told her to call him anytime. She did, and he found himself going over to her house virtually every night.
They ended up in bed and Michael fell in love. She needed him, relied on him, and he relished being able to protect her.
But she hadn’t been honest with him. He told himself it was because she was scared, but deep down Michael knew she’d used him. He believed she loved him in her own way, but she needed him for more than protection against a stalker. Her stalker was not her ex-boyfriend, but her husband, a low-level crime boss.
She’d ended up telling Michael that returning to her husband was the only way she could stay alive. Michael tried to convince her to run away with him, that he could protect her, that they could start over in another state, with new identities, anything. To do anything but go back to her husband.
Yet she went. Two years later, her body was found floating in a drainage ditch in the San Gabriel Mountains.
Michael tossed back his Scotch to drown the memories.
Rowan was nothing like Jessica. Yes, she needed him, and he would be there for her. But the feelings he had for Rowan went so much deeper.
John just wouldn’t listen. He’d pulled Michael aside after the premiere when Rowan was talking to the producer Annette. Told Michael he looked tired and should take the night off. Michael tried to explain that he needed to be there to protect Rowan, and John threw Jessica in his face. It wasn’t the same situation, but John didn’t understand.
Then John pulled a fast one. The FBI relieved Michael from duty for twelve hours, but he knew it was John’s doing. John escorted Rowan home.
Asshole.
He took a long gulp of beer. Sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Michael realized that maybe he himself was the one who was being an asshole. He’d blown this conflict with his brother out of proportion, letting his ego get in the way of the truth.
It wasn’t John’s fault. Michael really had fallen for Jessica. Hard. He’d loved her. He might have started in the role of knight in shining armor, but somehow, over time, it had developed into much more than that. He’d overlooked so much she did, so many things she lied about, all because he had loved her.
He owed John an apology. Some of the things Michael had said tonight were way out of line. Especially about Rowan.
For the first time, he realized that Rowan and Jessica were really nothing alike. He cared about Rowan—he really liked her—but he wasn’t in love with her. Maybe over time—but it wasn’t the same. Not like Jessica. When he saw Rowan running with John he detected a partnership, a similar style, a streak of independence and something else. Something more.
When this case was finally put to bed, could he live with the fact that John and Rowan might have something together? That John attracted Rowan and he hadn’t?
His ego might have a problem, but he was a big boy. He’d get over it. First thing tomorrow, he’d tell John . . . something. Smooth things over. Hell, he could never stay mad at his brother for long.
Someone slid onto the stool next to him, and the bartender brought over a premium Scotch.
“You look like you lost your best friend,” the stranger said. “Buy you a drink?”
Michael shrugged, glanced at the guy. Suit, tie, polished shoes. Forties. Businessman. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, turning back to his beer. “Just an argument with my brother. It’ll pass.”
The businessman nodded to the bartender to pour two doubles. Michael shook his head.
“I’m done.”
“Working tonight?”
“No, I’m off.”
“Then another drink can’t hurt, right?”
Michael considered. He hadn’t had a night off in a week. He supposed a buzz wouldn’t hurt. “Thanks, pal,” he said.
“Pissed off at your brother?” the businessman asked.
Michael shook his head. “Not anymore.”
When the bartender placed the drinks in front of them, Michael said, “Salute.” He drained half the Scotch. He hadn’t eaten that night and wondered what he had around his apartment to fix. Nothing. He’d been staying at Rowan’s.
He finished the drink and played with a basket of beer nuts in front of him. He supposed he could walk down the street and grab fast food on the way home. The thought made his stomach queasy. But at this time of night, he didn’t have many options.
Michael planned to buy the businessman a drink as he left, but when he looked up, the guy was gone. Just as well; Michael certainly didn’t need another one. Two doubles and a beer on an empty stomach didn’t sit well.
He stood, tossed down a tip, and left. Fast food, then home. His apartment was only two blocks from the bar; that was why he’d picked it. Then he’d sleep off the buzz and be ready to tell John that Rowan was all his—as long as he didn’t hurt her. Michael cared about her, and John played hardball. In work and with women.
The Prey Page 14
