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.
CHAPTER 15
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.
Sure, they’d had disagreements. Jessica was a major one. John had never trusted her, but Michael was convinced she’d change. A few other big fights, here and there. But when they fought, they always made up. Like partners in a good marriage, they didn’t go to bed angry.
Until last night.
A hollow sob escaped his throat and John squatted next to the box. The last time he’d spoken to Michael was in anger. He’d outmaneuvered him, and Michael knew it. John always won because he played the game better. He knew which buttons to push and he pressed them just right to get the reaction he wanted.
And when Agent Peterson saw Michael lose his temper, he’d agreed that Michael needed a night off. Perfect timing. Timing John had set up. Now Michael was dead. And he couldn’t tell his brother he’d been wrong.
John slid open the drawer, cold air rushing out to slap him in the face. The familiar chemical smell mixed with death assaulted his senses. He’d seen plenty of dead bodies before. In the morgue, in the battlefield, in the jungles.
But none had been his brother’s.
The three dark holes in Michael’s chest stood out against the blue-white pallor of his bloodless skin. His body seemed smaller as it lay there on the steel tray. Michael’s dark hair was damp from the icy cold. It was too long, but he’d never liked the short military cuts John preferred. Michael, who’d been so full of life and laughter, always liking a good joke, now lifeless.