“Would he?” Roger asked quietly.
Rowan rubbed her head. “No,” she admitted. “He has one more murder to commit. From my fourth book. But he’s deviated before; he could deviate again.”
“The D.C. police have issued a warning to young brunette women in the area,” Roger said. “We’re not sitting back and doing nothing to protect them.”
“I know. But-” she stopped. How could they protect every brunette under thirty who commuted to D.C.? Not everyone listened to the news, read the papers, believed they could be in danger.
That was the crux of the matter. It won’t happen to me. I’m safe. How many survivors had she interviewed who told her, I didn’t think it could happen to me. I never thought my daughter would be kidnapped. I was only gone a minute. My car was only in front of the building. The parking lot was lit.
On and on. As if, if they ran fast enough, evil wouldn’t see that they’d let their guard down.
She shuddered and voiced her fear. “Even though my publisher delayed the release of my next book, the killer might have been able to get an advance copy. There’s been enough publicity and reviews for him to get a sense of the crimes involved. You might want to warn prostitutes in Dallas and Chicago to be extra careful.”
Roger Collins hung up and sent an e-mail to his assistant to contact the Chicago and Dallas police departments ASAP. He reviewed his flight itinerary for Nashville and made notes for his conversation with Karl Franklin’s brother. All the while, he couldn’t get Rowan’s fear out of his mind.
Lily.
Who knew about her past? He’d buried the information deep to protect her, allow her to lead a normal life. But she’d never had a normal life. Even before the violence that took her family from her, she was raised in a cruel environment by an angry father and scared mother.
He had tried to dissuade her from thinking about her childhood. He was worried for the first time in his life that the lies he’d told all those years ago were coming back to bite him. But how could he have known?
After calling Gracie to tell her he’d be late again, he went to his private safe and pulled out the thick file that contained Rowan’s past. The past he had tried to bury for her. To protect her. To give her a chance.
But she’d never had a chance. And the pounding in his head made him realize he might have made a fatal mistake.
He sat down at his desk and opened the file. He had no intention of moving until he’d reviewed every damned record to see if he had missed something.
Or someone.
John glanced at Adam sitting rigid in the passenger seat of the beat-up truck. He frowned, worried about the young man’s withdrawal. He didn’t know Adam well, but sensed that Rowan’s odd behavior disturbed him deeply.
Before Highway 101 veered east off the Pacific Coast Highway, John saw the flower stand. He’d driven past it several times in the last few days, but hadn’t thought twice about it. “Is this where you bought the lilies?” he asked Adam.
Adam nodded almost imperceptibly, and John illegally cut across traffic and into the turnout. “Let’s talk to the man who sold them to you.”
“I don’t wanna.” He crossed his arms and pouted.
“Remember what I told you, Adam? This man you saw may be the man who’s hurting all those people. And hurting Rowan. I know you like Rowan and don’t want to see her hurt.”
John didn’t push Adam further, allowing him time to mull over the information. Several minutes passed; then Adam opened the door without looking at him.
Good, John thought. He slid out the driver’s side.
Adam dragged his feet, but followed John to the wiry Mexican who manned the flower booth. “Hola, señor.”
“Hola,” the proprietor said with a nod. He looked at Adam and smiled. “Lady like flores?” He gestured to his colorful display.
Adam frowned and shook his head.
“Señor,” John continued, “My amigo-” he patted Adam on the back both to identify him and to keep him at his side-“met a man. Do you remember?”
“Recuerde?” he repeated in Spanish. “Si.”
“Can you describe him? His hair?” John touched his hair. “Pelo?”
“Yes, hair like sand.”
“The same color as sand?”
He nodded and waved toward the beach below the cliffs. Blond, John thought. A little darker than true blond.
“Did you see his eyes?”
He shook his head. “He wore gafas de sol. Uh, dark glasses.”
Damn. “Height?” He held his hand up.
The man looked from John to Adam. “Like him,” he pointed at Adam and then put his fingers together about an inch apart. “Taller.”
“Do you remember what he was driving? His coche?”
“American sedan. Like a Ford.” He shrugged. “No seguro.”
Not sure. “Do you remember which way he went?”
He pointed toward Los Angeles. Away from Rowan. Had he been by her house? He knew where she lived, but the thought that the murderer was stalking Rowan disturbed John on several levels.
“Él compró un lirio y lo lanzó del acantilado,” the small man gestured toward the cliff. “Extraño. Pero no hago pregunta.”
He’d bought a lily and tossed it over the side. Shit.
“What did he wear?”
“Nice. Pantalones. Light brown. Shirt like you.” He pointed at John’s polo shirt. “Blue.” He shrugged. “No recuerdo cualquier cosa. Individuo que mira agradable justo cerca de cuarenta.”
About forty years of age, clean-cut guy. Nothing distinguishing. At least it was more than they had before, John thought as he thanked the man and led Adam back to the truck.
“Do you remember anything else?” Adam didn’t say anything, but John pressed. “I think you do. I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“No, no,” Adam said shaking his head. “Don’t be mad at me too.”
John sighed, trying to keep his patience. “I’m not mad at you, Adam. This has been a hard day for you, I know that. But if there’s anything you remember, even if you don’t think it’s important, I need to know.”
Adam bit his lip. “He looked familiar.”
“Familiar? Like you’ve seen him before?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Think, Adam! This is important.” John didn’t mean to snap, but his frustration level was rising.
“I don’t know. He just seemed familiar somehow. Like I saw him before. I’m stupid. I don’t remember. I’m stupid!” Adam pounded the dashboard with his fist.
John took in a deep breath as he turned the ignition. “You’re not stupid, Adam. You’ll remember. And when you do, I want you to call me.” He wrote his cell phone number on the back of a card and handed it to him. “Call me anytime and tell me anything you remember, okay?”
Adam took the card with a frown, turning it over and over in his fingers. “Okay.”
He marveled at the numbers of brunettes in D.C. who ignored the warnings issued by the police. Some traveled in groups, but most left work and headed for the Metro alone, or at least parted with their friends before boarding the commuter train.
He had to thank Rowan for this one. Four of the victims in her book were unidentified, so he didn’t have to worry about finding a victim to fit the name detail. It had been harder in Portland to find a Harper family that fit, but when he saw the younger daughter he knew he could deviate from the plan and send Rowan a little memory. Adapt. He’d adapted to circumstances his entire life. Adapt, manipulate, destroy.
But to find a single brunette between the ages of twenty and thirty who commuted from Washington, D.C. to Virginia was much easier. He’d picked out a potential victim last week. Tonight he waited by her car.