“He went to a bar last night, a few blocks from his apartment. The Pistol; apparently it’s a dive bar that doubles as a cop hangout.”
John knew the place. Michael went there when he was troubled. And he’d been plenty pissed last night.
“He was there for an hour or so, drank on the heavy side of moderate. The bartender didn’t think he was drunk, just tipsy. He went to a fast-food restaurant, ate there, walked home. He was talking to someone at the bar for a short time, and the police are working with the bartender on a description. The guy-dark blond hair, forties-left before Michael, but…”
Quinn paused, cleared his throat, then continued. “Michael entered his apartment and the police believe an intruder was waiting for him. He was shot three times in the chest. Died at the scene.”
John’s fists clenched at his side. He wanted to punch someone. He wanted to kill someone. “No. I don’t believe it.” But his tone said the opposite.
“He didn’t bother hiding it. Three neighbors called in gunfire to 911. I would have been here sooner, but it took time for the local police to realize there was a connection. It was the chief who ultimately called me less than an hour ago. I came straight here.”
Quinn stared at him, his own face twisted with hurt and regret. “It’s the same bastard. He-left a note. I’m sorry, John. I’m really sorry.”
John’s mind was a jumble of memories and plans and vengeance. The killer went after Michael. Why? It wasn’t in the books. He did it because he could. To show Rowan he could get to her.
He whirled around and stared at Rowan. Complex and conflicting emotions assaulted him. Anger. Grief. Pain. Guilt. It was his fault. He’d sent Michael away to get Rowan to talk.
To get her into bed.
He’d wanted her from the beginning, knew there was an invisible bond joining them from the moment they met. Michael had cared for her, but John didn’t give him any credit for knowing his feelings. He threw Jessica back at him. He pushed Michael aside, manipulated him out of the picture. They fought and John pulled his ace, got the FBI to insist Michael take time off.
John had sent his own brother to his death.
He could never tell Michael he was sorry.
A deep, low, guttural moan escaped John’s throat and he couldn’t look at Rowan or the tears that streamed down her face. He needed air. He had to get out of here.
“Tess,” he said, his voice hoarse with barely constrained grief.
“She doesn’t know. She’s meeting me at the headquarters at nine, but-”
“I’ll tell her.” He passed Rowan without looking at her. He left the house without another word.
Rowan watched John leave, agonizing for him. For herself.
It was all her fault.
The bastard wanted to hurt her, but he was hurting innocent people in the process.
Who was it? Who knew about her past? She had to call Roger. She had to find out what he knew, what he’d found out. He was the damn FBI! They couldn’t be in the dark for this long. They had to suspect someone.
And if the killer knew about her family, he might know about Peter. If anything happened to him-
But she couldn’t stop thinking about Michael.
John. Tess.
Dear God, why? Why did he go after Michael?
Because he could.
“Rowan.” Quinn walked to her side, crunching glass into the carpet. He frowned at the mess, but said nothing. “We need to put you into a safe house.”
“No.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Her headache that had disappeared sometime last night was now back with a vengeance.
“Be reasonable! Roger would not allow you to-”
“Just, no. The killer will come for me. I’ll kill him.”
“He’s elusive. Smart. I can’t let you put yourself in danger.” He put a hand on her shoulder; she shrugged it off.
“It’s not your choice. I’m not going to run so he can kill more people. If he can kill Michael”-her voice hitched and she swallowed back a sob-“he can get to anyone. You. Tess. Roger. But it’s me he wants. He’s deviating to show me he’s smarter. Stronger.”
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “He doesn’t know who the hell he’s up against.”
Rowan sat on hold for a good five minutes. Finally, Roger came on the line.
Without preamble, she asked, “What have you found out?”
“Rowan, I spent all night going over your files. I have a team tracking down every cop who was assigned to the investigation. And-well, the thought came to me last night. What about the families of the two guards Bobby killed? I can’t see how or why they would go after you, but it was the only thing that came to mind.”
Her heart beat faster. Revenge. They were tormenting her because her brother had brutally killed their father, their brother, their son. It was plausible, especially since Bobby was dead and in hell and they couldn’t go after him. But why now? Why like this?
There had been many, many nights over the years when Rowan had woken in the dead of night, wishing Bobby were alive so she could kill him herself. He’d stolen everything from her, everything but her life, and her very existence felt hollow since Bobby had killed her sisters.
If it connected to Bobby somehow-that would make more sense to her.
“You’re checking?” She was desperate. Desperate and grasping at straws. “But why wait twenty-some-odd years? Why wait at all?”
“I have Vigo working on a profile, but he hasn’t come up with anything useful yet.” Hans Vigo was the top profiler in the agency. But Rowan knew a profile was only as good as the information given to the profiler.
They were missing a lot of information. More than they should. For the first time in four years, she regretted quitting the Bureau.
“What about the Franklin murders? You said you were going to talk to Karl Franklin’s brother. Did-?”
Roger interrupted. “Nothing. I visited him, talked to him. The man is in a wheelchair. I went to his doctor and it’s legitimate. He can’t walk. He couldn’t be involved, even if he had the motive. Everything else in Nashville-a dead end.”
Dead end. And she’d been so sure this had something to do with the Franklin case. The pigtails.
Dani.
It was about Dani; it was about her family.
“It’s about the past. Roger, you have to find out what’s going on. And tell me right away. I’m serious, Roger, don’t try to protect me. I have to know the truth.”
Next she tried Peter at the rectory in Boston, but he was in church. She left a brief message, their personal code, then sank into the oversized chair in the den. Burying her face in her hands, she allowed herself a moment of self-pity, to mourn her life. Her dead family. And now, Michael.
And the loss of something she had almost had with John, a connection she felt with him that she’d felt with no other man. Something that for a short time she thought might become bigger, better than she deserved.
But it was gone. Like a life ended before its time, whatever fleeting connection that existed between her and John had been abruptly severed.
What did she expect? She didn’t deserve John. She’d often thought of herself as half a person, incomplete. Less than whole. What she missed she couldn’t lay a finger on, but she knew she lacked something. Why else could she not bond with others like a normal person? Why did she find it so hard to stay in contact with her few friends, like Olivia and Miranda? Why couldn’t she form relationships with men?
Already she had developed a stronger bond with John than any of her previous lovers, but look where they were now.
John wouldn’t forgive her. She couldn’t forgive herself.
The ringing phone startled her, but she grabbed the receiver on the second ring.
“Rowan, it’s Peter. What’s wrong?”
He knew she’d never leave a message unless it was an emergency.
“The bastard killed Michael. My bodyguard.”
“Dear Lord.” She could picture Peter making the sign of the cross. “Were you-hurt?”