“How?” Was that weak squeak her voice? She didn’t recognize it.
“Christine Jamison’s throat was slit.”
“With a knife from her kitchen,” Rowan said, picturing the crime in her mind. Remembering her book. It was straight from her book.
“How did you-? Oh. Yeah.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. About the same time the flowers were delivered to you.”
The bastard had planned it all. Right down to baiting her, sending her the flowers while killing the florist. He probably got a sick thrill out of it, knowing that the police would be able to put together the timeline.
“One of your books was left behind,” Michael continued. He took her hand. She glanced down, uneasy, but didn’t pull her hand away. She hadn’t had much comfort in the last couple of days, and this small bit of human connection gave her some strength to draw on.
“Crime of Passion,” she whispered. “In that book, a florist was killed so as not to be able to identify the man who was stalking his victim and sending her white roses.”
“You still think this isn’t about you?” he asked.
“Dammit, I know it’s about me! I just don’t want to accept it. It’s personal, premeditated. And there will be more victims unless we figure this out. And then he’ll come after me. And I don’t know why!” She pulled her hand from Michael’s and slammed her fist on the dashboard.
Rowan was grateful for Michael’s silence. She stared out the window, running over every case she’d worked on. Roger would let her know immediately if one of her convicts was out. But few of them could have put together these elaborately planned crimes.
William James Stanton, perhaps. A sexual sadist, he’d been sentenced by a stupid jury to life imprisonment rather than death. They’d bought his twisted sob story that he’d been so abused by his mother as a child that he wasn’t actually killing pretty young moms on the Eastern seaboard, but was killing his own abusive mother over and over.
Rowan hadn’t bought it. Stanton took intense pleasure in torturing and raping his victims.
Or Lars Richard Gueteschow, the Butcher of Brentwood. He’d hacked up teenagers-boys or girls, it didn’t matter; there was nothing sexual about it-and stored their body parts in his freezer. Until one girl got away. Rowan could imagine him getting a twisted pleasure in tormenting her, the agent who’d gathered the evidence and testified against him. But he was on death row in San Quentin.
Most crimes she had investigated were jurisdictional, violent crimes the FBI became involved in because the murders occurred in more than one state. Not many of those killers could have orchestrated such a detailed operation as these new murders.
But where else could she look? Their relatives? Friends, neighbors, colleagues? People who had a grotesque fascination with their crimes? Going that route, they’d have thousands of suspects. Her head ached. She squeezed her fingers into her eyes, suddenly weary.
She just didn’t know if they’d have enough time before the bastard struck again.
Rowan’s hair was limp, her posture now less than rigid. She glanced over her shoulder twice, and jumped when the bodyguard touched her.
Some distance away, he smiled. She was exhausted and afraid. Good. He was giddy that he was giving her sleepless nights. He hoped that whatever sleep she managed was disturbed by nightmares of blood. Did she feel any guilt? Any complicity? After all, it was her own words that determined who lived and who died. He chuckled as he watched.
She’d come home with her bodyguard to that impatient FBI agent who’d been waiting at her door for the last hour. The agent had rung the doorbell several times, glanced at his watch even more often, and paced. The Fed didn’t worry him.
The bodyguard, however, worried him slightly. Knowing Rowan as he did, he hadn’t expected her to ask for help. She was so confident, so cool. Not the type to get a bodyguard. Her lover? No. She hadn’t been with a man since before leaving the FBI. What was that guy’s name? Oh, yeah. Hamilton. Also a Fed.
Oh, yes, he’d been watching her-one way or another-for a long time.
The bodyguard would be dealt with when the right time came. A silencer would do the trick, though he loathed guns. It made killing so impersonal.
That was for later.
First, Rowan needed to be broken. He wanted her to melt, to burn. He needed her emotion, her temper. Mostly, he wanted her fear. Then-only then-would he confront her.
Until that time, he had many things to do. He’d marked the chosen for death. Nothing could now alter their fate. He was a god; fate would run its course. Then he and Rowan would meet again. She would know him and know fear.
And beg for her life before she died.
He waited until dark, then left. He had another flight to catch.
CHAPTER 5
He waited for Tess to close her apartment door, then clamped a hand over her mouth. Thinking fast, she swung her laptop around hard and hit him on the shoulder, but the momentum of her attack enabled him to twist her wrist. He forced her to drop the computer and cruelly bent her arm back. He felt her wince and try to pivot for control. But she’d already lost.
He let her go and flipped on the lights.
“I’ve told you a thousand times that an attacker can use your momentum against you.”
“John! You bastard!” Tess tried to slap him, but he grabbed her arm. “How did you get in here?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Your locks are child’s play, but I actually got in through the window in the bathroom. I’ve told you to put a security lock on it at least a dozen times.” He smirked. “Now, now, you lost fair and square. Give it up.” He pulled her into a bear hug. “I’ve missed you, sis.”
“I missed you, too, until about two minutes ago.” She leaned back, surveying him like a mother would a wayward son, love and concern etched on her pretty, pixie-like face. “You’ve lost weight.”
“South American jungles. What I can eat and drink I sweat off.”
“Let me fix you dinner.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” He followed her to the small kitchen, checking windows as he went. “Have any juice?”
“Orange juice.” She nodded at the refrigerator. She grabbed a pot out of the dishwasher and filled it with water. “You know the only thing I can cook is spaghetti.”
“Some things never change. But I love spaghetti.” He actually didn’t care much for the eating process except to provide fuel for his body. He took out the juice container, shook it, and guzzled its contents, then tossed the empty carton into the trash and looked back in the fridge. He took out a water bottle and drank half in one gulp.
Tess watched with a half-smile. “Yes, some things never change.”
“Tell me more about Mickey’s case.” He pulled out a chair at the small kitchen table and sat, leaning against the back until the front legs lifted off the floor.
She shrugged and poured a jar of sauce into a pot. “There’s not much to tell except another woman died. A florist.”
“Mimicking Smith’s book?” At the airport in Mexico City he’d bought the latest bestselling Rowan Smith novel, Crime of Corruption. He read it cover-to-cover on the plane, hooked. He admired the protagonist, a no-nonsense FBI agent with realistic faults, and the villain was pure evil under a face as normal as, well, his.
If he hadn’t known such malevolence existed, he’d have thought Smith exaggerated. But he’d known murdering bastards so twisted and deranged that he was sincerely amazed that their evil couldn’t be seen on the surface.
Even Satan had once been an angel.
“John?”
He shook his head and grinned at her. “Just daydreaming.”
“More like a nightmare,” Tess said. “You okay?”
“I didn’t get Pomera.”
Her eyes conveyed sympathy. “Was it because I called you? Pulled you out too soon?”