In the back of his heart, John wanted to wrap his arms around Rowan as well. But unlike his brother, he put sentiment on the back burner when lives were at stake.
“I need to call my boss. Ex-boss,” she corrected. “I-I had a memory of a case I worked on. My last case. I’m wondering if there’s some connection.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I don’t see how,” she said, almost to herself, “but why else would I dream of the Franklin murders now?”
“Franklin murders?” John repeated.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Brutal murder-suicide. Or so we suspected at the time. There were some doubts, but I wasn’t involved in the investigation. I need to see the file, though, and it’s not in the box of cases Quinn brought over.”
John nodded. He noted she grew composed as she became proactive. So different from the pain-filled woman who’d woken from a violent nightmare only moments ago.
“Who’s Danny?” John asked again. “One of the victims?”
She looked at Michael, not John, her eyes once again shielding pain he’d seen only a moment before. She shrugged. “Another case. I’ve spent most of the day reviewing crime scene photos and notes. Everything’s all mixed up. I don’t know what I was dreaming about.”
Dammit, John knew she was lying. She’d had a nightmare about Danny, whoever he was.
He sensed she wouldn’t go into any more details now. Maybe it was all mixed up in her mind. But there was something there, something he needed to pull out. Maybe something her conscious mind didn’t even realize was important.
“I’m going to call Roger,” Rowan said, and she left the room without a backward glance.
Michael strode over to his brother and poked him in the chest. “What the hell were you doing? Interrogating her? Couldn’t you see she’d just had a nightmare?”
John’s jaw dropped. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting, Mickey? There’s something trapped in that pretty little head of Ms. Smith’s, and it’s about time someone started asking the tough questions. Hell, I don’t think she even knows what it is. But we need to push, we need to get to the bottom of this. The FBI is on top of it because she’s one of theirs, but they aren’t here in this room, are they?”
“You’re doing it again,” Michael said.
John blinked. “What?”
“Taking over my case.”
John threw his hands up in the air, a rare outward sign of frustration, and stalked over to the dark windows that reflected Michael’s angry expression and Tess’s watchful eyes. This wasn’t a new argument.
“I’m not taking over your case, Mickey,” John said, though he itched to do just that. Michael had reasonable plans, but in John’s mind they sounded like they would take too damned long to implement. Maybe Michael was trying to coddle Rowan into opening up, but John was more of a straight shooter. He expected everyone else to shoot straight as well.
“Could have fooled me,” Michael said under his breath.
“There’s more going on here than we know. Dammit, she knows something that could get us all killed. It’s probably some damn FBI security issue, but screw it if I’m going to let you or Tess get hurt because the frickin’ FBI won’t share information!” John turned back to face his brother. “And if she doesn’t consciously know it, it’s locked in her mind and your sweet-as-pie commiserating isn’t going to draw the truth out of her.”
“I was a cop for fifteen years, in case you’ve forgotten,” Michael said, taking a step toward John. “I may not have been a big, bad Delta commando, but I sure as hell know how to protect myself and my charge.”
“Not if you can’t see past her pretty face!”
Michael clenched his fists, vibrating with anger. “You just can’t let me forget about fucking up with Jessica.”
John mentally hit himself. He didn’t want to hurt his brother. “I’m sorry, Mickey. I didn’t mean to compare the two situations. But geez, can’t you see there’s something else here? I’m not going to let you put your life on the line for a woman-for anyone-who isn’t forthcoming. Obviously these Franklin murders are important if she’s having nightmares about them. I just think we need to find out more about Rowan Smith. She holds the key.”
Finally, Michael looked at him. “You’re right, John. Tomorrow morning, when we’ve all had some time to think about this, we’ll sit down with Rowan and pick her brain.”
“Good plan,” John said as he approached his brother. He reached out and squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “We’re a team on this, Mickey. Like always.”
“Are we?”
John almost didn’t hear Michael, though they stood only two feet apart.
He said equally as softly, “Yeah, Mickey, we are.”
But he didn’t think his brother listened.
With a sigh, John whipped out his cell phone and dialed a Washington contact. “It’s Flynn. I need some information.”
They looked so sweet sitting on the sofa together eating popcorn and watching some stupid-ass love story on television. The popcorn came from an old-fashioned popper, not the new microwave bags that were ready in four minutes. No, the kind where you put oil in the bottom and butter on top of the lid and heated up the kernels until they filled the bowl. Like his mother used to do.
The portrait of a perfect family, the book said. Perfect? What a joke!
He thought back to his own pathetic family. His father could be strong, but most of the time had been a weak fool. Letting his mother run the roost when she was nothing but a whiny bitch. Always demanding this and asking for that. His father worked hard to put food on the table and had given them a nice house in the suburbs, and his mother just bitched bitched bitched and asked for more more more.
Money. That was all the bitch thought about.
He heard his mother’s high-pitched voice like it was yesterday.
He’d been going through his mother’s purse for money when he heard her coming down the hall. So he hid in the closet, keeping the sliding door slightly ajar so he could see if she came toward him. It was night and she thought he was in bed.
He was eight, but he’d been taking money for as long as he could remember. Today he needed more ammunition for his BB gun. He remembered when his dad bought it for him-it was the coolest thing his father had ever done. When the bitch protested, his father just told her if he wanted to buy his son a BB gun, he damn well would.
He smiled, knowing why he needed the ammunition. It had taken thirty-six of those little pellets to finally kill Mrs. Crenshaw’s stupid, whiny cat.
For his next birthday, he was asking for a.22.
His mother went about doing all those girlie things at her table, taking off her makeup and brushing her hair, when his father walked in.
“Hi, honey,” his mother said. “You’re home late.”
“I have children to feed and clothe,” his father said, mad about something.
“I-I know, I just missed you, that’s all.”
She stood and walked over to him, kissed him. Yuck. They always did that kissing thing and it made him sick.
His father sighed and patted her stomach. It was starting to grow big. Another baby. Why did they have to have another one? Weren’t there enough brats in this house?
His father loosened his tie and his mother said, “I looked at beds today for the girls. Since they’ll have to share a room, I thought maybe getting them matching beds would be nice.”
“Why didn’t you ask me first? You didn’t buy anything, did you?”
“No, no, I just looked. I thought-since you got that bonus-we could afford to get a few things around the house that we’ve been needing; you know, nothing extravagant, but-“