“We’ll get the hair down to the lab and process it to confirm that it’s from the victim,” Quinn said. “I’ve put a call in to Roger-he went to the scene-to find out what he thinks of the hair. This is the second time the killer has contacted you directly, Rowan. It’s coming to a head.”
He was coming after her. She knew it. If the police or FBI didn’t catch him first, he would come after her. The weight of the Franklin murders rested heavily on her heart. If she hadn’t quit the Bureau four years ago, would something have changed? If she had ridden the case out like the good law enforcement soldier she’d been trained to be, putting all her personal baggage aside, would there have been a different outcome? She didn’t know, and not knowing added to the weight on her already heavy conscience.
So much death in her life. Maybe her own death would finally set her free.
“There will be one more,” Rowan said, her voice cracking. The killer had picked one murder from each of her three books. Were they random? Or did they hold special significance for the killer? She cleared her throat. “Crime of Corruption. There were seven murders in that book. Can you do anything to get the word out? There are seven women in jeopardy.” She picked up her coffee and sipped. It was cold, but she needed something to do with her hands.
“We’re on it,” Quinn said. “The D.C. police are on alert. The press is eating this up and already printed the names of the women killed in your book. I’ll bet you’re selling out in all the bookstores.” He began to smile, then realized he’d put his foot in his mouth. “I’m sorry, Rowan, I didn’t mean-”
Rowan slammed her coffee mug so hard on the table it cracked. The rage she’d focused inside, on the unknown killer, she now turned on Quinn. How could he even say it? As if she hadn’t thought it herself. As if she were not physically ill over the desperately unwanted publicity. This killer had stolen the one cathartic joy she had in her life: writing, penning novels where good always triumphed over evil. She didn’t know if she would ever write another word.
“How dare you! It’s blood money. I will have no part in it!” She pushed her chair back and stormed past Michael, down the hall to her den.
The door slamming sounded final.
“Aw, shit.” Quinn ran a hand through his hair. “I should apologize.”
“Why don’t you give her some time?” Michael said. Damn if he was going to let Quinn anywhere near Rowan. They obviously had a past.
Quinn looked Michael up and down. “Mr. Flynn, Rowan and I have been colleagues and friends for a long time,” he said. “I’m going to talk to her.”
Michael blocked Quinn’s path. “Give her time,” he repeated. They were the same height, but Michael had at least fifteen pounds on Quinn, all of it muscle.
They stared at each other for a full minute, Michael firm in his resolve to refuse Quinn access to Rowan; Quinn weighing the pros and cons of confronting the bodyguard.
Quinn broke the silence. “I’ll give Rowan tonight, but she needs to come down to FBI headquarters tomorrow to review some of her old cases.”
“She’s been doing that here,” Michael said.
“We’ve pulled out a few that merit further attention. Her insight and familiarity with these crimes is important.”
“I’ll bring her over.”
“Thanks,” Quinn said as he opened the front door. “I appreciate it.”
Rowan listened to the front door shut, relieved that Quinn was gone. He was a good agent, but dammit, she thought he knew her better. Money. She didn’t care about the money. She wrote because she had to, a purging of the pain she’d kept locked up for so many years. In her books, justice always won. In her fantasy world, the villains always died. Victims were avenged, good persevered over evil.
But in the real world, none of that was true. Sometimes victims received justice. Sometimes villains were punished. Sometimes good defeated evil.
But just as often, evil won.
She heard footsteps approach the door and stop. She didn’t want to talk to Michael. He meant well, but he couldn’t possibly understand. Fortunately, he continued on, his steps fading away on the tiled floor.
She released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and eyed the gun in her hand. All her pain could disappear now with one well-placed bullet.
She was a coward. She couldn’t take her own life. She only hoped the bastard came after her before anyone else died.
Assistant Director Roger Collins had taken the earliest flight to Portland to see the latest crime scene of the “Copycat Killer”-the name the media had attached to America’s newest serial killer. Three hours later he was heading east again, but not for Dulles.
“What’s the ETA to Logan?” he asked a passing flight attendant.
“We expect to land at 4:10 P.M. Eastern time.”
Taking out his wallet, he extracted a card from underneath his driver’s license. He stared at it for a long time before pulling out the phone from the back of the seat in front of him, typing in his credit card information, and dialing the number. He identified himself, then asked to speak to the director.
“Roger.”
Dr. Milton Christopher’s voice was deep and gravelly, and hadn’t changed in the twenty-some years Roger had known him.
“Milt, wish I were calling to chat.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m on a flight to Boston right now and need to see MacIntosh.”
There was a long pause. “There’s been no change.”
“I know, but I need to see him. It’ll be after visiting hours.”
“Does this have something to do with that serial killer on the West Coast?”
It was Roger’s turn to pause. “Could be.”
The doctor sighed. “I’ll be here.”
“Thanks.”
Roger hung up and looked out the window. He had one more call to make. He dialed the number.
“Shreveport Penitentiary.”
“I need to speak to the warden about an inmate.”
When Roger parked his rental sedan in front of Bellevue Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he’d just gotten off the phone with the Texas Prison Authority. He glanced in the rearview mirror and wasn’t surprised to see dark circles under his eyes. The gray hair Gracie always called “distinguished” today made him look older than his fifty-nine years.
Heads were going to roll for transferring that spawn of Satan without informing him. But after four and a half hours of calls, transfers, and threats, Roger had found out where he was and spoken to the warden of Beaumont, a high-security federal prison in Texas. Warden James Cullen had answers to all his questions and was overnighting a copy of all pertinent records.
Roger was getting out of the car at Bellevue when his cell rang. He almost didn’t answer it; it was well after six and he didn’t want Milt to wait much longer. But he glanced at the number anyway and immediately recognized it as Rowan’s.
His gut clenched, knowing if the truth ever came out she’d never forgive him. The fact that everything he did was to protect her wouldn’t help his case.
“Collins,” he answered.
“Did Quinn talk to you today?”
“Yes.” That was the reason he was in Boston, but he couldn’t tell her that.
“You have protection for Peter, right? If he knows about Dani, he might know about-”
“Peter’s safe, Rowan.”
“I’ll hire a guard if I have to. If money’s a problem, I have plenty.”
“It’s already done.”
“Thanks.” She paused, and Roger felt the urge to tell her everything.
He didn’t. “Anything else?”
“No, nothing.”
She sounded defeated. He wished he could be there for her, be the father she needed but had never had. Even when she’d lived with him and Gracie, he’d worked twelve, fourteen-hour days. Especially in the beginning, when she’d needed him the most.