“We’re going to catch this asshole.”
“I know.” She didn’t sound like she believed it. “Goodbye.”
“Wait-” But she’d already hung up.
He snapped the phone closed and hit the roof of his car with his fist. Damn, damn, damn!
“Anything I can do to help?”
Roger swung around. Milt Christopher had gotten the drop on him. He really was too tired to be effective. He shook his head. “Just show me MacIntosh.”
They walked in silence through the grounds. The wide, lush lawns were supposed to calm the insanity that lurked within the walls.
Milt used his security pass to open a door at the far end of the courtyard. Both he and Roger had to sign in with the guard, and then they proceeded down a wide, white hallway, through two more secure doors, until they reached the entrance to Robert MacIntosh’s room.
“Are you sure you don’t trust me on this?”
“I trust you, Milt, but I have to see him myself.”
Milt nodded, then unlocked the door with a key.
Robert MacIntosh sat in a chair facing a wide, barred window that looked out at the courtyard they had just walked through. It was nearly dark, but by the vacant look in his blue eyes, Roger didn’t think MacIntosh knew or cared. He pulled a chair in front of MacIntosh and stared at him, wanting to see something, anything other than the vacuous expression he remembered.
Roger didn’t believe most people were insane when they committed heinous crimes; by all public accounts Robert MacIntosh had been normal twenty-three years ago. What had caused him to break? What had severed the thin thread of sanity? Had he been insane when he killed his wife, or had her brutal murder emptied his mind to join his hollow soul?
It wasn’t fair. He’d wanted to prosecute this bastard more than any other murderer he’d faced in his thirty-five years with the FBI. And MacIntosh had not spoken one word since he was found, sitting next to the shredded body of his dead wife, her blood coating him and the kitchen where she died.
“You bastard,” he whispered.
Milt, the doctor, cleared his throat.
Roger searched Robert MacIntosh’s unseeing eyes, finding nothing human, nothing alive in their depths. Living on the public dole at the cost of more than a hundred thousand a year, this hollow shell of a man should have been shot on sight when the first police officer arrived at the Boston death house.
He stood. “Has anyone been to see him recently?”
Milt blinked. “Actually, yes.”
“I need to see the security logs.”
An hour later, Roger left with copies of visitor logs from May 10 and September 23 of last year, and the promise that Milt would order up the security tapes from those days and send them to FBI headquarters immediately.
In twenty-three years, no one had visited Robert MacIntosh until last year, when Bob Smith came in twice.
Who the hell was Bob Smith?
CHAPTER 8
Rowan woke early with another pounding headache. She reached under her pillow and pulled out her Glock, pausing as she stared at it. She almost didn’t remember switching her gun’s storage spot from her nightstand to her pillow.
She didn’t bother to change-she’d slept in sweats and a T-shirt. She simply pulled her arms out of the sleeves and slipped on a sports bra, then pushed her arms through again. It was a trick her few lovers admired, which should have told her they were too easily impressed.
She went into the bathroom and brushed her hair, pulling it into a hasty ponytail for her morning run. She tried to avoid the hollow-eyed woman in the mirror, but couldn’t.
She’d never paid attention to her looks. Her ex-boyfriend Eric Hamilton had told her she was beautiful, like a sculpted goddess. She brushed off his compliment as a line, not interested in a man who paid more attention to her looks than her brain. Frankly, she wasn’t interested in relationships. Before Eric, she’d been involved with a few men, none of them in the Bureau, none of them serious. Sex and coffee, nothing more.
How could she get close to anyone when everyone she loved died? How could she share her past when she couldn’t even think about it, except in nightmares?
Her relationship with Eric had been as close to a real one as she’d ever had, and look how pathetic that had turned out. He demanded everything from her, but still couldn’t see her for what she was. Damaged. With Eric she played a part, the role of the cool, dedicated, smart FBI agent who wasn’t afraid to confront bad guys in a dark alley. With Eric she was hot in bed, but cold in conversation. She knew it but couldn’t change it. Didn’t know if she wanted to even make the effort.
He’d asked her to move in with him. She had refused. She couldn’t give up her independence, her privacy, her home. The life she had painstakingly built couldn’t be merged with that of someone who didn’t understand death and dying.
Eric was a good agent. He was smart, cocky, competent. But Rowan never felt that he tried to understand her. He mainly wanted her because she seemed unattainable; when she wasn’t what he thought, or anyone he could mold, he sought comfort elsewhere.
And his betrayal was a relief.
In hindsight, she should have listened to Olivia. When she lived in Washington, before the Franklin murders, she and Eric had often gone out with Liv and her now ex-husband. Neither Liv nor Greg had liked Eric much. That should have told her something.
Rowan shook her head, trying to rid her mind of the past. After brushing her teeth and drinking a cup of tepid water, she went downstairs to fetch Michael from the guest room.
She was about to knock on his door when a voice from the far end of the hall said, “Good morning.”
She turned to face Michael’s brother, leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, steaming cup of coffee in hand.
He looked a little like Michael, but his green eyes were darker, his hair shorter, his body leaner. Rowan felt a not-too-familiar flutter in her stomach, confusing her. He was attractive, but it wasn’t as if she let her hormones dictate her life. She swallowed, startled by her reaction. He was too damn sexy for his own good, and he knew it.
John Flynn was an operative. She could tell by his oh-so-casual stance. Under the seemingly at-ease posture was a man rippling with energy, exuding strength and cocky self-confidence without even trying. He wasn’t as big and muscular as his brother, but Rowan knew who she’d bet on in a fight-John would win hands down.
He was dangerous. His ostensibly innocent gaze probed her inner soul. He searched for the motivation that made her tick, the mechanism that made her an agent who’d quit, who wrote, who’d attracted the attention of a serial killer.
Michael Flynn was more easily led. She could control his questions, lead him away from going too deep into her psyche. Keep the relationship professional. Straightforward.
But not John. He would not be led, stymied, or satisfied with the short answer. He was a threat. To her soul.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, walking down the hall to face him.
“Thought Mickey could use a little backup. He’s been 24/7 the past few days.”
She nodded toward the coffee. “Seems you’ve made yourself at home.”
He smiled, revealing a solitary dimple that would have been endearing if he wasn’t such a danger to her privacy. “You have good stuff. Real coffee beans. I like that.”
She brushed past him, trying to ignore the jolt of awareness tingling across her flesh when she touched his arm. To avoid looking at him, she poured herself a cup of coffee. She sipped, then put the mug down. Damn, his blank-faced stare made her nervous. “I’m going for a run.”
He’d turned around in the doorway, but otherwise hadn’t moved. “Are you?”
She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Any other person would have feared her anger, but he only looked amused. That pissed her off. “Maybe I should wake Michael. Perhaps you can’t keep up.”