What did she fear?
She spent a lot of time in the den. Her computer was there. When she wanted to be alone, she went to the den. Why?
And why did he feel guilty? He’d done far worse in his life than rifling through the personal property of a woman he was responsible for protecting. Of course, it wasn’t his case; it was Michael’s. But she was hiding something, something important, even if she didn’t know it. And Michael might be the one to pay for her omission.
Or possibly Rowan herself.
John wouldn’t allow that to happen.
He opened the door before he could change his mind and closed it behind him, his heart pounding. He simply didn’t want to pry into Rowan’s life. Not without her invitation.
The den differed from the white starkness of the rest of the house. Dark cherry paneling, built-in bookshelves, and a large corner desk unit dominated the small room. Two white leather love seats faced each other in the middle; a reading chair, table, and lamp were grouped in the corner. The tile from the hall extended into the den, but was mostly covered by a thick off-white shag rug.
Classic, cozy, and definitely more suited to Rowan than the bright, empty void of the immaculate Malibu beach house.
Clutter on the desk, stacks of books on the reading table, and a coffee mug with an inch of cold, congealed coffee told John this room was Rowan’s home. He felt worse invading this space than her bedroom upstairs.
The books were mostly true crime, crime fiction, and literary classics. A worn copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest sat on her desk. Other well-read classics littered the shelves. She may have been leasing the place, but evidently she’d brought boxes of books with her. Somehow, John didn’t think the owner of this sterile abode read Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath or Capote’s In Cold Blood.
John focused on the desk. He flicked on the computer. While waiting for it to finish booting, he searched for anything to give him more insight into Rowan and her past.
The papers on top of the stack closest to the computer were printouts from online newspapers all discussing the recent crime. Denver. Los Angeles. Portland. He’d already read them. The police had managed to keep the detail of the books being left at the crime scene to themselves, but the press had made the connection between the victims and Rowan’s books.
The connection must be killing her. Spending six years fighting serial killers and mass murderers, only to end up being connected to one.
John knew how she felt. He’d lost count of the years he’d been fighting the endless War on Drugs, and sometimes he lost track of where the bad guys ended and the good guys began. But it was a battle he vowed to keep fighting until the one bastard who kept slipping through the cracks was dead and burning in hell.
The other stacks of papers appeared to be copies of bills, notes for her books, printouts of chapters. Michael had said she was working on another book, as well as the screenplay for the movie being filmed now. He’d mentioned something about how her first movie had been trashed and she wasn’t about to let anyone rewrite her books into something they weren’t.
John understood that as well. In fact, he found he had deep insight into Rowan that he couldn’t explain. It was as if he knew how she would react, what she would think in any given situation, how these murders were eating her up inside. She was angry and rigid on the surface, but when he looked into her eyes, he saw in them so much she didn’t say.
Rowan Smith kept her emotions close to the vest. Just like him.
John sat at the computer when he found nothing more of interest in the papers. Her e-mail was mostly from studio people, the majority related to the screenplay she was working on. She didn’t save old e-mails. He could grab his laptop, plug it in, and run undelete on her old files, but somehow he didn’t think she had anything sensitive on her computer. It appeared to be used primarily for writing.
Crime of Passion was the movie coming out at the end of the week. Crime of Clarity was the movie currently being filmed. Looking through her documents, he saw that Crime of Jeopardy was the book coming out next week, and House of Terror was her work in progress.
John frowned. Rowan was certain there would be one more victim, from her fourth book, Corruption, and then the killer would come after her. But what about the latest book? And her current work? Her current work didn’t keep the theme of her “crime of” series. He wondered why. He wanted to ask her. But if he did, she’d know he’d been on her computer.
Could the murderer have gotten a copy of the unpublished book? Was he someone Rowan knew well? Well enough to let into her house?
John shut down the computer and started going through her desk. The file drawer contained little that wasn’t personal correspondence or directly related to her books.
Except for one folder.
Newspaper articles, slightly yellowed and dated four years earlier, reported a mass murder in Nashville, Tennessee.
Businessman Karl Franklin Kills Family, Self.
The story documented that Karl Franklin came home after work late one Monday night and killed his wife and four children while they slept in their beds. Everyone was shocked; he was a successful businessman, had no financial problems, and had always talked about his family glowingly.
No apparent motive, no reason. The man broke and murdered his family when nothing should have made him break. Then he killed himself, and no one was able to ask him why.
Four years ago. This was the case that Rowan had been having nightmares about. This was the case she was reviewing at FBI headquarters right now.
Something tickled the back of his mind, and he drew out his cell phone and called a contact in Washington. “Hey, Andy, it’s John Flynn.”
“Flynn. Second time this week. You must be working.”
“You could say that. I’m helping my brother with a case. Have anything for me?”
“Nope. I told you it would take awhile. Digging into the life of the assistant director could get me fired, friend. I hope you have a job waiting for me in the wings.”
John laughed. “You can partner with me next time I head down to South America.”
“Hell no. I’d rather work at McDonald’s. Did you want a status report? I’m empty. Call back next week.”
“No, another question. Should be easy.”
“Right.”
John heard a vehicle slow in front of the house and he crossed to the blinds. He peered out but didn’t see anything.
“When did Rowan Smith leave the FBI? It was four years ago-I’d like an exact date.”
“That I can do. Hold on.”
“Thanks.”
While John waited, he continued to look out the blinds. He could only see the roofs of cars as they whizzed by on the highway fifty feet away, up a steep embankment that separated Rowan’s house from the busy road.
Before Andy came back on the line, a beat-up truck heading south slowed in front of her house but didn’t stop. If the driver was looking for a house, it could be any of the dozen on this stretch of Pacific Coast Highway. It passed and left his line of sight. But John never doubted his instincts, and he waited by the window, adjusting the blinds in such a way that he could see out but no one could see in.
“John?”
“Still here.”
“She was paid through August thirty-first of four years ago, but she resigned from active duty on May second.”
John didn’t need to look at the newspaper article again to know that Franklin murdered his family on May first. Not only was this her last case, it was the reason for her resignation. Why? He’d read through her other cases. Some were far more brutal crimes, yet she’d investigated them without a break in stride.
“One more thing.”
Andy sighed dramatically. “I am going to be fired.”