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,
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?”
He shook his head. “I had to go after the warehouse or tons of drugs would be hitting our coast next week. At least we pulled a major plug. It’ll take them some time to recoup their losses and rebuild inventory. One, two months maybe.”
Tess’s jaw dropped. “And then they’ll be back in business? After just two months? What’s the point? No matter what you do, how many tons of drugs you destroy, there’s always more.”
That was the grim reality in the war on drugs. No matter how many men they killed, how many tons of cocaine and heroin they destroyed, there were always more daring criminals, an endless supply of poor farmers, and ultimately more drugs. If he could save just one kid from making the same stupid mistake Denny had made…
He couldn’t think about his dead friend now. Not when he’d been so close to nabbing Pomera. But the bastard was always just beyond his reach. Next time.
It wasn’t his job anymore, he reminded himself, not officially. Only when the powers that be needed him, needed his connections, was he given the opportunity to legally chase Pomera. He let himself be used because each and every time he was able to destroy a shipment. Keep at least one batch of drugs off the streets of America. And maybe-just maybe-save a life.
“You’re right, Tess.”
“You don’t have to fight a losing battle. Stay here and help Mickey.”
“Speaking of Mickey-” John changed the subject. Tess wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. She didn’t know the evil people did to others. To people they knew, as well as to total strangers.
Focus on the case at hand. “Think he’s getting too close?” It wouldn’t be the first time, but Michael was a good cop. Yes, he’d let his personal feelings interfere on occasion, but he’d never screwed up on the job.
She nodded. “Just like with Jessica.”
John remembered Rowan Smith’s picture on the back of her book, primarily because it was so unusual for a novelist. Instead of a close-up, or half body shot, she stood in the distance, leaning against a pine tree of some sort, snow on the ground and branches above her head. It wasn’t even a front shot, but her profile: aristocratic, elegant, defiant.
Most people wouldn’t be able to recognize her from the picture; she was dressed all in white, with long hair so blonde it looked as white as the snow in the background. It hung smooth and silky down her back. The picture conveyed an overwhelming sense of loneliness, of separation.
“I’m worried about him,” Tess said.
John took her hand and squeezed, shaking his head. “Mickey’s a big boy. He’s a good bodyguard. He knows what he’s doing.”
“I’m not talking about his professional abilities. I’m talking about his personal involvement in this case.”
“It’s kind of quick to make that kind of assessment, don’t you think?” Even as John objected, he guessed that his sister’s instincts were correct. Michael jumped feet first with women. Ever since Missy Sue Carmichael, the senior who took his brother’s virginity when he was fifteen. Then Brenda the following year, Tammy, Maria… hell, John couldn’t keep track of all the women Michael had fallen in love with over the years.
Tess looked at him, her little nose scrunched up in disbelief. “Right, John.”
Yeah, Tess knew Michael as well as he did. “Don’t worry about him, Tessie. He can take care of himself.”
“Maybe, but I just feel that this case is different somehow. Higher stakes.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” John promised.
After thirty minutes of ultra-polite, frustrating, and tension-filled conversation with Special Agent Quinn Peterson and Rowan, Michael left the room, closing himself off in the den. He had calls to make.
The good news was the FBI had reviewed the security procedures Michael implemented and the L.A. field office was assigning two more agents though Rowan had argued against it. Tomorrow they would interview Rowan’s Malibu neighbors. Four of the dozen or so houses on this stretch of beach were vacant, either vacation rentals or closed up while their owners lived in another of their homes. The FBI was alerting each property management company to watch those houses closely and notify the Bureau if anything looked amiss.
Teams would be dispatched as needed, but resources being thin they couldn’t commit to full surveillance-only one around-the-clock team, aside from Peterson and his partner. But the FBI was working closely with local law enforcement to help coordinate information and offered priority use of their lab facilities at Quantico.
Peterson had brought a box packed with copies of Rowan’s case files. She had kept reaching for it, obviously antsy to get started, making no secret that she thought Peterson should go.
Michael had sensed there’d been something more than a professional relationship between Rowan and this FBI agent; Rowan’s invisible shield had gone back up. Michael’s efforts to get inside her mind, understand her, coax her to bring down her defenses, were stymied once Quinn Peterson showed up. Michael felt a bolt of jealousy, but quickly tamped down that emotion.
He couldn’t let himself get emotionally involved with another vulnerable woman. Not that Rowan was vulnerable in the traditional sense-he greatly admired her strength and focus. But she needed him, and Michael was well aware of his past with women who needed him. Two sides within him battled, and he was determined to stay his distance.
But he had to admit he was intrigued by Rowan. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever met.
In the den, Michael picked up the phone and dialed a friend with the L.A. Bureau of the FBI. “Tony, it’s Michael
