“Probably made a lot of enemies. I know
“Your point?”
“I believe your life is in danger and you should consider hiring security.”
“I’m a trained FBI agent, detective. I know how to protect myself.”
“You probably do. You probably still sleep with a gun under your pillow.” He nodded, noting some minute reaction on her face, then continued. “This was a brutal crime and it was directed at you. You must be aware of the similarities between the murder victim and a character in your book.”
“I told you I read the article.”
It was all Rowan could do to maintain eye contact. She didn’t want to accept the fact that this murder had anything to do with her. But her instincts shouted the contrary. This was personal.
“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” she said. “If there’s another crime, maybe this maniac will pick another writer to mimic. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be extra careful.”
Damn, she sounded sarcastic without meaning to. Her defenses were up.
Jackson paused before speaking. “Did you know the real Doreen Rodriguez? Did you use her for your book?”
She shook her head. “I just made up the name. The character needed a name.”
“There was one thing we managed to keep from the press,” Jackson said. “Under the body, the bastard left a copy of your book.”
“My book?” Her voice was barely a whisper. She sipped her coffee, using the normalcy to try to gather her thoughts.
He nodded. “
Her book left at the scene. “Anything else? Any notes to me, comments, a hint that he’s going to do this again?”
Jackson leaned forward. “Just the highlighted passages. What do you think?”
Rowan looked Jackson in the eye and shook her head. “I don’t work for the FBI anymore, and I wasn’t a profiler. You want an expert opinion? Call them.”
But her mind was already working overtime. Was someone singling her out? Was one of the criminals she’d locked away carrying out some sort of twisted vendetta against her? She should get a copy of all her case files and look closely-though she remembered every violent criminal she’d helped put away.
Barlow spoke for the first time since the introductions. “I’ve read your books, Ms. Smith. I guess you could say I’m a faithful reader of yours. Your stories are quite horrific. Authentic.” He paused. “I think he’s going to strike again. Denver’s looking at Rodriguez’s old boyfriends, friends, colleagues,” he said, almost dismissively. “But your book being put there, that sets off alarms.”
Rowan breathed deeply, not saying anything. Her bells were ringing, too. A whole friggin’ orchestra clamored in her head.
Jackson spoke. “My superiors are speaking with the Feds already, looking for some cooperation. But we thought you might have some insight, so I took the chance on coming out here to talk to you. Are any of those criminals you put away on the loose? Anyone threaten you?”
She couldn’t help but laugh, though the hollow sound held no humor. “Threaten me? You’ve been a cop for longer than me. I’m sure some of your arrests didn’t take too kindly to being locked up.”
Shaking her head, she continued, “I’m contacted when anyone I testified against or arrested is released or up for parole. I can honestly say that everyone I arrested is either dead or in prison.”
Jackson smiled slightly. “Wish I could say the same. Impressive record.”
She shrugged. “Not really. I didn’t catch every murdering bastard.”
“What about a relative of one of these criminals? Someone wanting revenge for putting their father, brother, cousin, lover behind bars?”
Rowan shook her head. “I don’t know. You’d have to go over my case reports. I can’t think of anyone who stands out, but I don’t have my notes and I haven’t given it a lot of thought.” But she knew that her days and nights would now be haunted by past cases until this murderer was found. She’d get a copy of her files herself. Make sure she didn’t miss something during the seven years she’d been with the Bureau. Miss something that cost Doreen Rodriguez her life.
He might never be found. And though he had killed only one person-at least, that they knew about-Rowan’s instincts told her he would strike again.
Soon.
“What about a fan? Someone who’s written or called you or maybe even tried to visit you?”
“A fan? Taking it upon himself to recreate my imaginary murders?” It was possible, but she didn’t think likely, and she told Jackson so. “This killer is no fan of mine.”
“Why do you say that?” Barlow asked.
“He’s making my fictional murders real. I didn’t go far enough, in his mind, so he has to. He has to prove his own genius, that he’s capable of far greater acts than a mere fiction writer.”
“So he has a screw loose.”
“No.” She shook her head. “He’s sane.”
“How do you figure?”
“He planned this perfectly.” She put her mug down, stood, and crossed to the open window. But she didn’t see the ocean waves or hear the calling gulls. Instead, she pictured evil.
“He found a woman with the same name and occupation as one of my characters and killed her in the same manner in a similar location. Did a lot of planning and research to get all the details just right. Perfection. Next, he leaves my book with her body. Arrogance. He’s smart, but he thinks everyone else is stupid and he has to give you the why or you’d never figure it out. This wasn’t a crime of passion or a crime for money… it was a crime of opportunity.” She realized, as she spoke, it was the name of her book. “This was premeditated, proving his sanity. I’d venture to state that he has an agenda, something that has nothing to do with the victims.”
“Something to do with you?” Barlow asked, causing Rowan to flinch. As much as she wanted to deny it, there had to be a connection. Unless he committed another murder using another writer’s book as a blueprint. She shrugged, turning a blank face to the cops, not wanting to give anything away. Not until she gave this more thought.
“I don’t know.”
“The FBI will probably contact you.”
“Of course.”
Rowan already dreaded it. Someone was playing a game with her, and she had no idea who or why. Though she had controlled her emotions throughout this interview, she felt her insides quivering. But she was the consummate professional; she would keep it together. At least until she was alone.
“Have you received any threats?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure? What about your fan mail?”
“My agent handles correspondence. I receive reports on what comes in. I’d expect him to tell me about any threats.” She’d look into that herself.
Jackson made a note. “What about the studio? The actors in the film you’re working on? Anyone receive any threats, or notice anything strange?”
“The producer is Annette O’Dell. You can find her office at the studio. I don’t work there, I’m just working on rewrites of my screenplay.” Again, Rowan didn’t think any threats had been made. Annette would have told her.
“What about a personal motive? Any former boyfriends who might turn vicious? A friend who might have felt slighted by your success?”
“To be honest, I haven’t had much of a personal life since I came to California two months ago to work on this film.” She sat back down and sipped her now lukewarm coffee. It landed like a lead ball in her churning stomach. “Even before that, I completed the screenplay and started working on my new book. I’m as busy now as I was working for the FBI.”
