“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m going with you. Give me three minutes.”
He hadn’t slept well, and it showed in his reflection. His dark whiskers made him appear even shabbier than he felt; his green eyes were bloodshot, making them seem brighter. He splashed water on his face, finger-combed his hair, and dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt.
The smell of coffee lured him to the kitchen. Rowan stood at the sink drinking a tall glass of water, her long, straight blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore no makeup, yet Michael found her just as attractive this morning.
“Let’s go,” he said, pushing aside his personal interest in Rowan. He wouldn’t let her distract him from the job he had to do. Not that she was doing it on purpose, he thought. If anything, she kept a wide physical and emotional distance from everyone.
“It’s a three-mile run from here to the other end of the beach and back. I run it twice. Up for it?”
“No problem,” he said. “Let me look around.” He noticed she had a gun in a holster at her back. Not the Glock; this one was a little Heckler amp; Koch, the “Rolls-Royce” of 9mm semiautos. “Nice piece,” he commented. “Writing must pay well. I’m sure you couldn’t afford that on a government salary.”
She was beautiful when she smiled, he noted. “Yeah, it was a treat when I could walk into the gun store and pay cash for it. Maybe we should go to the range today, get in a little target practice. I’ll let you try it.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” he said.
After checking the deck and beach, he said, “In the future, you might want to consider driving somewhere else if you feel the need to run.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound like she had any intention of taking him up on his suggestion, and she set off at a vigorous pace, preventing further conversation.
Rowan was surprised at how comfortable she felt with Michael Flynn. If she didn’t think about him as a bodyguard, she could almost get used to the company. As long as she thought of him as merely backup, she could live with the lack of privacy. For now.
She loved running on the beach, the packed, wet sand hard enough for traction but soft enough to cushion each step. It was early and cold, the air salty and thick, the churning water caressing the land, then pulling back, a never-ending cycle of tides in, tides out. The edge of the world, where the vast Pacific met land, humbled any human who appreciated its strength.
Two laps later, she jogged up the steps to her deck. She was about to enter the house when Michael commanded, “Stop.” He brushed past her, unlocked the door, and looked around. When all was clear, he told her to come in.
A reminder of who he was and why he was here.
Rowan and Michael had no opportunity to go to the shooting range that day. She was needed at the studio for a rewrite. Annette had suggested all parties involved meet in Malibu, but Rowan put her foot down, saying, “I need to get out of this house.”
Tess met Michael and Rowan at her closet-sized office in the studio. Rowan looked at them skeptically. “Michael, I thought we agreed I’d be safe here.”
True, they’d spoken with studio security when they’d arrived and Michael was comfortable that the head of security understood the threat. But he wanted his own person there, someone who answered to him. Since John was out of town, Tess was the only option.
“Humor me, okay?”
Rowan rolled her eyes and changed the subject. “I’m going to call the Bureau and see where my old case files are. I thought they’d have been sent over by now. We can pick them up at FBI headquarters on the way back.”
“Fine. Be careful, Rowan.”
“Always.”
He watched Tess follow Rowan out and felt a pang of regret that he was leaving. But he wanted to check in with LAPD and see if they’d traced the flowers. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure the chief knew he was on the case. Might get them better information on the status of the investigation.
Rowan would be safe as long as she stayed within the confines of the studio.
He arrived at the police station just before three that afternoon, but the chief and Detective Jim Barlow were both in a meeting with the Feds. Michael waited, chatted with his former colleagues, and grew antsy as his wait stretched into an hour.
Finally, just as he was thinking of leaving, the chief’s secretary motioned to him. “You can go in now.”
Chief Bunker stood behind his desk, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder.
“Flynn, good to see you. Wish it was under better circumstances.” He slammed the phone down with a frown and shook Michael’s hand. “Barlow just left with the Feds to a crime scene. They tracked down the flowers.”
“And?”
“Shop near the San Fernando Mission. Records show that Christine Jamison sold a funeral wreath on Sunday to be delivered to Ms. Smith on Tuesday. Two uniforms went to her apartment. She’s dead.”
CHAPTER 4
Michael was getting into his SUV when his cell phone chirped. Caller ID told him it was Tess. “What’s up?”
“Mickey!” She sounded breathless.
Adrenaline pumped. Something was wrong. “What happened?”
“Get over here quick. There was an incident on the set.”
“Is Rowan hurt?” His heart pounded.
“No, she thinks it was a prank. She told me not to call you, but-”
“I’ll be right there.” He ended the call, then dialed the chief’s direct line and asked him to send a patrol to the studio, even though he didn’t have all the details.
He made record time to the studio. On the movie set, the uniformed cops were already talking to Annette, who looked like she wanted to strangle them. He spotted Rowan standing at the back of the set. Safe. Tess ran up to him, launching immediately into an explanation.
“We were watching a rehearsal here in Studio B when the actors took a break, and David Cline-he’s the director-started talking with Rowan about changes and then someone screamed. I yelled for Rowan to stay put. I had my gun out, but so did she, and she led the way to the stage.”
Michael’s heart clenched at the image of his kid sister running around with a gun. While he’d trained her, she was still not ready for fieldwork. He should never have assigned her to watch over Rowan today. But in all honesty, he hadn’t thought anything would happen at the studio. Not with all the security measures they already had in place.
“Marcy Blair, one of the actresses, the one who screamed, was standing over a puddle of blood,” Tess continued. “No one was hurt. Rowan stared at it a long time, and I thought she was going to lose it. Then she bent down and touched it. It was fake. No one saw who dumped it. Everyone was on break. Marcy Blair was the first one back.”
Someone touched Michael’s arm and he whirled around, tense from the news and the lack of facts.
It was Rowan. Her pale face was drawn, but determined. “Michael, trust me. There’s no crime here. Send the police away.”
“How do you know?” He mentally hit himself for assuming security was sound. If something had happened to Tess or Rowan… he didn’t want to contemplate the thought. He would not leave them alone again. It was
Rowan brought her face close to his and he swallowed. Something about this woman drew him in, but right now he was too angry and frustrated to dwell on it.
