Tomorrow he’d take care of his finances, then finalize his plans for the whore.
How much did they know? Obviously enough to keep Rowan under lock and key.
There were several Feds watching Rowan. A pair outside her house in a so-called nondescript sedan, and they rotated every twelve hours. That agent she was friendly with. And the bodyguard’s brother. He was a little worrisome. Elusive, harder than the bodyguard he killed. More like a seasoned Fed, an undercover cop.
He wouldn’t underestimate the brother. No, that might be a mistake. But he had time. One whore in the Midwest, and then Rowan was his.
He smiled as he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER 15
It was after hours when John went to the morgue.
He’d asked his aunt to stay with Tess, then spoke to the chief of police, Michael’s old boss, to arrange the viewing.
John barely registered the cold temperature of the basement as the assistant coroner led him down the hall and into one of the many body storage rooms. He unlocked drawer B-4, second row from the bottom, but didn’t open it.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” the assistant said, then crossed the room to give John privacy.
John stared at the drawer.
Michael. Michael was in drawer B-4.
John reached down, clasped the handle tightly, and closed his eyes.
They hadn’t always had an easy relationship, even in childhood. They weren’t much more than a year apart in age, rivals in both sports and women. But they’d always been friends, even when they sparred. John went Army, Delta Force, and Mickey became a cop. Both had their father’s strong sense of justice; both had their mother’s compassion for victims. When their dad died of a heart attack at the age of fifty, they’d bonded to take care of their mother and sister. And when their mom died the following year, they remained close. Started their business. Watched out for Tess.
Sure, they’d had disagreements. Jessica was a major one. John had never trusted her, but Michael was convinced she’d change. A few other big fights, here and there. But when they fought, they always made up. Like partners in a good marriage, they didn’t go to bed angry.
Until last night.
A hollow sob escaped his throat and John squatted next to the box. The last time he’d spoken to Michael was in anger. He’d outmaneuvered him, and Michael knew it. John always won because he played the game better. He knew which buttons to push and he pressed them just right to get the reaction he wanted.
And when Agent Peterson saw Michael lose his temper, he’d agreed that Michael needed a night off. Perfect timing. Timing John had set up. Now Michael was dead. And he couldn’t tell his brother he’d been wrong.
John slid open the drawer, cold air rushing out to slap him in the face. The familiar chemical smell mixed with death assaulted his senses. He’d seen plenty of dead bodies before. In the morgue, in the battlefield, in the jungles.
But none had been his brother’s.
The three dark holes in Michael’s chest stood out against the blue-white pallor of his bloodless skin. His body seemed smaller as it lay there on the steel tray. Michael’s dark hair was damp from the icy cold. It was too long, but he’d never liked the short military cuts John preferred. Michael, who’d been so full of life and laughter, always liking a good joke, now lifeless.
John didn’t realize he was crying until a tear fell onto Michael’s neck. He put his hand over his eyes, squeezing them shut, holding back the hot sting of emotion. His breath came deep, in hitches. His heart beat painfully in his chest.
“Michael, I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I will find your killer. I will have your vengeance. I promise. I won’t let you down again.”
John watched her sleep.
She was curled into the reading chair in her den. By all appearances, Rowan hadn’t left the room since yesterday. She looked vulnerable. Her long hair hung over her face and she rested her head on her arms, which were folded on the armrest. Her feet were tucked under her. Not at all comfortable. Even in the dim light coming from the hall, she seemed too pale. He wondered if she’d eaten, then asked himself if he cared.
He couldn’t care. Not now.
John glanced at his watch. Five-thirty. He hadn’t slept more than an hour, and at four had given up on sleep completely. He couldn’t get the vision of Michael lying cold and dead out of his mind. Yet somehow, he felt calmer. He had a purpose, a goal: revenge.
He’d relieved Peterson minutes ago and brewed a pot of coffee. Collins had called and told him Peter O’Brien, Rowan’s brother in Boston, couldn’t have committed any of the murders. He had a pretty good alibi-daily Mass. John had sensed that O’Brien wasn’t involved, especially after hearing he was being watched by the Feds, but he had still insisted that the assistant director look into him and anyone he could think of who might have a motive for going after Rowan in such a sick and sadistic manner.
Collins was checking into the records of the MacIntosh murders and would be faxing over all newspaper articles, photos, everything that might be of use, to the FBI headquarters.
John wished there were another way, but hours of tossing and turning, pacing and sitting, left him with the only possible conclusion: Someone Rowan knew well had killed Michael, and that someone had been in Rowan’s life twenty-three years ago.
Rowan needed to look at the reports and hope something popped so they could get this bastard. Peterson had agreed to bring in Adam Williams to look at photos as well. John was too distraught to feel guilty, though a pang of remorse hit him. The poor kid wasn’t going to be comfortable at headquarters looking at crime scene photos, but John could think of no other way. Adam was the only one who’d for sure seen the killer. He was their best hope of identifying him.
John cleared his throat quietly, not wanting to startle Rowan, but she jumped up, gun in hand. He hadn’t noticed she was sleeping with it.
“John.” Her voice was thick and groggy. She slowly sank back down into the chair to steady herself.
“I made coffee.”
She nodded. “Thanks.” She coughed to clear her throat. “Where’s Quinn?”
“I relieved him.”
Her eyebrow went up as she stared at him. “I-I thought-”
“I’m on the case until we catch my brother’s killer.” His voice sounded harsh, but his emotions were raw and close to the surface.
“I-uh, I guess a run is out.”
“You want to run, we run.” He stared at her, careful to keep his face blank.
“I need a minute,” she finally said.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” As soon as he closed the den door, he breathed regular again. He hadn’t realized he’d been so tense talking to Rowan. He hated seeing her so scared, defeated, hollow-eyed. But he couldn’t think about her, couldn’t care about her, and sure as hell couldn’t worry about her.
He would protect her life. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Because if it weren’t for her and his damn hormones and his stupid fight with Michael, his brother would still be alive. He’d accused Michael of letting his emotions cloud his judgment, but he had done exactly the same thing. Not only did he think
Rowan watched John leave and stifled a cry. She brought her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to trap the sound. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day, but she needed to get a grip on herself.
