Prologue

He studied her from afar. Objectively, as a scientist might contemplate an interesting germ. Even at this distance, she was a beautiful woman.

Long blonde hair pulled tightly back in a braid; aristocratic profile; small, sharp point for her nose. Her facial bones might be considered regal, though he thought them too angular. Her athletic body lean, quietly muscular. No one feature was soft.

Except her eyes.

They were covered behind dark John Lennon glasses, but he remembered they were the color of the sea, the blue-gray hue of the Atlantic Ocean on a clear day. Yes, her eyes were soft because they showed emotion, so she kept them hidden behind those hideous glasses. She wanted to be as hard as she appeared, but inside she was soft. Weak. Female.

He'd see those eyes again one last time in the moments before he killed her. They would fill with fear; she would know the truth. Heart pounding hard in his chest, he now heard the blood rush to his head. Yes, when she knew the truth, he would be set free. He smiled.

She thought he couldn't touch her. Did she even think about him anymore? He didn't know. But before the game played out, she would be thinking of him, fearing him, feeling his vengeance.

Killing her wasn't the beginning, and it certainly wouldn't be the end. Many others deserved to die.

But her death would be the most satisfying.

Watching her, he noticed her hesitate as she opened the door of her black Mercedes coupe and look around. His heart skipped a beat in excitement. Did she feel him? She couldn't see him, and even if she did, would she remember? His was an average face, the face of anybody. She knew madness, but he wasn't mad. She knew terror, but he wasn't terrifying. Not now. He skillfully concealed his excitement, his anger, his rage.

It was so much fun playing with her! A final look around; she stared right at him but couldn't see him. She must have sensed something, though, because she quickly slid into her sporty car and started the ignition. Heart pounding, fists clenched, he envisioned seizing that long, slender neck and snapping it in two.

No, I won't break her neck. Too easy, too fast.

Instead, I'll squeeze it slowly. Put pressure on her windpipe. Watch as she turns blue. Then release it, give her a breath or two. Make her think she's got a chance. That there's hope.

Then tighten up again.

He would watch her eyes fill with recognition, fear, and faint hope with each breath he allowed. And finally, the awareness: no hope. Only death. And when those pale eyes looked into his own, she would know it was all her fault.

She should have died years ago.

He stared down the road long after her car disappeared from sight. Carefully, he put the binoculars back in their case.

She wasn't going anywhere; there was plenty of time to kill her. Walking down to his car, he glanced once again at her house before heading to the airport. There was much to do in the next twenty-four hours, but he'd be back in time to see her face when she was told what had been done.

Time to begin.

Chapter One

Rowan Smith learned about Doreen Rodriguez's murder from the reporters camped out in her front yard Monday morning.

A car door slammed and she awoke with a start. Instinctively, she reached for the gun that was no longer under her pillow, searching the cool cotton sheet before remembering it was in her nightstand. Hesitating briefly, she retrieved the cold Glock. She couldn't think of a good reason for needing her gun, but it felt right in her hand.

She'd slept in sweatpants and a T-shirt, an old habit of being ready for anything, and padded down the stairs in bare feet to look out her den window and see who was visiting so early in the morning. The grating sound of a sliding van door slamming shut told her she had more than one visitor. She used her index finger to bend open the blinds a mere inch to peer out.

She could tell from their rumpled attire and notepads they were print reporters. Television hounds were far more concerned with appearance. Three vans and two cars crammed the driveway of her leased beachfront home. She despised reporters. She'd had more than enough of them while working for the Bureau.

The doorbell echoed, startling her. Though she could see the driveway from her den, she couldn't see the door. Presumably one of the bolder reporters had summoned the courage to ring the bell.

What did they want? She'd just given an interview about the premiere of Crime of Passion two days ago; surely they didn't need a group session.

She started for the door, then remembered she was holding her gun. She imagined the headline: Paranoid Former Agent Armed for Interview. She slid the gun into the top drawer of her desk and briskly walked to the front door, barely registering the coolness of the tile under her bare feet.

Her phone rang at the same time the doorbell repeated its obnoxious ding-dong. Great. Reporters coming at her from every direction. She'd dealt with them before; she'd have to again. It was only as she opened the door that she feared something bad had happened and that maybe she shouldn't talk to them.

Too late.

"Do you have a comment on the murder of Doreen Rodriguez?"

"I don't know Doreen Rodriguez," she said automatically, even as alarm bells went off in the back of her head. The name was familiar, but she couldn't place it. A sick feeling ate at her gut as she tried to connect the dots. As she was shutting the door, another question rang clear:

"You don't know that a twenty-year-old woman named Doreen Rodriguez was killed in Denver Saturday night in the same manner as the character Doreen Rodriguez was murdered in your book Crime of Opportunity?"

Rowan slammed the door shut. She didn't fear reporters walking in uninvited; she'd have them arrested for trespassing without a qualm. She simply wanted the resounding finality of her "no comment" to ring loud and clear.

The phone finally stopped ringing. Then, thirty seconds later, the incessant ring-ring started again. She ran back to her den and glanced at the caller ID: Annette. Her producer.

Picking up the receiver she said, "What in the hell is going on?" She heard yet another car screech to a halt in her driveway.

"You've heard."

"I have a bunch of reporters on my doorstep, more arriving as we speak." She peered out the blinds again. Television van. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Something was very wrong.

"I got the details from a reporter in Denver," Annette said rapidly, emphasizing some of her words. "A twenty-year-old waitress named Doreen Rodriguez was killed Saturday night. They found her body yesterday in a Dumpster outside of, and I quote, 'a small Italian café off South Broadway that could have been called quaint if not for the blood drying on the white brick façade.'"

Rowan listened to the words she'd penned years ago. Rubbing her temple, she craved a cigarette for the first time since she'd quit the FBI four years ago. "This is some kind of sick joke."

"I'm so sorry, Rowan."

"Dear God, I don't believe this is happening." She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to absorb what Annette had told her. Her breath caught, and she placed a hand over her mouth. It had to be a coincidence. Some idiot reporter taking a violent crime and trying to sensationalize it by comparing it to one of her novels.

The image of Doreen Rodriguez's bloody, dismembered body flashed in her mind. She opened her eyes immediately, her vision of the murder far too real because she had created it. It couldn't have been a similar crime. Just the name was the same.

"Rowan, she was killed with a machete against the restaurant wall, her body thrown in a Dumpster!" Annette's voice took on a feverish pitch. "She worked in Denver and was born in Albuquerque. Some crazy person copied the crime exactly as you wrote it."

Rowan pressed fingers deeper into her right temple. Someone had copied her fictional crime? It couldn't be possible. How had the killer found someone so exactly like her fictional character?

More importantly, why?

She sunk to the floor next to her desk and buried her face in her arms, holding the phone with her shoulder. She took another deep breath and held it. She had to get hold of herself; then she'd get to the bottom of this.

There had to be a mistake.

"Are you okay?" Annette 's voice was full of concern.

"What do you think?" Her voice came out a raspy whisper.

"I'm worried about your safety, Rowan."

"I can take care of myself."

"I'll come right over."

She almost grinned at the thought. Petite fifty-something Hollywood producer Annette O'Dell rushing over to protect her star screenwriter from a pack of vicious reporters. Rowan shook her head. "No, after my run I have to go to the studio and talk to the director about reworking a scene."

"The reporters will follow you. They're probably staked out there now."

"Damn the reporters! I have no comment. Period. Nothing, nada, zero. I don't want you saying word one about this to anyone. I am going to the studio and going to do my job. I'm not a cop; let them take care of this." She didn't want to play cop anymore. She didn't want any more blood on her hands.

But there it was. She wiped her hands on her sweats until Lady Macbeth came to mind, madly scrubbing her hands of blood that wasn't there.

Doreen Rodriguez. Rowan didn't kill the poor woman, but she had somehow caused her death just the same.

"Rowan, let me hire a security--"

Rowan cut Annette off with a click as she replaced the receiver in its cradle.

She took a minute to gather herself before getting up from the floor. Outside, another car drove up, more vultures ready to pounce. It made great copy, she thought wryly. Real-life murder mystery: The Fiction Copycat. The Copycat Killer. The press seemed to actually like murders. Especially high-profile, gruesome crimes. Nothing exciting in a typical domestic dispute, a hit-and-run, or a routine gang drive-by. But being sliced and diced by a machete against the side of a quaint Italian café . . .

She shook her head. Was she any better? She wrote violent murder mysteries. Even if her corpses were fictionalized, didn't she do the same thing as the reporters? Capitalizing on people's interest in gruesome crime? The human fascination with death went back thousands of years. Violent Greek and Roman myths had relieved people's fear of the unknown. Similar gruesome entertainments could be found in every generation since.

Doreen Rodriguez. Could the murder possibly have been the same as Rowan had written it? Her heart beat double-time as she imagined the pain and horror that poor young woman had suffered.

It would do her no good to dwell on the victim now. Rowan mentally summoned more than ten years of training to distance herself. When it got personal, that's when mistakes happened.

Ignoring both the door and phone, on her laptop she logged onto the local Denver newspaper website. She hoped against hope there was a mistake, some misunderstanding. But the press was on top of the story. Bad news travels fast, evidence of which was parked in her driveway.

Everything Annette had told her was there on the screen. Rowan wondered what details had, in fact, been withheld. She wondered how long it would take for the police to come and interview her. With the press already showing an interest in the coincidence, the police wouldn't be far behind. She'd get more details from them once they tracked her down.

No. No, she couldn't get involved. She had a meeting at the studio in two hours. She had made a new life for herself, a quiet life. Damn if she was going to let a murdering lunatic control her future. Again.

She started for her bedroom to dress for her run when a familiar pounding on the front door interrupted her. Cops.

That was fast.

"Ms. Smith!" a mumbled voice called. "Ms. Smith, this is the police. We need to talk."

She turned toward the door. It had started.

They sat at the dining room table, in front of the picture window that framed the blue-green Pacific Ocean. From here, twenty feet above the beach and a good hundred feet inland, one could still see the individual waves and whitecaps, tossed up by a light wind. The tide was out, the beach empty of people.

Rowan placed two mugs of hot black coffee in front of the detectives, then opened the window. The tangy, salty sea air relaxed her as she breathed in deeply. She needed to be calm and alert, but above all else, she needed to maintain control.

She sat across from the cops, holding her own coffee mug with both hands.

Ben Jackson was a short, thin man with skin the same color as the rich coffee in his mug. His poker face couldn't disguise intelligent eyes. His rigid posture and the hint of muscles under his impeccable coat told Rowan he was fit and took his job seriously. He had flown out from Denver this morning just to talk to her.

The Denver P.D. wouldn't waste scarce budget dollars. Obviously, they believed the Rodriguez murder was connected to her book.

Jim Barlow was from L.A.P.D. He was older, his skin ghostly compared to Jackson's. He looked like the stereotypical, slightly overweight cop in wrinkled slacks and too-tight blazer with worn leather patches on the elbows. His pale blue eyes seemed to take in everything, while his hands fidgeted, as if he were holding a cigarette. An ex-smoker. Rowan sympathized.

She liked them both. Her instincts told her she could trust them.

Jackson began. "You've heard about the murder of Doreen Rodriguez." He motioned loosely toward the front of the house where the reporters were dissipating. The newly arrived cops' threat of arrest for trespassing had held some weight, she thought with a slight smile.

Rowan nodded. "I read the article from the Denver paper online."

"You were with the FBI."

"Seven years."

"Probably made a lot of enemies. I know I have."

"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 and gather her thoughts.

He nodded. "Crime of Opportunity. In case we were too stupid to figure it out, he highlighted the passages describing the murder of the fictional Ms. Rodriguez." His deep voice was steeped in anger, the kind cops tried hard to keep in check.

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 gruesome. 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 Rodriquez 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 on 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."

"You have four published books?" Jackson asked.

She nodded. "My fifth will be released in a few weeks."

"And this is your second film?"

"Third. The second is being released in two weeks. This one won't be out until the end of next year."

"You've done pretty well since leaving the Bureau."

"Your point?" Rowan asked, irritated. She wanted to help, but these questions were irrelevant. She wanted to take her morning run, then a hot shower. Most of all, she needed time alone to think.

"We're trying to fit together all the details." But the detectives exchanged a look that meant they were through. Rowan's sigh of relief was almost audible.

She walked them to the door. Detective Jackson turned to her. "You should consider taking extra security measures. Do you have an alarm system?"

"Yes, detective, and I use it."

He nodded approval and extended his hand. Rowan shook it, feeling warmth and strength. "Call me Ben. We're on the same team here. Either Jim or I will call you later and fill you in. I'm heading back to Denver this afternoon. In the meantime, be careful."

"Thanks, I will." She closed the door behind them, turned around, and leaned against the solid oak surface. Slowly, she sank once again to the cold tile floor, her head in her hands.

One brutal murder a thousand miles away had destroyed in minutes the years of relative peace she'd painstakingly built. The realization of her complicity in the crime grew within her. She clenched her uneasy stomach. How could she live with herself if her imagination had manifested itself into evil? While someone else had stolen a life, the manner of evil was her idea, her conception. Her casual decision to name the first victim in Crime of Opportunity Doreen Rodriguez had resulted in the death of the real Doreen Rodriguez from Albuquerque. It was perverse and cruel.

Rowan had learned again that death was inequitable and brutal. It cut a path of misery in the hearts of everyone it touched. And death wasn't blind. It saw the pain, the heartache, and grew stronger.

It had started when she was ten, and it seemed it would never end.

-- The Prey, Copyright © 2006 Allison Brennan