Chasing Venus

by Diana Dempsey

  “It may not look like it but I’m actually feeling better.”

  “Well, that’s good. Why is that?”

  Annie hesitated, then, “It’s sort of a stupid reason but after I got home from your house last night I saw this TV program that did a story on the murders.”

  Annie told herself that her desire to see Crimewatch was motivated entirely by interest in the case. She chose not to analyze why she’d paused more than once on shots of the host. “Anyway, it reminded me that cases do have to be built on solid evidence.”

  Her mother looked skeptical.

  “They do, mom, regardless how corrupt you think the system is. The cops can’t pursue a person for long on an entirely circumstantial case.”

  “They do sometimes, though,” her mother insisted. “And I bet they’re under a lot of pressure. That’s what worries me. They’re trying to come up with a scapegoat and they don’t care who it is.”

  “They have to have evidence that’ll stand up in court.” She raised her voice over her mother’s protest. “The main reason they’re focused on me is that I happened to be in the right place at the right time for all three murders. But that’s not much to go on. Besides, in the story I saw on TV, I wasn’t mentioned once.”

  Her mother harrumphed. “Well, they shouldn’t mention you. Unless it’s in the context of an innocent bystander.”

  “Maybe the cops have moved on to someone else by now.” Annie shoved the last of her papers into her carryall. “I just wish they’d find the damn person who’s doing this. It’s so nerve-wracking. And as bad as it is for me, it’s twice as bad for Michael. I spoke with him this morning. He told me he’s got a bad feeling. He’s petrified.”

  Her mother made commiserating noises as they exited the bookstore. Once outside, Annie turned on her cell to check for messages. She froze midway across the parking lot, her hand clutching the tiny phone to her ear.

  “Ms. Rowell, this is Lionel Simpson with the FBI. Something new has come up and we’d like to talk to you about it. As soon as possible, and at your residence. We’d like your consent for a search.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Annie didn’t immediately return Lionel Simpson’s call. Nor did she race home. She took her sweet time and she called Michael from the road. “It may be a blessing in disguise,” she told him.

  “Because they won’t find anything, you mean.”

  “There’s nothing to find. And it may get them off my back.”

  Michael was silent. Annie could picture him on the phone, his wheelchair rolled into the sunny kitchen of his stylish Corona del Mar home. The property was a block or two from the ocean, south of LA in Orange County, and as beautiful a beach house as she’d ever seen. “It’s very odd they’re on your back in the first place,” he said finally. “They’ve got so little to go on.”

  Simpson’s words echoed in her mind. Something new has come up. What could the FBI possibly think it had now? There was nothing in her house that was remotely incriminating. There was nothing in her house they could even trump up into so-called evidence.

  “He specifically said he wanted my consent for a search,” she reminded Michael. “Meaning they don’t have a warrant.”

  “They couldn’t get a judge to give them one. They don’t have probable cause.”

  She had to chuckle, grim as the situation was. Sometimes it seemed mystery writers were as well-versed on the law as attorneys.

  She sped along 101, the northbound lanes fairly empty. Southbound was another matter. People were flocking into the city to play on Saturday night. Dinner, movies, maybe a baseball game, or the theater. It seemed like another world to her and not just because the present state of her bank account rarely allowed her to indulge. Because she couldn’t relax. She could sit in a cinema but the likelihood she’d lose herself in a film was slim to none.

  “So distract me, Michael.” She tried to laugh but even to her own ears her attempt sounded feeble. “How’re you doing?”

  He hesitated. Then, “I’m all right. I’ve got dinner plans later. The Bentowicz’s.”

  She recognized the name. They were neighbors. The Bentowicz and Ellsworth children had grown up together then dispersed around the state, though she knew that Michael’s two girls—both married with children—visited their father often. “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

  “They’re wonderful people. We’ve known them forever.”

  We’ve known them forever. The slip reminded Annie of Renee Ellsworth, who’d died a year and a half before. Cancer, that savage beast, had taken her. Even Annie, when she was in Michael’s home, saw Renee around every corner, heard the tinkle of her laughter in the wind chimes dancing on the Pacific breeze. Maybe, Annie thought, after so many years, if the marriage had been happy, people wanted the reminders. Maybe they comforted more than they hurt.

  Poor Michael. He’d had so much to deal with the last few years. Losing Renee. Suffering a resurgence in his childhood polio and being forced into a wheelchair. And now a homicidal maniac targeting bestselling authors.

  It put her own problems in perspective. Almost.

  “It’s just,” Michael went on, “when I’m with a couple like the Bentowicz’s, it’s hard not to feel like a third wheel. Or, in my case, like a third and fourth wheel.”

  Annie had to laugh. Michael, as usual, had made her feel better. Already she saw her exit ahead. “I’ll call you tomorrow to tell you how this so-called search went.”

  “Be careful,” Michael urged, and Annie ended the call with a surge of frustration. What a waste it was for the FBI to focus on her. Michael was petrified and she wasn’t feeling any too secure herself. And meanwhile who knew what evil the real killer was plotting?

  It was another 45 minutes of driving along two-lane rural highways before she got home. Only then did she call Simpson back. He declared he’d rather talk in person and showed up in minutes, with his posse of Higuchi, Helms, and Pincus in tow. She pulled open the door. “I hope this doesn’t become a habit.”

  All four men filed into her foyer. It was as if they’d never left. Simpson turned to face her. “Believe me, Ms. Rowell, that’s not our intention.”

  They assumed what she was starting to think of as their usual positions in the living room. Though she’d love a cup of coffee, she refused to mention caffeine. Now that they were actually in her home, she found herself even more irritated, and toyed with the idea of refusing to consent to a search. But would she be cutting off her nose to spite her face? Because if they searched they’d find nothing. They’d have to leave. And she’d be up a point. They’d be reluctant to bother her again.

  She crossed her arms, taking care to modulate her tone. Pissing the feds off wouldn’t further her cause, either. “You gentlemen took up a great deal of my time the other day. I do not want that to happen again.”

  Simpson’s expression remained unchanged. “We’re not interested in wasting your time or ours, Ms. Rowell. We’re here today because we would like you to consent to a partial search of your property.”

  “What part?”

  “The backyard.”

  That was the last thing she expected to hear. What passed for a backyard at “the old Marsden place” was a sad half-acre of hard uneven terrain that rolled away from a cockeyed stoop at the rear of the house. In days of yore, some hardy soul had taken a stab at clearing out the rocks and weeds, but they’d given up a few yards into the job. The area was bordered by a motley assortment of shrubs and gnarled trees, some of which looked so dry she worried they were a fire hazard. The whole thing was so unsightly that in the year she’d been renting the house she never used the backyard. She barely remembered that she had it.

  “What do you think you’re going to find in my backyard?”

  Higuchi spoke. “We can’t answer that question.”

  Simpson took over. “Ms. Rowell, it would aid our investigation to search your backyard. I don’t believe it will take an inordinate amount of time. In fact, yo
u can go about your business here in the house while we’re at it.”

  She stared out the window to give herself time to think. They’d thrown her a curve ball with this one. She’d expected them to want to search the house, maybe go through her computer files. But the backyard? In a way this made giving her consent even easier.

  Again she faced Simpson. “We agree that it would be just the backyard. Not the front, not the interior of the house, just the backyard. That’s it.”

  Simpson was about to respond when the doorbell rang.

  *

  “May I come in?” Reid asked.

  He could tell she wasn’t happy to see him. Once she got over her initial shock, her green eyes flashed and her chin rose. She looked like an irritated sprite.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “I know that Lionel Simpson wants to search your property.” He’d gone into the studio early that morning and seen the tipsheet. More to the point, he’d spoken to Sheila and found out that she’d alerted Simpson to it. She wasn’t always so proactive but he could guess why she had been this time.

  “News sure travels fast. But what does this have to do with you?” She stepped onto her porch to look up and down the street. “Did you bring a camera crew so you could film this? I won’t give you permission to do that.”

  “I didn’t bring a crew.” In fact, he’d come on his lonesome. All the way from LA and on a Saturday. The reasons why were complex, and not entirely business.

  Simpson appeared behind her. He didn’t look any too pleased to see the new arrival, either. “Hello, Reid,” he muttered.

  “Lionel. Have you started yet?”

  “No. She was about to give her consent when you showed up.”

  “Please don’t talk about me as if I’m not here.” She glared at each of them in turn. “I am very much here and I’m beginning to think twice about this entire thing.”

  “You should,” Reid said.

  Her head snapped in his direction. Simpson edged closer to the open door. “Gardner …” he growled.

  Reid raised his hands, all innocence. “I just want to make sure she understands her Fourth Amendment rights.”

  Simpson pointed in Reid’s direction. “We are not attempting to take advantage of this woman and you should know better than to suggest that we are.”

  “You’re talking about me again,” she said, “and I understand my rights without your help, thank you.” She shot a look at Reid. “I know all about warrantless searches and I know that I don’t have to consent to one.”

  Simpson raised his brow as if to say, See? I told you so.

  “That’s good,” Reid said. “That puts you ahead of most people.” He sensed a softening in her demeanor and took it as an opening. He motioned toward her still open door. “Then may I join you?”

  “I don’t see that as necessary,” Simpson put in, but Annette Rowell ignored him and kept her gaze steadily on Reid. She’s nobody’s fool, he thought. After Donna’s murder, he’d found himself often feeling a surge of protectiveness where women were concerned. But, he reminded himself now, some needed it more than others.

  “If you use this incident on your show,” she said, “and thereby impugn my reputation in any way, I will sue you for slander.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But nothing that happens here today will appear on my program. As I said before, I didn’t bring a crew with me.”

  She considered that for a second, then relented. Simpson, too savvy to fight over a point he’d lost, just shook his head. Reid nodded at Higuchi and the two uniformed sheriff’s deputies in the living room, both of whom sported the excited REID GARDNER! CRIMEWATCH HOST! expression.

  Simpson did get in an aside. He edged close to Reid and kept his voice low. “Interesting you came all the way up here without a crew, Gardner. Safe to say you’re taking a personal interest in this case?”

  “I take a personal interest in all the cases that appear on my show.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  Reid knew Simpson wasn’t taken in for a second. He hadn’t achieved his rank within the FBI by lacking insight into human behavior. In addition, he was a man, with a good set of eyes.

  “Don’t get in my way on this,” Simpson added.

  “I don’t intend to.” Simpson was only doing his job. Reid understood that. The agent had gotten a tip concerning a woman he already had reason to be suspicious of and he’d be derelict in his duty if he didn’t follow up. The person who really ticked Reid off was Sheila. Sure, she claimed she was only “doing what was right.” But when was the last time she’d picked up the phone to hand-deliver an anonymous tip to the feds? She’d circumvented the normal process for reasons that had nothing to do with the moral high ground.

  Simpson moved away. Reid made himself at home on a slightly tattered wing chair and took a look around.

  If Annette Rowell was raking in the bucks, it wasn’t evident. The house had seen better days and so had the furniture. But there were feminine touches which prettied the place and gave it character. White draperies at the window. An elegant piece of yellow glassware lit golden by a ray of sunlight. Tulips artfully arranged in a porcelain bowl.

  Should he be reluctant to follow up on his attraction to her? he wondered. He saw no reason to be. He was single, she was single—as far as he knew—and if she felt anything toward him, too, they might have a good time together. He was in no position to promise more but he was no monk, either.

  No part of him believed she was a murderer. True, he couldn’t explain the tip that had come in to the hotline. But he’d met killers. He'd seen the shark-like coldness in their eyes; he’d heard the twisted logic of their confessions. Annette Rowell might have her prickly moments, but she was no killer.

  Higuchi spoke. “So where are we here? We’re going to lose the light before long. Ms. Rowell? What do you want to do?”

  She set her hands on her hips. “First of all, I want to confirm that the search will be limited to the backyard.”

  Simpson nodded. “Agreed.”

  “And one more thing. I can tell you right now you’re not going to find anything out there. And when you don’t, I want you to stop bothering me. If you make one more visit to this house after today, I’ll consider it harassment. And believe me, I’ll take the appropriate steps.”

  Reid kept his expression neutral. It was safe to say this woman could stand up for herself. It was funny. She was so different from Donna yet she intrigued him in so many ways. Where Donna had been all gentleness and serenity, Annie was fiery and determined. She was physically different, too: petite and brunette where Donna had been tall, blond and willowy.

  It occurred to him that he should stop reflexively comparing all attractive women to Donna. Yet even that felt like a betrayal.

  “All right,” she said. “You have my permission. Backyard only.”

  Simpson nodded. “We’ll access it from the street.”

  “Fine.”

  Simpson and his team filed out the front door. The house fell silent. Reid watched Annette Rowell walk to her front window to monitor their progress, the afternoon’s fading sunlight casting a golden glow on her face. After a minute she spoke.

  “They brought K-9 units.” She didn’t turn around.

  He joined her at the window. “Those are usually used to search for narcotics.” Or bodies. Is that what Simpson thinks she has out there?

  She said nothing. A frown furrowed her brow. He stared at her profile, making no attempt to hide his perusal. She had lovely clear skin, pale in contrast to her dark hair, with a hint of freckles over the bridge of her nose. A line or two fanned out from those emerald-green eyes, rimmed by unusually long black lashes. There were faint laugh lines around her mouth as well. Meaning she’d laughed enough in her life to get them. He tried to imagine the sound. Something told him he wouldn’t hear it that day.

  Finally he turned his attention out the window as well. Two German Shepherds trailed their handlers throug
h a narrow alley on the house’s north side. “You’re sure you want to do this?” he asked her.

  “It’s too late to stop it now.” Then she shook her head. “Besides, it’s fine. They won’t find anything. There’s nothing to find. Then they’ll leave me alone.”

  Her tone bothered him. It sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. Nor was he too keen on her logic. Even if Simpson and friends didn’t turn up a damn thing in her backyard, that didn’t mean they’d stop considering her a suspect.

  But she’d made her decision in full understanding of her rights. She was a big girl and that was her prerogative. He’d keep his reservations to himself. He was glad he did when she turned to face him. There was no mistaking the concern on her face. For the first time he saw vulnerability there. And just like that, the rush of protective feeling came back. Maybe it was as natural to him as breathing. He had to stop himself from reaching out to touch her. Before he could gather himself to say something reassuring, she spoke again.

  “I hope I didn’t make a mistake.”

  *

  Had she? She didn’t know anymore. She returned her gaze to the street, even though there was nothing there now to see. Simpson and crew were all in the backyard raising a ruckus. And—it made no sense—but she had the craziest idea that she and Reid Gardner were on one side and Simpson’s people were on the other.

  With Reid Gardner so close, she was hyperaware of him physically. He was tall and broad across the shoulders. Muscular, without much fat on him. He was wearing jeans again and a very faded LA Lakers tee shirt. His features were more rugged than straight—especially his nose, which looked like it had been broken at least once—but somehow they went together well. His slightly curly blond hair was cropped short, and his eyes were—well, they were killer. Blue, really blue. He smelled good, too, like soap and clean cotton and sunny afternoons. Altogether an impressive hunk of male, and more wholesome and reassuring than she’d given him credit for the other day.

  “Why are you worried you made a mistake, Annette?” he asked.