Chasing Venus

by Diana Dempsey

  She knew it intimately, from every faint stain on the light blue carpet to every barely discernible ripple in the white paint to every chip in the bathroom’s yellow and blue tile. She’d memorized every signature on the Dodgers baseball that balanced on a well-worn glove holding pride of place on top of the bureau. She hadn’t allowed herself to survey the bureau drawers—though she’d been tempted—but she’d discerned a thing or two from investigating his medicine cabinet. There were a couple of barely used extra toothbrushes, which she took as evidence of women past, those who’d been around long enough to stake a small claim but eventually got washed into history. Pharmaceuticals were few and far between but front and center was a half empty box of condoms. She noted, separately, that Reid hadn’t offered her any happen-to-be-around women’s clothes, either because he didn’t have any or because he grasped the indelicacy of offering one woman’s things to another.

  She’d learned by now that the house was in Glendale, which she knew from her LA years to be north of downtown near Pasadena. The housing stock was ranch suburban, not glitzy by any means. Reid said he’d bought it when he was a cop and clearly he hadn’t traded up when his Hollywood ship came in. In the virtual ledger that Annie had begun keeping, that earned him yet another point in the positive column.

  She heard him turn on the TV in the living room and tune it to the baseball game. The prior night he’d put on a jazz CD. Next came the whirr of the desktop computer in the living room booting up. She knew that every night before he went to bed he went on-line to check out the tips that came in to the Crimewatch website. And now she could hear him clattering around the kitchen, opening drawers and shutting them. He returned perusing the neon-pink menu from Banana House Thai Kitchen.

  “I get larb every time.” His eyes roamed the selections. “And chicken satay.”

  “Do you like mussaman curry?”

  “Love it.” He raised his head to regard her. “How about param nuer?”

  “Perfect.” She had no idea what that was.

  “I’ll get you a beer.” Again, out he went.

  He was adamant that he exhibit no change in his habits. That would be dangerous, he told her. It would raise suspicions. He wouldn’t order different dishes than he had in the past, or more food than usual. The prior night, already stir crazy, she’d asked him to pull shut his living-room drapes so she could use that room, too. But no go. The drapes were always open, he said, he’d never once closed them. So that was that.

  He was on the phone in the kitchen now, ordering their takeout. Making small talk with the clerk and arranging for delivery. He’d done that the night before, too, with pizza. She’d stayed out of sight in the bedroom—where else?—sipping her beer and remaining quiet. Remaining calm as well, lulled by the nameless faith to which she’d recently converted that somehow everything would work out. Though she was in the gravest danger of her life, she felt protected and sheltered as she hadn’t for some time. Years, she realized. Years.

  Yet it was a false cocoon and she knew it would shatter before long. A jolt of nervousness coursed through her, propelled her to pace the blue carpet of her universe. Her troubles were only mounting while she hid herself away. For one thing the rental car she’d abandoned in Hollywood was a ticking time bomb. She was damn lucky the cops hadn’t found it yet but they would before long.

  Reid returned with two chilled beer bottles. He screwed the cap off one and handed it to her, then dropped onto the carpet and leaned back against the foot of the bed. His denimed legs, feet now bare, seemed to stretch out forever. He wore a blue dress shirt, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms covered with light brown hair. She watched his strong throat move as he threw back his head and took a long swallow of his beer. The beginnings of a five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw. He was the picture of the working man at the end of his day, getting his reward, his labor done.

  She joined him on the floor and sipped from her own bottle, then forced herself to ask the question she only half wanted answered. “Is the rental car still okay?”

  “I haven’t heard anything.”

  “Are you still convinced we shouldn’t move it?”

  “We can’t risk it. By now it might be under surveillance. Obviously you can’t go near it and I can’t allow any traces of my own DNA to get inside. Nor that of anybody linked to me.”

  She was silent. There was already a huge link between the vehicle and Reid: its proximity to the Crimewatch studios. Once it was found, chances were excellent that Simpson would be all over Reid. Simpson would be certain that Annie and Reid had been in contact since Michael’s murder. If Reid wasn’t under surveillance already, surely then he would be.

  Or … Annie shuddered as the worst-case scenario played out in her imagination. SWAT teams would descend on Reid’s house without warning. She would be inside, alone and helpless. They would break down the door, swarm the interior, guns drawn …

  “Don’t worry,” Reid said. Sometimes it seemed that phrase had become his mantra. “I’ll come up with somewhere else for you to stay. You’ll be safe.”

  I want to stay with you. She knew it was self-serving. She knew it made no sense. She knew he was risking a great deal to keep her in his home. But part of her wanted it just the same. She raised her eyes to his. “Anyone else we involve, we put at risk.”

  “Anyone else we involve will be on our side.” He took another swig of his beer, watching her, then smiled. “Nice trick using the magic marker to change the license plates, by the way. How’d you think of that?”

  He was trying to distract her. She went with it, eager herself to avoid thinking about the future. “I used it in my second book. But then it rained so the marker ran.”

  “At least we don’t have that problem this time of year. By the way, speaking of your books …” He leaned forward and clicked his beer bottle against hers, as if in toast. “Congratulations. Devil’s Cradle is number one on the New York Times bestsellers list.”

  For a moment she couldn’t speak. Then, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m dead serious. We got in a piece of tape today that included a few sound bites from your agent.”

  “Frankie?”

  “I have to say, he sounded pretty damn happy for an agent whose client is wanted for serial murder.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That they can’t keep your books on the shelves. That they’ve all gone back for multiple printings. And that Devil’s Cradle has hit number one.”

  It was like a news flash from another planet, it seemed so unbelievable. And so unrelated to her life. Fat lot of good it was doing her, too, at the moment.

  “How long has Morsie represented you?” Reid asked.

  “From the beginning. Michael asked him to read my first novel. Otherwise I’m sure I never would’ve gotten him.”

  “So Michael made the introduction?”

  “He was Michael’s agent at the time.”

  “At the time? They stopped working together?”

  “About two years ago Michael switched to an agent in New York who’d been courting him forever.”

  “So where’s Morsie? Out here in LA?” Annie nodded and Reid looked away, his expression suddenly thoughtful. “Morsie couldn’t have been happy about losing a client like Michael Ellsworth,” he murmured, then turned back to her. “Was he at Maggie Boswell’s party? Morsie, I mean. I remember seeing him with Michael at her funeral lunch. Big guy, isn’t he?”

  “He used to be a professional wrestler. Called himself ‘The Pitchfork.’ And he was at the party, as a matter of fact.” She chuckled. “Which surprised me. I thought there might be another blowout. Frankie repped Maggie for a long time but then she fired him. Publicly, in a very embarrassing way.” She realized Reid was watching her closely. “What?”

  “Was he at the mystery writers conference here?”

  “The one where Seamus O’Neill was killed?” She paused, remembering that in fac
t Frankie had been there. He hadn’t stayed at the conference hotel, since he lived in town, but he’d attended many of the sessions.

  Reid’s gaze didn’t waver. She shook her head. “You can’t be serious. Frankie?”

  “Remember we talked last night about who profits from these murders? Doesn’t Morsie profit?”

  “Well …” She tried to make her brain cooperate, link one fact to the next. “I suppose he does if I become a bestseller. He’ll earn lots of commissions. But it still doesn’t make any sense. He never could have predicted that my being accused of murder would cause me to become a bestseller.”

  “An accusation like this, in a case as high-profile as this, translates into enormous name recognition. And wouldn’t people be very curious about the suspected serial killer who wrote mystery novels? That could certainly lead to major sales, and in fact it has. Plus it sounds like Morsie had a few scores to settle. With Boswell and with Michael.”

  “So he killed them to get revenge for them firing him? Not even Frankie is that much of a hothead. And what about Seamus O’Neill and Elizabeth Wimble?”

  “Maybe he was angry with them, too, and we just don’t know why.”

  Her mind refused to accept it. “I don’t think it’s plausible.”

  “You don’t like the idea that somebody you’ve been close to could have set you up? Or that you had to become a serial murderer to hit the top of the bestsellers list?”

  She was readying a retort to that pithy observation when the doorbell rang. Reid’s finger rose to his lips. “Sshh. I’ll be right back.” He rose and strode out of the bedroom, pulling his wallet from his jeans pocket as he went.

  Annie forced herself to remain quiet. She heard Reid open the front door.

  “Hey, thanks for getting out here so fast. What do I owe you?”

  Muffled male reply. Clear sound of a car driving down the street.

  Again Reid’s voice. “Here. Keep the change.”

  Something else from the deliveryman.

  This time Reid sounded surprised. “The score? Oh.” A beat passed. “The Dodgers are up. By a run.” He sounded completely sure of himself. Another brief exchange and a few laughs. “You got that right. Thanks again. G’night.” The door closed. Reid returned to the bedroom carrying two large white plastic bags and the scent of night air.

  “Were you multitasking before?” she asked. “Conducting a conversation while listening to the baseball game?”

  “Don’t worry, I was listening to you, lady.” He set down the bags and chucked her under the chin. “I made up the score.”

  “You did?”

  “Sort of. The Dodgers are playing the Giants. So the Dodgers are bound to be up by at least a run.”

  “As if! My home team Giants are world champs, remember?” She lunged in his direction to deliver a playful slap but he evaded her by darting into the hallway, verboten territory. “I have half a mind to throw that signed ball of yours at your pathetic behind.”

  He rolled his eyes in mock fear. “You’d whiff.”

  “I’d nail your ass, Gardner. For your information, I pitched softball in college.”

  She ignored the derogatory remarks that followed and dug into the takeout bags, from which delicious aromas emanated. It was distressing. Part of her wanted to see more flaws in this man, because he was getting an alarming number of checks in the positive column. If he behaved the way he did the prior night, he’d earn more. She knew he’d return with plates and cutlery and they’d picnic on his bedroom floor. She knew that, thanks to him, they’d imitate normal life, as if she weren’t on the lam and he weren’t under severe stress trying to keep her out of the clutches of the criminal justice system. She knew that he’d distract her from the seriousness of her situation by entertaining her with stories and peppering her with questions about her life Before.

  She poked a stick of chicken satay into her mouth. If Reid kept this up, she’d be in danger in more ways than one. She swept an errant hair out of her face and listened to him bang around in the kitchen. If she wasn’t already.

  *

  Late the next morning, Reid found himself riding shotgun in the Crimewatch van and wishing he could dodge the day’s assignment.

  “Honestly, Reid, stop complaining.” Sheila spoke from the rear, where she was squeezed in among the camera equipment that didn’t fit in the trunk. “I know it’s a long drive down to Corona del Mar but we have to do it. Besides we’ll just do the standup and leave.”

  He bit his tongue. He had his window all the way open but no amount of ambient noise could mask the irritation in Sheila’s voice.

  “I don’t like doing standups at funerals, either,” she continued. “I understand that you think it puts too much focus on you instead of on the deceased. But the bottom line is that we need the shot for tonight’s segment. It’s the best way to drive home our point.”

  “Which is?”

  She sighed, as if he were impossibly obtuse. “That Annette Rowell is nowhere to be found at the funeral of her supposed best friend, Michael Ellsworth. Her absence is very dramatic. It heightens the impression of her guilt.”

  “Since when is that our job? Making people look more guilty?” He pivoted to glare at Sheila. “What about innocent until proven guilty?”

  She leaned closer. “What about taking the FBI at their word? The way we always do? They say she’s a murder suspect, she’s a murder suspect. That’s always been good enough for you before.”

  He couldn’t argue with that observation. Reid turned back around. “Simpson admits it’s a weak case,” he threw out, though even as he spoke the words he knew they weren’t entirely true. “Even he’s not completely sold on it.”

  “That was weeks ago. He’s sold now.”

  Trust Sheila to be up-to-date. Bested, Reid turned to the cameraman in the driver’s seat, Buddy Hall, a crusty veteran who was keeping his own counsel. “What do you say, Buddy?” Reid asked. “You think Annette Rowell is guilty?”

  Buddy delivered a sidelong glance that said Geez, thanks for asking. “Oh, I don’t know.” He negotiated a complicated left turn, clearly using the distraction to craft a noncommittal answer that wouldn’t get him in hot water with the show’s host or its producer. Then his face lit up. “The case looks strong but I like to keep an open mind.”

  Reid had to chuckle. Sheila muttered something unintelligible then piped up louder. “Every single piece of evidence points to Annette Rowell. I have no idea why you keep cutting her so much slack, Reid.”

  “I do,” Buddy said, then slammed his jaws shut. As Sheila harrumphed even more grumpily than before, the older man winked at Reid.

  This time Reid forced himself to say nothing. He knew that was the wisest course and the one he should have been pursuing all along. And he should certainly allow Buddy and Sheila and anybody else to believe that if he were uncharacteristically open-minded about this particular suspect’s guilt, it was due to nothing more than her feminine charms, which he, as a red-blooded American male, had been swayed by. It was a cliché but that was just fine. Everyone would believe it.

  Yet it was more than a little frustrating to be forced to go along with Annie’s conviction in the court of public opinion. And Reid wasn’t merely acceding to that judgment: he was advancing it. Since the writer-murder case was too high profile to ignore, and doing so would raise questions Reid didn’t care to answer, that very night Crimewatch would air a segment on the story. As always, it would feature the wanted criminal’s profile and ask viewers to help apprehend the fugitive by calling in tips to the hotline. Reid would have to do all of this with a straight face, pointedly ignoring the gigantic hypocrisy that the suspect was lounging in his very own bedroom, waiting for him to return home.

  He was way past thinking Annie was guilty. He’d moved on to other, more mundane concerns, the kind that arose when a man was suddenly shacked up with a woman he’d found attractive from the get-go, a woman who was in his bed day and night—even though h
e was being such a gentleman he was sleeping on the floor—a woman who was walking around wearing nothing but his shirts and looking sexy as hell in them, who was gazing at him with these big green eyes that said I trust you, I need you, I know you’ll help me. Sometimes he wanted to take advantage of that trust in the basest of ways, and then do it again in a different position, and sometimes when he caught a certain look in her eyes he felt pretty damn sure she’d let him.

  Reid let out a breath and tried to distract himself by gazing out the passenger window and watching Southern California go by in a blur of sunshine and storefronts and palm trees. From the rear of the van, the other woman in his life was as silent as a thundercloud. Sheila’s stalwart adherence to the Guilty As Charged! theory was another serious problem and one he’d have to get her past soon.

  “We’re here,” Buddy announced, and neatly parallel-parked the van in one of the spaces earmarked for the media in front of the Presbyterian church. A somberly-dressed crowd milled about while reporters and photographers jostled for position. It was a grim replica of the scene for Maggie Boswell’s funeral services. All that had changed was the denomination of the church and the identity of the deceased.

  Reid exited the van and helped Buddy unload the gear unto the sidewalk. He had just dislodged a box of videotapes when a flash of longish blond hair on a man across the street half a block away caught his eye.

  The man was also unloading gear, in his case from the back of a painting company’s van. He was skinny. Spindly arms poked out of a worn yellow tee shirt; his ass was flat in his faded jeans. He wore a baseball cap over his straggly hair, the color of wheat. He glanced to the side and Reid saw the flat planes of his face. The weak chin. The day-old beard.

  It’s the bastard who killed Donna. Bigelow.