Time telescoped into the moment. Reid didn’t think; he ran. He was across the street’s four lanes in a flash. His vision tunneled toward the unsuspecting mass of bone and muscle that was his object. Bigelow was bent over, feeling for something in the open rear of his vehicle. Easy, easy prey. Only a few yards now. Only a yard. Reid grabbed him on the shoulder, wrenched him out of the van and spun him around.
“Shit!” The man hissed at him. “What’s up with you, man?”
Not Bigelow.
“What’s your frigging problem?”
Not Bigelow.
The man’s face was twisted, mean. Reid raised both hands, palms out, in a gesture of apology. “Hey, I’m sorry. I thought you were somebody else. I’m sorry.”
“Get a fucking clue, man. Jesus.”
“I’m sorry.” Reid backed away, turned around and began walking the way he had come. From their small knots on the pavement in front of the church, people gaped at him, clearly mesmerized by the spectacle. A few raised their brows, murmured to one another. He slowed to let a car or two pass, catch his breath. All the while Sheila and Buddy stood behind the Crimewatch van watching him approach, the camera equipment around their feet.
Buddy clapped him on the shoulder, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay, Reid?”
“I’m fine.” Reid nodded, met Sheila’s eyes. She said nothing, her silence more potent than any rebuke.
She wasn’t mute for the rest of the morning, though. She merely waited until the next awkward juncture, when the standup was in the can and Buddy was reloading the van for departure. Then she sidled close to Reid and gazed up into his face, her brown eyes clear and appraising. “That guy didn’t look that much like Bigelow. There’s something wrong with you, Reid. And it worries me.”
*
Annie was asleep when Reid came home from work. She woke to the sound of his keys and coins clattering onto the bureau and sat up in bed. His bed, which these days served as her own. She levered herself up on one elbow and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
He didn’t turn on the light. “About two. Sorry I’m so late.”
“That’s okay. You told me you would be.”
He said nothing, just stood there beside the bureau. She frowned. She could barely see him in the dark but sensed something different about him. “How was your day? How was the show? Did you get a lot of calls to the hotline?”
“Yeah, that’s why I stayed so late.”
“Were any of them people who said they’d seen me?”
“Some, but none were legit. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Not worrying was not an option. “You know,” she sat up straighter, “I’ve been thinking about Frankie. My agent? You remember what we talked about last night?” Reid didn’t respond. “That he might have motive,” she added.
That got a grunt out of him. Then a question. “Did you eat? Are you hungry?”
“Uh … yes, I ate.”
“I’m going to get something.” He walked out.
She remained still, watching lights dance across the ceiling as a lone car made its way down the street. Reid had certainly exhibited a lack of interest in Frankie Morsie. And now that she was halfway alert, she was full of other questions. What had Michael’s funeral been like? Who was there? How did his daughters seem? Had anybody found the rental car?
She got out of bed and padded toward the open bedroom door, then hesitated. Reid hadn’t booted up the desktop computer in the living room like he usually did, or turned on any lights. That was odd. But the darkness encouraged her to step into the hallway, to venture forward at a creeping pace. She passed the arched entry to the kitchen and peeked inside but he wasn’t there. Instead, she realized, he was straight ahead in the living room, sitting on the couch. Not eating, not doing anything. Staring into space. In the dark.
“Reid?” He didn’t look her way. She tried again. “Since it’s so dark, do you think it’s safe if I join you?”
He waved a hand, but not as if he were really listening, or much cared. “Sure. It doesn’t matter.”
He was being unusually cavalier. And though he hadn’t extended much of an invitation, she didn’t need much. She moved forward and claimed a spot on the couch beside him, careful not to sit too close. It was clear he wanted distance tonight. From her, she assumed. Or maybe from everybody.
They sat without speaking. Annie looked at the few pieces of heavy old-style furniture that lived in this room and wondered if there were stories behind it. Had Reid inherited it from his grandparents? Were any of them still alive? She realized she knew nothing about his family. It was as if he sprang whole into the universe and joined the LAPD. Got engaged to Donna. Lost her. Left the force. Went on to Crimewatch. Donna was the only name from Reid’s past that Annie had ever heard him mention.
Minutes passed. Still he didn’t move. It was bizarre behavior. Her mind began to run amok, spin doomsday scenarios. Maybe the rental car had been found. Maybe Reid was coming under pressure from the feds. Maybe some tip came in that had made him doubt her all over again. Maybe he was gearing up to tell her he was going to turn her out. Or turn her in.
She’d been emotional all day, edgy one minute and weepy the next. Some of it she chalked up to Michael’s funeral, the renewed realization that he was gone forever. She’d been rocked by guilt that she was unable to honor him when the last respects were paid. And it was horrifying, almost inconceivable, that so many people believed she had killed him. She who had loved him.
Grief had given way to resolve to prove all those people wrong. Yet it was Friday and she had been with Reid since Tuesday and what had they done, really, to further her cause? They’d come up with a few theories but nothing really promising.
She turned to look at Reid. Still he stared straight ahead. “Did something happen today? Did you hear from Simpson?”
He glanced at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. The light from the streetlamp outside shone full on his face, revealing the once-broken line of his nose, the midnight stubble on his jaw, the creases that fanned from his blue eyes. “Did I hear from Simpson?” It was as if she were dragging him back from a trance. “No.”
“So everything is still okay? The car is still okay?”
“As far as I know.”
“Do you want to talk about, I don’t know, real steps we could take?”
“Annie …” He waved a dismissive hand. “Not now.”
When? she wanted to scream. When? But something stopped her, some reflexive common sense that warned her to leave the man alone, it was the end of a hellacious week for him, thanks largely to her, and she should bide her time till morning. Which, as it happened, was not that far away.
“I’m going to go back to bed,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She rose from the couch and was nearly to the hallway when Reid’s voice cut through the air. “I thought I saw him today.”
She spun around. “Saw who?”
“Bigelow. The scum who shot Donna.”
So Donna had been shot to death. The details of her murder came out of Reid in dribs and drabs, each more horrible than the one before. And today, today Reid thought he saw her killer.
“It wasn’t him.” Reid spoke again. “I thought it was but I was wrong.”
She moved back toward him, crouched on the carpet at his feet. “That must have been terrible for you.”
He met her eyes. “People thought I was crazy.”
“No, they didn’t.” She had no way of knowing that but was sure it was true.
“I chased after a guy and turned him around and he was nobody.”
“You had no way of knowing that beforehand.”
“He’s close.” Reid’s gaze broke from hers, fixed on a point in the distance that only he could see. “I can feel him. He’s close.”
“You must really have loved her.” The words came out in a murmur. She hadn’t meant to say them but there they were. Accompanied by a little stab of jealousy that Anni
e couldn’t deny.
“I don’t want to talk about Donna.” His voice was more forceful now.
“I’m not asking you to. You don’t have to. It’s your … private thing.”
Again his eyes dropped toward her face. They were wary, as if he wasn’t quite sure that he believed her. But his hand reached out and, very softly, traced the curve of her cheek. She was mesmerized into stillness by his touch, by the blue eyes with their unreadable depths, the firm jaw that would brook no opposition, the mouth that she guessed could work real magic. She fought the impulse to shut her eyes, and lost. Outside the small house she heard a cat mew, and then its companion, their calls mixing in a caterwauling that could have been inspired by love or hate. Annie sensed Reid lean closer and opened her eyes to see his face within inches of hers. His gaze had dropped to her lips now, parted in the yes she was so close to voicing.
But then he pulled back and shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that, Annie.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want something I can’t give you.”
What she wanted, she hadn’t given voice to yet, not even to herself. So when he took her hand and led her to the bedroom they had come to share, it was by silent agreement that they took their usual separate places. Leaving Annie awake and unsettled to greet the dawn.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Annie rose the next morning, she was exhausted. It seemed to her, though, that Reid was a new man. The demons that had possessed him the night before appeared to have vanished with the moon. So much so that he went for an early run, for while she was lolling in bed trying in vain to doze off again, she caught a tantalizing pre-shower peep show as he peeled off his jogging gear.
He stood at the tall bureau naked to the waist, his sweaty tee shirt spread-eagled on the carpet, his well-muscled back and arms available for her perusal. It was impossible not to admire the perfect V of his torso, the way the broad shoulders tapered to that narrow waist. She lay still, her lids barely open, taking in the view as he removed his sport watch and kicked his running shoes into the corner. Muscles rippled and sinew stretched beneath his sweat-slick skin. His abdomen was flat as a chalkboard, his shoulders wide as a desk. It was a reminder, as if she needed one, of how strong he was, how big, how much sheer male power was encased in that tall, lean body.
He glanced at her to make sure she was still asleep and she caught the motion in the nick of time, lowering her lids just enough to be convincing. She heard him move and seconds later the bathroom door closed and the shower began to pound. Annie flopped onto her back. It was as bad as staring at a buffet table with an empty stomach and not a penny in your purse. You wanted, wanted, wanted … but you couldn’t have.
Actually, she probably could have. Another amendment: she knew she could. She could storm into that bathroom and throw back the shower curtain and do whatever she felt like. She doubted he’d protest. And she wouldn’t regret it for a long time, not for days, weeks maybe. But someday she would. When she couldn’t forget him. When she couldn’t get over him. When she would remember not just that body that should be a crime but all those damn checkmarks patrolling his positive column.
Slowly it came back to her, the moment hours before when he’d come so close to kissing her that she could almost conjure the feel of his mouth on her lips. What had he told her? Don’t look at me like that, like you want something I can’t give you. That was a warning bell if ever she’d heard one. Hell, it was a symphony of sirens.
She forced her bones out of bed. By the time Reid was out of the shower and clothed, she had rededicated herself to her purpose: finding the killer, saving herself, restoring her life. The life she’d fought hard for, post-Philip, and did not want to lose. “I was thinking more about Frankie,” she told Reid.
He was combing his hair in front of the mirror above the tallest bureau. He met her gaze in the glass. “Agent Frankie. And?”
“I think you’re right that we should consider him a suspect.”
He nodded. “What made you change your mind?”
“Mostly that I think it’s possible, like you said, that he had a beef with Elizabeth Wimble and Seamus O’Neill, too.”
“What kind of beef?”
“Well, in the last few years I remember people talking about how he didn’t have any clients that were real stars. That he used to but didn’t anymore, not with both Maggie and Michael letting him go.”
“Okay.” He sat down on the bed, which she’d straightened, and gave her his full attention.
“It’s true that he still would’ve been earning commissions off the books he’d repped for Maggie and Michael, but any agent wants star clients on their roster, writing new books they can sell. So it’d be only natural for him to have approached both Seamus and Elizabeth. Maybe he tried to sign them and they gave him the cold shoulder. That could well piss him off. I also remember something he said to me at Maggie’s funeral when he first told me I hit the list. ‘I told you I’d make you a star,’ he said to me. At the time it went right over my head but it kept coming back to me yesterday when I was replaying that conversation in my mind.”
Reid shook his head. “But that’s not such a weird thing to say, is it?”
“It puts a lot of emphasis on his role in my becoming a bestseller. I don’t know, it struck me.” So did another thing: the way Reid listened to her. It was another way he differed from Philip, who had seemed to thrive on disputing every word she spoke.
She went on. “And I think he got into financial trouble, another reason to want more star clients. There was a lot of gossip about how he’d run through all the money he made on the pro wrestling circuit but still liked to live large. He owns a mansion in Hancock Park and throws lavish parties. Lots of people thought he had the property mortgaged to the hilt. And speaking of the mansion …” She hesitated, not sure that Reid would buy into this part of her reasoning. “I know where it is. I’ve been there. We could go in when we know he’s not home and look around, try to find something incriminating—”
“Whoa, slow down.” Reid catapulted off the bed. “We’re not breaking into anybody’s house. We’ve got to do everything by the book.”
“How are we supposed to do that? We have to do everything on our own.”
“No, we don’t. I’m having breakfast with Simpson. I intend to get him interested in investigating Frankie.”
“Simpson’s sold on the idea that I’m the killer. Why would he go to the trouble of investigating somebody else when he’s already got an APB out on me?”
“Because he’s required to give weight to new information. If I go to him and present compelling reasons for him to look in another direction, he’ll do it.”
Annie did not share Reid’s confidence on that point. “Look, I know you want to work within the system. But the system has failed me. I need an outside-the-box approach here.”
“Have you considered the fact that even if we found something in Frankie Morsie’s house, it would be inadmissible in court? It would have been found via an illegal search.”
“But we wouldn’t actually take anything. If we found something, we’d leave it. Then you could tip off Simpson and he could get a subpoena to search the premises based on probable cause.”
“What would we even be looking for?”
“I don’t know. Bloody clothes still in the washing machine, a book on how to poison with curare, a crochet hook like the one used to stab Elizabeth. I could try to get on to his computer and see what he has related to the killings. You never know until you go in what you’re going to find.”
“And you think he would just leave this evidence lying around?”
“I know from all the research I’ve done that murderers keep all kinds of crazy incriminating stuff. You know that, too. And now, with all eyes trained on me, if Frankie is the real killer, he’s probably feeling pretty cocky.”
“Annie—” Reid gave her a look that let her know just how cockamamie he judged this scheme. “W
hat about how dangerous this would be? If Frankie Morsie is the killer, it’s foolhardy to go anywhere near him.”
“I said we’d do it when we knew he wasn’t home.”
“That’s an enormous risk, one I’m not willing to take and sure as hell am not going to let you take, either.”
She set her hands on her hips. “Let me take? Let me take?”
“That’s right. Let you take.” He got in her face. “Because the quid pro quo of my helping you is that I’m the one who calls the shots. I am already far out on a limb for you, Annie.”
“I understand that. And I appreciate it. Hugely. You know I do.”
“Harboring you here is illegal. I’m not going to start breaking more laws just because you’re getting impatient.”
She threw out her hands. “Well then, what do you propose? We’ve got to figure out who’s doing these killings, if not for me then for whoever is next on the victim’s list.”
She watched him take a deep breath. “You do not need to remind me of the obvious.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to meet Simpson. We will talk about this later. And Annie, I mean it. I am not going to let you risk your safety. You hear me? You do what I say.”
*
The zen state Reid had attained in his run was long gone. Frustration with Annie had dissipated it like smoke from an incense stick. Maybe, he thought as he barreled the truck out of his driveway, it was fortunate he had somewhere else he had to be. He could use the time to cool off. He got on the freeway and headed for downtown.
The 5 was easy to navigate this early on a weekend: there were few other vehicles to slow him down. Reid kept a lead foot on the gas and watched the city’s skyscrapers emerge from the haze.
Every important thing that had ever happened to him had happened in this town. He was born here. He grew up here. His dad had been on the force here, and his Uncle Benny, who’d died in the line of duty. He’d met Donna here, and lost her here. Crimewatch had been created here and would stay here until the suits pulled the plug. He was a hometown boy with a ginormous, superficial, ridden-with-evil hometown, but one he loved all the same. And he knew that even the tiny, quaint hometowns had their own slice of evil’s pie.
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