Chasing Venus

by Diana Dempsey

  “You’re not kidding. You’ve been all over the news. APB and everything. It’s incredible.” He laughed again, a nervous sound which quickly faded. Again she had the impression that he was afraid of her. “So where you been hiding out?”

  “Here and there.”

  “You don’t want to tell me?”

  “Not really.”

  It was strange how much she couldn’t tell Frankie now. He’d never been much of a confidant but before this she’d had no reason to distrust him. Now here she was, wondering if he’d betrayed her in the most grotesque of ways.

  And maybe he planned to do still worse. Frankie wasn’t giving off any killer vibes, but she remembered with picture-perfect clarity the straight razor upstairs. She remembered Michael when she’d found him, his throat a screaming slash of horror.

  She and Frankie hit a wall of silence, their gazes locked. Luto looked from one to the other as if wondering which would break the impasse. It was Frankie who did. “So you didn’t tell me, Annie. What’re you doing here?”

  She hesitated. Then, “I came to ask you something.”

  “Shoot. I mean …” He held up his hands. “What do you want to know?”

  There it was again, the intimation that he was afraid of her. He was behaving as if he were, staying a distance away and keeping Luto by his side as if for security. It gave her a momentary burst of confidence.

  “There’s only one thing I want to know, Frankie. Who the killer is.”

  He frowned. “The killer?”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  He blinked, looked away, then back at her. His voice was nearly a whisper. “It’s not you?”

  She forced herself not to react. “It’s got to be somebody who’s got a grudge against the victims, don’t you think?”

  He said nothing, just stared at her.

  “Somebody who was in all the locations. And doesn’t it make sense that it’s somebody who knows the business inside out?” She was on a dangerous path here, she knew. And yet she wanted to find out if this line of questioning provoked a reaction from Frankie. “Somebody,” she went on, “who feels people have done him wrong.”

  She stopped. Luto emitted another low growl, as if he grasped where she was headed faster than his master did.

  A second later Frankie’s synapses fired. He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “Are you talking about me?” His voice rose and broke as if he were a teenaged boy. “Are you accusing me?”

  “Everybody knows how angry you were when Maggie fired you.” She was amazed how steady her voice sounded even as her heart flailed at the walls of her chest. “Then Michael did the same thing. That could provide a motive, Frankie. Revenge. And money is another. You lost all your bestselling authors. So you needed one. And now you’ve got me.”

  “So you’re saying I killed two birds with one stone? Murdered a few authors and then framed another?”

  “I guess I am.”

  That sent him hurtling toward the desk. She stumbled backward a few steps, stretching her left arm out behind her so she wouldn’t trip and fall. Her fingers touched the wall that separated the study from the foyer. Now, she realized, she wasn’t all that far from the front door. It was just a few long strides around the wall and across the foyer.

  “I cannot effing believe this.” Frankie’s mouth twisted as he leaned over the desk. “If anybody has a financial motive, it’s you. You’ve been scraping rock bottom ever since Philip dumped you. But that’s all over now.”

  “There’s no way I could’ve predicted I’d become a bestseller if I killed off the competition.”

  “You’re saying I could’ve predicted it.” His fleshy jowls flushed a new shade of red. “I cannot believe you’d accuse me of this. After everything we’ve been through.”

  “You were in all the locations. The conference where Seamus got shot. Maggie’s party. You could easily have been in Connecticut when Elizabeth was stabbed. And what was to stop you from driving down to Corona del Mar and doing in Michael? It’s not far. Where were you on Monday night, anyway?”

  “For your information, I was in New York.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “As if I have to, to you!” His voice rose to the ceiling, rattled the cherry-paneled walls. It was The Pitchfork come back to life in the most jarring of places, this gracious home. “I took the redeye to JFK Sunday night. All day Monday I was in the city. I had dinner at David’s with Rita Salvoy. 8 o’clock reservation. Check it out if you think I’m so damn guilty.”

  David’s was a favorite restaurant for the publishing crowd. It was a See and Be Seen location. If Frankie had been there with honcho editor Rita Salvoy, he would have been duly noted. If it was true, it was an iron-clad alibi for Michael’s murder.

  Meaning Frankie could not have been the killer.

  Meaning Annie had been wrong.

  Meaning all that was left was to get out of there. Before Frankie dialed 911.

  Frankie stood just the other side of the desk, panting with anger, his eyes spitting fire.

  “Forget I was ever here,” she said, then spun on her heels and sprinted toward the foyer. Go. She heard a commotion behind her, then a loud bark and a muffled oath.

  No time to think. She was in the foyer. A few yards away was the big front door. She wrenched it open and ran through the portal into the chilly night air. Behind her she heard a crashing sound, the front door slamming back against the foyer wall. Down the curving stone path to the street, almost slipping, almost twisting her ankle, not quite. A right turn onto the sidewalk, faster than ever. Was anyone following? Frankie or Luto? She didn’t know. She’d have to double back later for her carryall but she couldn’t worry about that now. Don’t look back.

  Her legs pumped. Her heart kept up the same stampeding rhythm. She had no idea what was ahead of her, except for one thing.

  Square one.

  *

  At 10:02, Reid had abandoned his house. He drove as slowly as he could, his eyes raking the Hollywood foot traffic, seeking Annie. His cell rang for the first time all night and his heart lurched. He kept his foot on the gas as he answered the call, his hope rising when the caller registered as unknown. Pay phone?

  “Reid?” A woman’s voice.

  Yes. “Annie.” Immense joy. Immediately, worry. “Where are you?”

  “The corner of Sunset and Wilcox.”

  He heard city noises behind her. Car horns. The rush of traffic. A snippet of conversation from two passersby. “Don’t move.” He made a sharp right, thanking his lucky stars he’d left Glendale when he had. Now he was only five minutes from her location. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She didn’t sound fine. But whatever had gone down, she was clear-headed enough not to use her cell phone, which would give the cops an undeniable link between her and him.

  “I know it was risky to call you,” she went on. “I wasn’t going to but—”

  “I’m glad you did. Don’t move,” he repeated, and pressed harder on the gas.

  *

  For Annie, salvation came in the form of a black pickup truck with California plates and a man who used to be a cop at the wheel. The rush of relief she felt was enough to make her knees weak. She hoisted herself inside the cab and made her hands stop trembling long enough to snap on the seat belt.

  She exchanged only a glance with Reid before he slid away from the curb. What could she read in those blue eyes? She wasn’t sure. But not betrayal, she told herself. Not that.

  “Thank you for coming to get me.” Such an understatement. Such a bland version of what she really felt.

  “Where have you been?”

  She heard the undercurrent in his words. Anger? Worry? Frustration? Probably a mix of all three. “It’s a long story.”

  And one she was reluctant to tell in full. Reid would be furious that she’d broken into Frankie’s house. And when he heard that Frankie came home and caught her there ...

  She took t
he coward’s way out and put off telling him that part of the story.

  Finally it was his turn to speak. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to the overlook on time. Things with Sheila—” He hesitated. “—took longer than I expected.”

  “That’s okay.” And now it was. She glanced out the passenger window. Hollywood flowed past, much less terrifying when she was separated from it by steel, eight cylinders, and Reid. “I used a pay phone to call you. If you’re right to be worried about Simpson, you may have to explain who that call came from.”

  “I’ll come up with an explanation. I’m very glad you called, Annie. You were smart not to use your cell. You did the right thing.”

  “I was worried …” She stopped. I was worried you’d had enough of me. I was worried you were ready to turn me in. Honesty might be the best policy but it seemed unwise to tell the man that not long after he dropped her off at the overlook, she began to doubt him. So she changed her confession to a different truth. “I’m so glad to see you, Reid. When you didn’t show up at the overlook, I got really scared.”

  He kept his eyes on the road but his hand reached across the gear shift to grasp hers. He held on and didn’t let go. Annie thought it was the touch of a man who’d been frightened, too. She knew it was the touch of a man who cared.

  Eventually he released her to shift gears. Then he spoke. “I got the key to a cabin that Sheila’s family owns. It’s near Lake Casitas. We’re gonna drive up there now. It’s about 75 miles.”

  “Is that near Santa Barbara?”

  “Not far.”

  “Is that where I’m going to stay?”

  “Yup.”

  She stopped herself from voicing the next thought that came to mind. Are you going to stay at the cabin with me? The reality was that it was nearly ten thirty at night and they had a two-hour drive ahead of them. Was he likely to drop her off and turn around at one in the morning to drive back to LA? No. And not if she had anything to say about it.

  The idea unnerved and excited her at the same time, as if they hadn’t spent the last four nights together.

  Together, yes. But with her in the bed and him on the floor. Tonight, inexplicably, was different.

  She allowed herself to stare at Reid’s profile. Her breathing slowed and her hands ceased trembling. At length they left the chaos of the city behind.

  *

  Reid pried the whole story of Annie’s evening whereabouts out of her somewhere along Route 150, a two-lane highway that snaked through the Santa Ynez Mountains. It was a hair-raising drive in daytime, let alone in the dark of night. When the confession began to drip out of her, he had to stop driving or risk a wreck. He pulled the truck onto a turnout and shut off the engine. It sputtered into silence.

  “That’s why I couldn’t find you?” he said. “Because you broke into Frankie Morsie’s house?”

  “You have to understand, I had no idea why you didn’t show up at the overlook. For all I knew, Sheila had ratted you out to the cops. Ratted us out.” He watched her take a steadying breath. She turned away, stared out the windshield. “I thought I was on my own again. And then I realized that I happened to be very close to Frankie’s house.”

  “So you thought, hey! Good time to drop by.”

  Her head spun toward him. “I am not an idiot so please don’t talk to me as if I am. I realized that I had an opportunity to save myself. So I took it.”

  “Damn convenient. Because I got the distinct impression this morning that you wanted to break into Frankie’s house. So maybe it shouldn’t surprise me that the first chance you got, you found a way to justify doing it.”

  She was silent and turned away again. Then, “There’s some truth to that.”

  Her admission took the steam out of him. Not that he had much to start with. He was so flat-out exhausted, and so damn relieved that she was safe and once again beside him, that he couldn’t summon all that much anger.

  Outside the truck, the forested mountains hulked. They were verdant in the spring, fresh from the nurturing downpours of southern California’s rainy season. By fall, the undergrowth would be dry and brown and pose an immense fire danger. Wildfires routinely burned these hills. They were a completely predictable threat.

  He shook his head. “You do realize that what you did was incredibly risky.”

  “Yes, I do. And I know you didn’t want me to do it. But it worked out just fine.”

  “Annie—”

  She interrupted him. “I learned something that makes me pretty sure Frankie’s not the killer. He was in New York Monday night. There’ll be a way to confirm it. And if it’s true, he couldn’t have murdered Michael. He can’t be the killer.”

  Reid got a bad feeling. “And how do you know he was in New York?”

  A car appeared, going in the opposite direction. Annie didn’t speak until it passed. A delaying tactic, he knew. Then, in a small voice, “Frankie told me.”

  Reid shut his eyes. “So he came home while you were there. He caught you in his house.”

  She was silent.

  “You do realize he could have killed you.”

  Again she said nothing.

  “You’re damn lucky he didn’t call the cops. Or maybe he did. They could be on our tail right now.”

  “They were already on my tail.”

  “But they didn’t know exactly where you were. They didn’t know you were in LA.”

  “And I’m not in LA any more, am I?”

  This was getting them nowhere. He shook his head.

  After a moment she spoke. “I know you think I did the wrong thing.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Well …” She threw up her hands. “Maybe I did. But it’s over now. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  She made it sound so simple. When it was anything but.

  “You know,” he said, “I spent all night cursing myself for putting you in danger. My idea of danger was that you were out there alone while every cop in this state is trying to haul you in for serial murder. But that’s nothing compared to what you actually did. You went to the most dangerous place you could possibly have gone.”

  “I knew there were risks. But I felt that my situation was so desperate that I had to take them.” She spoke over his attempt to interrupt her. “I had to try to find out if Frankie was behind all this. And now I know he isn’t. So I did accomplish something.”

  “Annie.” He felt as drained as he ever had in his life. “All I’m saying is that I cannot protect you if you insist on doing what I tell you not to do.”

  If he hoped she’d reassure him that she’d never do anything like that again, he was disappointed. He turned the key in the ignition and accelerated off the turnout, the truck’s wheels spitting rocks and dust.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Reid inserted Sheila’s key into the lock of the front door of her family’s cabin. He turned it and the tumblers released with a soft click. The door swung open into the lightless main room. With Annie behind him, he crossed the portal and switched on a table lamp. He’d been at the cabin only once and his memory of the visit was sketchy. Deep discomfort was a good part of it. Sheila, her relatives, questioning glances, awkwardness. It wasn’t easy to be a male guest in a woman’s home if you didn’t have the intentions she and her entire family were hoping for.

  Annie pushed past him and stopped. “It’s nice.”

  It was an unassuming two-bedroom, one-bath cabin with plank floors and faux log-cabin walls. The decor left no doubt of the owners’ East Indian ethnicity. Everywhere were brightly colored dhurrie rugs and exotic wall coverings. Rosewood furniture with mother-of-pearl inlay. Statues and paintings of Hindu gods and goddesses, with their wide kohl-lined eyes, contorted poses, and in many cases more than the usual number of limbs.

  It was stuffy and a layer of dust covered the surfaces. Reid moved to a casement window and cranked it open. In rushed cool mountain air and the rustling sounds of nocturnal creatures on their midnight wanderin
gs.

  He turned toward Annie. “Do you want a tour?” But she’d already embarked on one. He followed her down a short hall into the larger of the bedrooms, big enough to accommodate a bureau and a small stuffed chair along with a full-size bed covered by a red silk throw, elaborately embroidered but slightly frayed. He’d learned years before that Indians were casual with their silk, the way rich women were casual with their furs.

  Annie brushed past him, peered into the second bedroom. Twin beds there, boasting similar throws, though green this time. No other furniture. A tree branch buffeted by a sudden gust of wind scratched against the lone window, its skinny limbs grazing the glass like skeletal fingers.

  This was the room he had stayed in on his visit, sharing a restless night with Sheila’s brother Rajiv in the next bed. Rajiv snored like a basset hound. Reid could have sworn the entire cabin rattled with every breath. He’d been hyper-aware of other Banerjees thin walls away, uprooted from their usual locations by his presence. Sheila’s father had been relegated to a sleeping bag in the living room, while Sheila bunked with her mother in the only full-size bed. He’d heard the murmur of women’s voices late into the night, and their stifled giggles. It wasn’t hard to imagine that he himself inspired a good bit of their nighttime gossip.

  Reid trailed Annie into the kitchen, where she’d begun opening cabinets as if she were searching for something. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She pulled out a can of soup, eyed the label. “Would it be too presumptuous, do you think?”

  No more presumptuous than using the Banerjee family cabin to shelter a fugitive. “We can replace what we eat.”

  She foraged deeper into the cabinet and emerged with a second can, then turned to face him. “Which would you prefer, beef vegetable or chicken noodle?”

  The words came out of his mouth before he framed them in his mind. “I won’t be having any. I can’t stay.”

  She raised her brows, hesitated. Then, “You should at least eat. You’ve got to be as hungry as I am.”