He couldn’t do a love affair, he told himself, though he knew that he was more in danger of one than at any time in the last five years. He couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward this woman. Yet he also couldn’t deny that he had unfinished business to attend to. Business he’d been reminded of just hours before, when he’d told Annie the story of how Donna had died. And of how Bigelow had gotten away.
He couldn’t let himself forget that that scumbug was still out there, free. That was the danger with Annie, he realized: he forgot what he owed Donna when he was with her. He actually forgot Donna. But he couldn’t in good conscience let himself do that until he’d done right by Donna in the only way still open to him, by making her killer pay. Otherwise he’d be betraying her twice.
He realized that Annie was talking to him. More to the point, she was nuzzling him, burrowing into his chest again, this time from a vertical position. “I’m sorry to be such a downer, reminding you of all this. That car might have been nothing. Just somebody making a wrong turn, like you said.” She ran her fingers up his chest with a tantalizing lightness that made his skin tingle, then raised her eyes. They were emerald green and suddenly heavy-lidded. “Take me back to bed, Reid. Make me forget that damn SUV drove up here. I know I can’t forget forever but I want to forget for at least a few hours more.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
He felt himself respond. But at that moment the face of another woman rose in his mind, a woman lying in an alley, pale, surprised, blood trickling from her mouth. He stepped back, turned away. “Not now, Annie.”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Don’t tell me I’ve already lost my touch.”
Her voice was light, as were the arms that began to reach around his neck. But for the first time they felt like a yoke. He disentangled himself and moved away. “I’m sorry, Annie. Not now.”
“What’s wrong?”
He shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” She frowned. “Are you feeling guilty for being with me here, in Sheila’s cabin?”
Christ, he hadn’t even remembered that reason to feel bad. That hadn’t even made it into the top three. But now it hit him like a blow, how Sheila would feel if she knew what he had done here with Annie, in her family’s house. Intimate things he had never done with her. Either he’d been better able then to hew to an ethical code or his lust hadn’t been as overpowering. Whatever the reason, Sheila would hate him for it.
He was betraying women left and right these days. Annie, too, if he was leading her on. He’d told her days ago that he wasn’t really available, but now he’d slept with her. She might well have different expectations now, expectations he couldn’t fulfill. He had to squash those. Rule one of managing The Casual Relationship was putting the hard truths front and center, difficult though that might be.
He cleared his throat. “I’m a little worried you’re getting the wrong idea.”
Silence.
He was forced to go on. “I don’t want you thinking that I’m available for a serious relationship.”
Still she said nothing, just stared at him with those intense green eyes.
He went further still. “I’ve made it clear from the start that I’m very attracted to you, Annie. But I want you to understand, as I’ve said before, that I’m not in a position to get serious. Not with you, not with any woman. If I were, believe me, you would be the one. But I’m not.” He stopped. To his own ears, he sounded appallingly lame. And she just stood there, with a tightness on her face that he had caused.
Finally she spoke. “So as far as you’re concerned, we’re friends with benefits. Is that what you’re telling me?”
He hated that catch phrase but it pretty much summed up the situation. “I do value your friendship, Annie,” he heard himself say. Now he was sounding like a pop psychologist. “Very much. And who knows, maybe someday things’ll be different.”
She eyed him. All of a sudden he felt countless pairs of eyes on him, from the Hindu gods stationed all over the Banerjee cabin. They peered at him from bronze sculptures and fabric wall hangings, their expressions as dubious as Annie’s. “And what would have to happen for things to be different?”
He was reluctant to spell it out. Finally, “I would have to resolve certain things.”
“What things would those be?”
He turned away. “I’m not in the mood for an inquisition, Annie.”
“And I’m not in the mood to conduct one. But I do want some answers. And I think I deserve them after last night.” She moved closer, tugged on his arm so he was forced to face her. “This has to do with Donna, doesn’t it?”
He shook his arm free and pivoted away. He felt his patience, loosely tethered already, begin to slip. “We’re not talking about Donna again.”
“We might as well.” Annie moved again, got in his face again. “She’s always with us, every minute of every day.”
“No, she’s not. She’s dead, remember?”
That shut Annie up. But not for long. And when she spoke again her voice was low. Ominously low, like a storm about to break. “Was she in our bed last night? Was it her you were really making love to, instead of me?”
This woman could push his last button. “Annie, I am warning you. Do not go there. Do not—” She started to speak. He jerked closer to her and raised a finger in her face. “Do not go there. Whatever my flaws, and I grant you I’ve got plenty, I am not delusional. And I slept with you last night only after one hell of an invitation, remember? So don’t get all righteous on me.”
That seemed to leach the air out of her. She turned away and collapsed onto an ottoman. She sat for a moment, rubbing her forehead. Then, “You’re right. And while you may not believe this, Reid, I really am terribly sorry about Donna.” She raised her eyes to his. “The whole story is a nightmare. But the bottom line is, it’s over. She’s dead and there’s nothing you can do to change that.”
“You want to tell me something I don’t know? I live with that every day of my life.”
“You do, don’t you? You live with that every day of your life.” She held his stare. There was a regret in her eyes that seemed bottomless. “I feel for you, I really do. You’ve been through hell. But you’ve got a problem, Reid. If this has been going on for five years and there’s no end in sight, you’ve got a problem.”
She rose and walked away then, slowly, like a woman who’d seen too much, heard too much to bother making an effort to move fast. She left him no opportunity to dispute her, though his pride wanted to lash out, hard, at that characterization. But she was gone, into the second bedroom this time, shutting the door behind her, deliberately making a statement that she’d had enough of him, that she was ready to be alone.
Mission accomplished. No more illusions on either side.
*
Just two more blocks and she’d be back at her apartment.
Sheila winced with every step. It seemed every muscle in her body was sore. She’d put herself through an extra-punishing workout, as if exercise could purge her anger at Reid or her frustration with herself.
She frowned at the sidewalk as she moved along. Monotonous squares of pavement, many cracked, some dirtied with dog waste, others so uneven they were a sprained ankle waiting to happen. LA was ugly. Only people who didn’t know it could think it was glamorous. In reality the city was cynical, garish, superficial, and greedy. At moments like this she thought there was only one reason she stayed.
She happened to be furious with that reason at the moment.
What gave him the right to ask her to break the law by harboring a fugitive? What gave him the right to demand that she believe his version of the truth? In Reid World, Annette Rowell was an innocent victim framed for crimes she didn’t commit. What basis did he have for that opinion? What evidence?
None, as far as Sheila could tell. Only his holier-than-thou gut feeling. It was amazing. And men said women were fools for love.
Though, really, who was the bigger fool here? Sheila turned up the bri
cked walk to her apartment building. Had she sent Reid away with nothing the day before? No. She’d caved, as she always did with him.
Her apartment was housed in an 8-unit Spanish-style yellow stucco building whose best feature was its prime West Hollywood location. Truth be told, it was on the scruddly side. She’d just pulled her house keys from her gym bag when she heard a male voice at her back.
“Sheila Banerjee?”
She spun. “Lionel Simpson?” She stiffened, smoothed back the strands of hair that had come loose from her post-workout ponytail. “It’s nice to see you.” Liar.
“Sorry to show up without calling first but I hoped we could talk for a few minutes.”
He’s not sorry. He wanted to catch me by surprise. “Sure.” She led him into the building’s central courtyard, complete with a colorful tile fountain that hadn’t worked for years. Her mind raced while her hand unlocked the door to unit six. She had a surge of new respect for the FBI in general and Lionel Simpson in particular. Talk about effective law enforcement. She contemplates breaking the law Saturday afternoon and the feds show up at her apartment Sunday morning.
“May I offer you some coffee?” She dumped her gym bag on the hardwood floor and headed for the kitchen, wanting a delay. Anything would be preferable to sitting down to a Q&A with this man. She’d known for a long while how smart he was. Before today, she’d never been on the opposite side of his razor intelligence.
“Nothing, thanks.” He stood in her living room, clearly waiting for her.
She poured herself some water and reluctantly joined him. “Please sit down.”
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat exactly where Reid had the day before, in the same position, leaning forward and clasping his hands between his knees. “I’ll get right to the point. Are you aware of a personal relationship between Reid Gardner and Annette Rowell?”
Her worst nightmare come to life. Simpson had come to talk about Reid and that woman. Of course, on some level Sheila had known that was the reason for his visit from the start. She sat down across from him and feigned ignorance. “Annette Rowell?”
“The suspect wanted in the writer murders.” His gaze was steady. “Surely you remember the name? You produced at least two segments on the case for Crimewatch.”
“Yes, but this is so out of context.” She forced a laugh. “Well, Reid is interested in her case, I can tell you that. But a personal relationship?” It hurt even to say it. She shook her head. “No, I can’t imagine that. I really don’t think so.”
Liar.
“Would it surprise you to hear that we have evidence that Rowell came to Los Angeles after Michael Ellsworth’s murder specifically to find Reid?”
She was so stunned she couldn’t speak. The feds had tracked Rowell to LA? And Simpson had actual evidence that she hooked up with Reid? Maybe he was bluffing. Or fishing. She took a sip of water. “That would certainly surprise me,” she managed. “What kind of evidence?”
“She abandoned her rental car near the Crimewatch studio. Which by the way required her to drive fifty miles from Corona del Mar, where the murder occurred.”
Did the man never blink? His eyes were like a human lie-detector test. Sweat broke out on Sheila’s neck beneath her untidy ponytail. She cursed Annette Rowell. What if she did murder that poor author she pretended was her friend and then came looking for Reid to bail her out? She dragged him into this. And now she’s dragging me into it, too.
At that very moment Annette Rowell could be hiding in her family’s cabin. If the feds tracked her there, how could Sheila dodge responsibility? Pretend ignorance? That had been her plan the night before but in the bright light of day it seemed idiotic.
She forced herself to laugh again, as if Simpson’s logic were obviously flawed. “But that’s pretty flimsy evidence, isn’t it? There could be any number of reasons why Rowell left her car where she did.”
“There could be. But only one makes sense given the totality of the situation.”
“What totality is that?”
“From the beginning, Reid has repeatedly given Rowell the benefit of the doubt despite evidence of her guilt in these murders. You and I both know that’s uncharacteristic for him. To me it says there’s a connection between them.”
It must be love, Sheila thought, struggling not to let her emotions show on her face. Why else would every fiber of her being rise to Reid’s defense, now that he was in trouble, when for weeks she’d agreed with every word flowing from Lionel Simpson’s mouth?
Simpson spoke again. “I also have reason to believe he was seeking her at a motel in Hollywood.”
“That’s preposterous!” Sheila let her voice rise. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
Was Simpson buying her incredulity? She couldn’t tell. He leaned back and eyed her with that laser stare, as if he could read every thought that crossed her mind as quickly as she could conceive it. Then he spoke. “Were you ever romantically involved with Reid?”
Don’t lie to this one. She had to throw Simpson a few crumbs of truth if she hoped to emerge from this interrogation unscathed. “Briefly.” She made herself shrug. “It didn’t work out. But we’re good friends. And we work well together.”
He nodded. His expression was inscrutable. “To your knowledge, is Reid harboring Annette Rowell?”
“What?” She jumped to her feet. “Lionel, this is getting more ridiculous by the minute. What would make you think that? Reid would never do such a thing.” She hardened her voice. “Never.”
“Are you sure that’s not just wishful thinking?”
“I don’t engage in wishful thinking.” Liar. She set her hands on her hips. “And frankly, I don’t like where you’re going with this. You’re impugning the reputation of my coworker and personal friend, a man I and millions of other Americans hold in very high esteem.” She gestured toward the door. “It’s time for you to leave.”
Simpson didn’t argue. Instead he rose and buttoned his suit jacket. Inches from the door, he paused. “I don’t need to tell you that it’s a crime to withhold information in a criminal investigation, do I, Sheila?”
“I am well-versed on the law, thank you.”
He nodded, gave her another penetrating stare, and let himself out. She was trembling even before the door clicked shut behind him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
By late Sunday afternoon, Annie was certifiably stir crazy. Earlier, the cabin had seemed the perfect refuge. Now its four walls closed in on her like a vise.
It didn’t help that she was trying to avoid Reid. The cabin wasn’t big enough for that trick. He spent most of the day at the desktop computer set up on a small table near the kitchen, on-line at the Crimewatch site from what she could tell. Looking for tips about Bigelow, probably. She kept herself to the second bedroom, lying on one of the twin beds and wracking her brain trying to figure out who was behind the murders and the frame-up. Every name she came up with, she ended up discarding.
Desperate for a diversion, she abandoned her sanctuary, flopped onto the green corduroy couch in the main room and switched on the TV. Before long she found local news. She got a quick shock. The top story was about her.
She punched up the volume just as nighttime video of her abandoned white Kia Sephia rental car, surrounded by cops and yellow crime tape, filled the small screen.
A chill ran through her body. A woman reporter’s voice boomed from the TV. “—found last night and was towed to a police facility for DNA tests and other analysis. Police have confirmed that wanted serial-murder suspect Annette Rowell rented the vehicle at Orange County airport six days ago, only hours before bestselling novelist Michael Ellsworth was slashed to death in his Corona del Mar home.”
Reid abandoned the computer and came to sit on the arm of the couch. “So they finally found the car,” he murmured.
Annie didn’t look his way. Her eyes were glued to the screen, which now showed a blonde reporter standing where Annie had left the car. “Police
will not speculate on why Rowell abandoned the vehicle in this Hollywood neighborhood fifty miles from the scene of Ellsworth’s murder.
“One theory is that Rowell hoped for assistance from her longtime literary agent, Frankie Morsie, who resides in LA’s affluent Hancock Park neighborhood.” Next came a shot of Frankie’s house, in all its Spanish stucco glory. “Morsie stunned investigators today when he held a news conference to announce that he spoke with Rowell yesterday when she showed up at his home.”
Annie’s hands flew to her face. “Oh. My. God.”
Frankie appeared on-screen, his hair slicked back in a ponytail and his jowly face flushed. He stood in front of his house with reporters’ microphones jammed in his face. “I had a confidential one-on-one with my client last night. I can tell you she’s innocent of these crimes. I think the police are on some kind of witch hunt. I urge people to buy Ms. Rowell’s books before they’re banned by the establishment.”
Reid and Annie both laughed. Annie cheered. “Thank you, Frankie!”
The video shifted to a large outdoor gathering in an urban public square. “Is that San Francisco?” Reid asked.
Again the reporter’s voice. “Echoing Morsie’s assertions that Annette Rowell is innocent, the fugitive’s mother and stepfather, Cynthia and Arlie Rowell, organized a protest this morning in San Francisco’s Civic Center, charging federal and local law enforcement with harassing their daughter.”
The video switched to a shot of Annie’s mother, wielding a bullhorn and wearing a yellow tee shirt with the words Free Annie now! emblazoned in red and black. “Thousands of innocent people are being brutalized by the corrupt military/industrial complex. And my daughter is one of them. She is not guilty of anything and still she is being hounded. No to police violence and incompetence! Yes to justice! Free Annie now! Free Annie now!”
The crowd took up the chant. Annie watched several hundred strangers shout her name. There was her stepdad next to her mother, his fist pumping the air with every syllable. And behind Arlie, equally energized, was her writing student Kevin Zeering.
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