Chasing Venus

by Diana Dempsey

  “Kevin. Wow.” How odd was that, Kevin Zeering at a rally in her support? Then again, it wasn’t odd at all. He was a major fan, bordering on obsessive. She hadn’t thought about him all week, since the last class she’d taught eight days before. It felt like a lifetime.

  “Who’s Kevin?” Reid moved from the couch’s arm to sit beside her on the cushions.

  “Kevin’s that clean-cut guy behind my mother.”

  The video cut to a still black-and-white photograph of Maggie Boswell at a book signing, over which the reporter spoke. “The San Francisco protestors aren’t the only people who believe in Rowell’s innocence. So does the bereaved husband of victim Maggie Boswell.”

  A bespectacled Charles Waring stood in front of the expansive Santa Barbara home he had shared with his wife. “Police are clearly bungling the investigation. I know Annette Rowell and don’t believe for a second she committed these murders.”

  Annie knew that Charles had written the same thing on the Annette Rowell Facebook page, where she posted news about her books and interacted with fans. He was one of thousands voicing support for her.

  The blonde reporter reappeared on a studio set. “Those opinions aside, investigators remain focused on Annette Rowell and say they’re following several leads to capture her. One source tells me that with this new information pinpointing her recent location, they’re confident they’ll catch her soon.”

  Reid picked up the remote and jabbed the power button. The screen faded to black. Annie felt his eyes on her face. “You okay?” he asked.

  A two-word question to which the only truthful answer was a diatribe. Well, my heart’s breaking again, this time thanks to you. I don’t know when I’ll see my mom next, if ever. And now that the cops know I was in LA last night, I won’t be too hard to catch and put behind bars. After which will follow my trial for serial murder. So she settled for a two-word lie. “I’m fine.”

  “Was it hard to see your folks? I think it’s great what they’re doing, by the way. I don’t always agree with this kind of protest but I do this time.”

  “I thought they’d probably do something like this. I doubt it’ll help, though.”

  He was silent for a while, then cleared his throat. “Annie, there’s something we need to discuss.”

  She rose and moved a distance away, shaking her head. “We’ve had enough of that, don’t you think? Believe me, you don’t need to hammer home your point any more than you already have.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that I have to go. It was okay for me to stay here during the day but now I have to get back to LA. I have to go to work tomorrow. I have to make it look as if everything’s normal, as if nothing’s changed. Especially since they found the rental car.”

  “When are you leaving?” She asked, though she knew.

  “I should get going pretty soon.”

  “What does this mean for me?” She glanced around the cabin, with its thin doors and flimsy locks and nothing-ever-happens-here window bolts. The nonexistent security was all well and good with Reid there, but it was quite a different matter with him gone.

  He rubbed his forehead. “We may need to move you again.” He paused, then, “I should go over all this again with Sheila.”

  “Are you worried she’ll rat me out to the feds?”

  “No. But I do need to make sure that no one in her family is coming up here. I imagine we’re safe given that tomorrow’s Monday but I still want to talk to her about it.”

  That sounded plausible. And also like a half truth.

  “You and I have to be very careful how we communicate,” he went on. “Now that the rental car’s been found, I’ll bet Simpson’s put me under surveillance. I’ll bet he’s already checked my cell-phone records.”

  “Then he would know you got a call from a pay phone in Hollywood last night. From a street corner near Frankie’s house.”

  “And he knows when you were at Frankie’s house. Not long before the call was placed.”

  “He’ll have put two and two together.” Or one and one.

  Reid rose from the couch and motioned her to the computer. “I got an idea how we can communicate.” He sat down and punched a few keys, his eyes on the screen. “This computer’s a castoff from Crimewatch. I let Sheila give it to her folks to use up here and I set it up. Okay, now write this down.”

  A few minutes later she was newly impressed with Reid’s cunning. “That’s a good idea. I can’t imagine anybody figuring it out.”

  “Someone will eventually. But it’ll work for a while. Annie?” He turned to face her. “We will nail whoever is behind all this.”

  When? How?

  “You’ll be fine here,” he went on. “There’s plenty of food. There’s nobody to bother you. You’ll rest, you’ll think, you’ll come up with something. Or I will.”

  He rose and pulled his wallet from his jeans pocket. “Let me give you some cash.” He handed her a wad of bills, which she accepted. This was no time for false pride. Then he stilled, apparently fresh out of practicalities and pep talk.

  Annie felt the two of them caught in that awkward moment before parting. She dreaded his departure yet wanted to get it over with. Her feet began to move toward the cabin’s front door. He followed.

  With his hand on the knob, their eyes met. She read regret in his gaze, and reluctance. She’d been pleased all day, and a little surprised, that he hadn’t left. Especially after the argument they’d had. Maybe he didn’t want to leave her now, either; he simply had to. But it came down to the same thing in the end.

  “We’re close to finding the killer, Annie. I believe that.”

  She couldn’t make herself respond. She balled her fingers into fists to keep from trembling again.

  “In a few hours,” he went on, “go online and look for a message from me.”

  She nodded.

  He hesitated, then jerked the door open and walked out. She wanted to believe he was abrupt because he feared that if he didn’t leave her then, he wouldn’t leave her at all.

  The rays of the sun were slanting low in the sky. It was nearing the end of a pretty May day. Annie stood at the window and watched Reid’s truck make a U-turn on the cabin’s graveled lot, then disappear down the lane that led to the main road.

  *

  A few hours later, after an uneventful drive to LA, Reid arrived home. How much had changed in the last 24 hours, and how little. Saturday night he’d been worried as hell, pacing the floor because he hadn’t heard from Annie and didn’t know where she’d disappeared to. Sunday night he knew where she was but worried still. It was a quandary he couldn’t solve. He couldn’t stand her being alone but couldn’t be with her.

  Except in one way.

  He booted up his laptop computer, logged on to the web, and made his way to the Crimewatch site. There was heavy traffic but there always was in the evening, the witching hours for the show’s young, male demographic. He clicked on the message boards and, as he had told Annie he would, scanned for the thread that started just after the top of the hour. As it happened, the discussion had to do with the effectiveness of Amber Alerts, the emergency-response system designed to help rescue children kidnapped by predators.

  Reid’s fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard as he typed his post. He frequently weighed in on the message boards, so no one familiar with them would find his presence odd. If anything, his recent absence was more notable.

  RG here. For what it’s worth, I’m a big fan of the Amber Alert system. Like Crimewatch, it asks the public for tips to help apprehend criminals. That’s why it’s effective. I’ll grant you it’s not perfect but we haven’t yet devised a system to handle the staggering pace of child abductions.

  It was a simple post but would do the trick of reassuring Annie that he was home and safe. He leaned back, imagining her looking for his post, reading it, realizing they were still tethered together, even if only in cyberspace.

  Though in truth, the ties between them were mu
ch more than electronic. And they were more than shared experience and sex and a joint mission. Despite what he had told her, despite all his own internal protestations, he knew every time he left her and every time he saw her again that she was deeply under his skin, inching toward his heart, so close to grabbing it away.

  She told him he had a problem. He knew that. He also knew that if she was sick of it, he had been for years. He was sick of his obsessive pursuit of Bigelow, sick of never catching him. Sometimes he was sick of his memories of Donna. It could be tiresome living with a saint, a vaunted status Donna had never held when she was alive. But in death she’d been canonized, set on a pedestal only the dearly departed could reach. Yet none of that meant he could walk away.

  The doorbell rang. He frowned. Sheila, maybe? Why wouldn’t she call first? He walked to the front door, peered through the peephole.

  It was Simpson.

  If he’d doubted he was under surveillance before, he didn’t now. Whoever was tailing him had no doubt called Simpson the moment Reid’s truck appeared on the block. Meaning there was no way he could pretend he wasn’t home.

  He took a deep breath and pulled open the door. “Lionel. This is a surprise.” He waved the older man in. “Don’t tell me you’re on the job Sunday night.”

  “I’m on the job night and day, Reid.” Simpson halted in the foyer and turned to face him. “Weekdays and weekends. Just like you.”

  Keep it light, Reid thought. He ambled toward the kitchen. “Well, it’s still off hours, so you want a beer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Reid got one for himself and twisted off the cap. “What brings you here?” He took a swig of his beer and let his eyes go wide. “Don’t tell me you got something new on Bigelow. I know I asked you the other day to beat the bushes.”

  “Yesterday. Yesterday morning you asked me.”

  “Right.” Apparently to Simpson, yesterday morning didn’t seem like another lifetime.

  “Mind if we sit down?”

  “Be my guest.” Reid stretched out his beer-laden arm to indicate the living room. Simpson made himself at home on the sofa and Reid sat in the only other available spot, an overstuffed chair he should have tossed ages ago. He watched the agent glance around, fix his eyes on the laptop.

  Simpson cocked his chin at it. “You working, too?”

  “Just scanning the tips coming into the website. As you might imagine, it’s a big pastime for me.” One false statement; one true. Fortunately the screen saver had kicked in so it wasn’t obvious he’d actually been on the message boards.

  Simpson nodded. “What you been up to this weekend?”

  A casual question whose underlying seriousness of purpose could not be disguised. Reid knew he couldn’t lie and claim he’d been home. He’d probably been under surveillance since the prior night when Annie’s rental car had been found. He leaned forward and focused on the blue carpet, his elbows resting on his knees, his beer chilling his hands.

  Finally he raised his eyes to Simpson’s. “Is that the reason for this visit? You want to know what I did this weekend?”

  Simpson shrugged. “I’m just making friendly conversation.”

  “I don’t think so, Lionel.”

  The men eyed each other. At the house next door, the phone rang. And kept ringing until the voicemail picked up. Only then did Simpson speak again.

  “Look, Reid. A few things came up in the last 24 hours. I’m sure they’re nothing more than coincidences but people at the agency are asking questions and so I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Who are these people asking questions?”

  “Your friends, Reid.” Simpson’s gaze behind his eyeglasses was steady. “We’re all your friends.”

  Funny. Until recently Reid had never doubted that. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee, took another swig of his beer. Seconds passed. Finally, “So what are these coincidences you’re talking about?”

  “Well, for one, I happened to hear that you showed up last night at a motel in Hollywood. The Palm Tree Inn. Not the sort of place I’d have expected you to frequent.”

  Now it was officially time for serious damage control. Reid knew he couldn’t deny he’d been there; all he could do was come up with a plausible explanation. He’d given this some thought on the drive back to LA, knowing that he would land on the hot seat given the discovery of Annie’s rental car near the Crimewatch studios.

  “Your information is correct,” he said. “I was there.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Simpson raised his brows. “What does that mean?”

  “That means I had intended to meet someone but she failed to show.”

  “She?”

  “Yes, Lionel. I don’t swing on the other side, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Apparently his weak attempt at humor fell on deaf ears. Simpson’s mien remained as somber as ever. “Who is this woman?”

  This time Reid raised his brows. He laughed. “What, you looking for a little action on the side, big guy? Because I could set you up if need be. But I’d rather not plow the same field, if you don’t mind.”

  “Gardner, I’d appreciate your taking this a little more seriously.” Reid noted his downgrade from first name to surname. “I have a reason for asking the identity of the woman you were planning to meet. So I’ll ask again. Who is she?”

  Reid looked away as if reluctant to say. Then, “Look, it’s a little embarrassing.”

  Simpson said nothing.

  Reid sighed. “All right. Her name’s Brandy.”

  “Brandy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does Brandy have a last name?”

  “Not that I know of.” He matched Simpson’s unblinking stare. “Neither of us has ever really felt the need to get past a first-name basis.”

  “So this is an ongoing relationship?”

  “I’d call it more of an arrangement.”

  Simpson was silent.

  “I’m not proud of it,” Reid went on. “But right now this sort of thing works for me.”

  “So have you met this … Brandy at the Palm Tree Inn before?”

  “No. We meet at different places. That’s part of the, shall we say, appeal.”

  That should be a conversation stopper. Simpson looked away and cleared his throat. Then, “But you say last night she didn’t show up.”

  “No. She called later with some half-assed excuse.” Reid shrugged, noting the new light in the agent’s eyes at the mention of a phone call.

  “What time did she call?”

  “Oh …” Reid squinted as if trying to think back. “I’d say a little after ten.”

  “And she used her cell phone?”

  Nice try. “I’m not sure she owns a cell. At least I’ve never seen her use one. She must’ve called from a pay phone.”

  “And where were you at the time she called?”

  Reid shook his head. “You really need to know that?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He clenched his jaw as if annoyed. Then, “All right, if it’ll make you happy. I was on my way to Vegas.”

  “Vegas?”

  “Only takes about four hours.”

  “You drove last night to Vegas.”

  “And got back tonight. Only a little while before you showed up.” Hint, hint. You’re on to me? Well, I’m on to you, too.

  “And what were you doing in Vegas?”

  Reid eyed Simpson. “You really need to ask?”

  “Do you have any credit-card receipts you could show me?”

  “I didn’t use a credit card. It’s bad enough that I get recognized on these jaunts. I don’t want to leave a paper trail, too, if you follow my drift.”

  “So you have no way to prove that you were there.”

  “Only my word.”

  Which, by the time this is all over, will be worthless. Reid knew he w
as taking a bullet for Annie. But he also knew that this little charade would buy them time. The problem was that all this lying would leave a sour aftertaste in Lionel Simpson’s mouth. Reid’s relationships with the feds, and with local law enforcement, were a huge factor in his success. If those deteriorated, Crimewatch would follow.

  Simpson spoke. “May I speak to this Brandy?”

  “Sure, if you want to. I can’t summon her on a dime, though.” But he could call in a favor if he had to. He could produce a woman who would lie on his behalf. “Let me ask you a question, Lionel. What does it matter where I’ve been the last 24 hours? Since when do you care if I was shacked up at a fleabag motel?”

  Simpson didn’t flinch. “Are you aware that Annette Rowell was seen in Los Angeles last night?”

  “Sure. I follow the news.”

  “Is that how you know? From the news?”

  Reid set down his beer. “What exactly are you asking?”

  “Look, I don’t seriously believe you’re involved in this.” Bullshit. “But you’ve admitted to me in the past that you’ve been interested in this woman. And then suddenly she shows up in LA.” Simpson shrugged. “Of course it’s going to raise questions. Now that we’ve spoken, though, you’ve put my mind at ease.”

  He stopped. Again the men eyed each other. Reid broke the impasse. “Well, I’m glad I could help.”

  Could the lies flow any more thick and fast? Reid guessed Simpson didn’t believe him any more than he believed Simpson. But most likely the agent wanted Reid to think he was off the hook. Maybe then Reid would relax, Simpson would think. Maybe then he’d lead them to Annie.

  Simpson rose from the sofa. “So I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for your time.”

  Reid followed Simpson to the foyer, and decided to maintain the pretense of their conversation. He kept his tone low and confidential. “What we talked about tonight, Lionel. You’ll keep it on the QT?”

  “I’ll do what I can.” The agent turned to face him, his hand on the door knob. “And you’ll contact me if Rowell gets in touch?”

  Reid nodded. “Of course.” He kept his gaze as steady as Simpson’s. He could be disingenuous if need be. In fact, he could be downright deceptive.