Chasing Venus

by Diana Dempsey

  He saw her teetering, her years of faith in him battered but not destroyed. And he knew faith wasn’t the only thing keeping her on his side.

  “I am just so afraid that we’ll lose everything we have spent the last five years building.” She raised her eyes to his, eyes that were exhausted and sad and sorry. “Tell me that won’t happen.”

  “It won’t.” He wished that had sounded more convincing. “It won’t,” he repeated. “And you can hold out, I know you can. You’re one of the strongest women I know, Sheila.” And Annie was the other.

  She picked up her handbag and walked out. He heard her engine turn over, heard her Jetta’s tires crunch on the gravel as she headed down the lane toward the main road.

  He knew in the marrow of his bones that she would stay quiet. That meant he’d accomplished one of his goals. Now for the other.

  He went to his truck to get his gun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Monday morning, bright and early, Lionel Simpson led Mark Higuchi and Sam Trotter into the Crimewatch building. They were buzzed in by a no-nonsense receptionist Simpson thought could work as a jail matron if the show ever cut her loose.

  She watched them approach the fortress of her desk. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “We’re here to see Reid Gardner,” Simpson replied.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She arched a brow, then picked up a telephone and pushed a button. “Rhonda, some gentlemen from the FBI are here to see Reid.” She paused. “No, no appointment.” Another beat, then, “That’s what I thought.” She set down the receiver and again raised her cool brown gaze. “I’m sorry but Mr. Gardner isn’t here right now.”

  Even though Simpson knew that Gardner practically lived at the Crimewatch studios on weekdays, somehow he wasn’t surprised. “When is he expected in?”

  “His assistant can’t say. But you’re welcome to wait.” She indicated the cooling-one’s-heels area with a wave of her fleshy arm.

  “Is Sheila Banerjee here?” Simpson asked.

  Another raised brow; another brief phone call. This time, a different answer. “She’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Simpson, Higuchi, and Trotter edged away from the reception desk and huddled. “So Gardner’s not here,” Trotter said in a low voice. “And he never made it home last night after he lost me. So where the hell is he?”

  “Wherever he is,” Higuchi said, “he’s still posting to the Crimewatch message boards.”

  Simpson had taken note of those late-night and early-morning postings. Very odd. The guy evades a tail but makes a point of participating in on-line discussions?

  Simpson turned when Sheila Banerjee entered the reception area. Her clothing looked work-ready—slim gray skirt and red silk blouse—but the drawn look on her face and purple shadows beneath her eyes screamed that she hadn’t had a restful weekend. “Lionel.” She shook his hand, gave his companions an inquisitive look.

  “This is my colleague, Agent Mark Higuchi,” Simpson said, “and LAPD Officer Sam Trotter.”

  “Gentlemen.” She shook their hands, then pivoted again toward Simpson. “Two mornings in a row, Lionel? I’m honored.”

  “May we speak in private?”

  She didn’t answer, merely led them inside the sanctum sanctorum and down a narrow hallway flanked by cramped offices and even more minuscule editing bays, the latter darkened to near pitch-black conditions. The audio emanating from the open doorways gave this away as a cop-show production facility. The sound of staccato gunshots burst out of one bay; sirens and female screams wailed out of another. Sheila motioned them into a glass-walled conference room and shut the door behind her. Here the only noise was the overhead buzz of fluorescent lights.

  She strode to the opposite side of the table as if to put as much distance as possible between herself and them. They were on opposing sides, Simpson knew. And he’d had just about enough of it.

  Every law-enforcement instinct he’d honed over three decades of experience told him that Gardner was tied up with Annette Rowell and that Sheila Banerjee knew about it and wasn’t telling. That was going to end. Here. Now.

  He wasted no time getting to the point. “Sheila, we’re looking for Reid. Where is he?”

  She gave a short laugh. “I could have answered that question out in reception. I don’t know.”

  “How could you not know? It’s Monday morning and he should either be here in the building or out with a crew shooting. Or is he on vacation? Even then, you should know where he is.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “For your information, I am not his keeper.”

  “Sheila, I have had just about enough of this runaround.” Simpson felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. “Last night, Reid willfully evaded an officer of the law. We don’t know where he went except that he didn’t return home. One thing we do know is that you phoned him on his cell minutes before he went AWOL. Now what did you two talk about that put him on the run?”

  She started ticking off on her fingers. “Number one, I am under no obligation to share with you the details of my private conversations. Number two, I take exception to your characterization of Reid as being ‘on the run.’ And number three, whose phone calls are you monitoring, anyway? Mine? His? Or both of ours? What gives you the right? I want to see your subpoena.”

  Big show of defiance there. She was way feistier than she had been 24 hours before. Either she had something to hide, too, or Gardner had done a good job bucking her up. Out of the corner of his eye, Simpson saw Trotter glance at Higuchi as if to say, Whoa. She’s no pushover.

  Simpson ignored every question she asked and posed another of his own. “Where did he tell you he was going last night on that phone call?” She turned away, fixed her gaze on the smog-draped urban landscape beyond the conference-room windows. Simpson kept speaking to her back. “Was he meeting up with Annette Rowell? Is that where he was going?”

  She shook her head. “You are so convinced he’s with her. I don’t know why you continue to insist on that when there is absolutely nothing to back it up.”

  “There’s plenty to back it up.” He began walking around the conference table, getting closer to her, layering on the pressure. “Did he tell you about going to Vegas?”

  “Vegas?” She sounded surprised before she visibly clamped down on any show of emotion. “No.”

  “He told me he went to Vegas this past weekend.” He edged closer. “Did he go back?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “He told me he went to hire a hooker. Or two. He led me to believe that’s not unusual behavior for him.”

  He was close to her now. He stared at her profile, wondering what effect hardball might have. He watched Sheila Banerjee swallow hard but say nothing. He persisted. “This man you’re protecting, Sheila. This man that you tell me you respect so much. He routinely fucks prostitutes.”

  That time she flinched.

  “I also think he’s fucking Annette Rowell. That’s what I think.” Simpson edged right up next to her. “You, he had no time for. Not like that. But Annette Rowell? I bet he’s fucking her this very minute. And I bet you think he is, too.”

  *

  He’s baiting you. Don’t let him get away with it.

  Sheila shut her eyes. This was a nightmare Monday morning after a nightmare Sunday night. Not a speck of sleep. Incessant worry, about the feds coming after her and about Reid. The feds had. And Reid? She had no idea. Was he dead? Alive? When would he come to his senses? When would she?

  She couldn’t believe she was still lying for him. And why? To keep his lady love out of custody? A woman he’d known for mere weeks, who could well be a killer. A woman to whom he’d proposed marriage, from what she could tell. Half the time, she thought he’d taken a sabbatical from his sanity. The other half, his words, his pleas, pounded her brain like a jackhammer. Trust me just a little while longer. We’re close to catching the person who’s been kil
ling these authors. Don’t lose faith now. Not when we’re so close.

  She pivoted to face Simpson. “I don’t appreciate your language. This is a place of business, not a gutter. And besides, you can swear at me till kingdom come and it won’t make a damn bit of difference. You’re wasting your breath. I don’t know where Reid is.”

  Simpson shook his head as if in regret. “You baffle me, Sheila. You’re an intelligent woman. Why are you being so stupid about this?”

  “I am being nothing of the kind. You’re the one who’s obsessed with ideas that have no basis in reality.”

  “Do you understand the trouble that protecting him will get you in? I understand that Reid’s your boss and that you feel a certain loyalty. But how is he repaying you? By putting you in jeopardy to protect him?”

  She steeled herself against his words. It was uncanny, Simpson’s ability to get her where she lived. He preyed on one emotion after the next, probing for a weakness. Jealousy. Pride. Fear.

  And she had plenty to be afraid of. Felony criminal charges, like aiding and abetting. Obstructing justice. All because Annette Rowell’s DNA was spewed all over her family’s cabin.

  But if she kept her mouth shut, they wouldn’t have proof. They might suspect, but they couldn’t know for sure.

  “May I say something here?”

  She spun around. It was the bad-boy-looking cop, with the mussed dark hair and the five o’clock shadow.

  “I’m Sam Trotter with the LAPD. I was tailing your boss last night until he slipped me. There’s something else you should take into consideration, Ms. Banerjee.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “We think Reid Gardner’s in serious danger. We think he doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with. Annette Rowell has already killed four people and may be plotting to kill more. If he’s with her, he could be next.”

  “He can take care of himself.” It slipped out before she could stop it.

  Sam Trotter rested his fists on the conference table and leaned closer. His dark eyes bored into hers. “Are you saying he is with her?”

  “I’m saying I am not his keeper and I am not his protector.”

  Sam Trotter didn’t blink. Apparently he’d acquired that talent, too, just like Simpson. “Are you his friend?”

  “That’s hardly a news flash.”

  “Then tell us where he is. You don’t want him dying. But you need help to keep him alive. That’s where we come in.”

  She held Trotter’s stare. “You’re all so convinced I know where he is. I’m telling you I don’t.”

  Simpson spoke this time. “So that’s your story and you’re sticking to it?” She didn’t like the sound of that. He kept talking. “You and I both know that you’re impeding a serial-homicide investigation. It’s unprofessional. It’s unethical. And may I remind you, Sheila …” He paused as if for effect. “It’s illegal.”

  She refused to tremble. She wouldn’t give Simpson or anyone else in that conference room the satisfaction.

  “You’ve got one last chance,” Simpson said. “Is there anything you want to tell us?”

  One last chance before what? She found out in the next heartbeat, when Simpson nodded at the man called Higuchi. He approached her from around the conference table, bearing a set of handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—”

  She’d heard the Miranda warning a thousand times. She’d edited hours of videotape in which a cop cuffed someone’s hands behind his back. In fact, whenever she saw it, it was a triumph. It meant that a Crimewatch tip had helped snare a fugitive. Yet this time it was a whole different story, this time when she felt that cold steel encircling her own wrists.

  She held her head high. She ignored the shocked stares of her coworkers as Higuchi paraded her down the studio’s narrow halls. She pretended she didn’t hear the gasps, didn’t notice the frenzy as people tumbled out of editing bays, exited cubicles, fell over each other craning for a look. She maintained her composure as she walked out of the studio into a waiting black-and-white. She got a flash of Sam Trotter’s face—brow creased, mouth grim—as he slammed the cruiser’s door shut after her.

  She sat ramrod straight on the cracked Naugahyde seat. Her life had become like a jail cell in these last weeks, and the only warden bearing a key was Reid.

  This merely formalized the arrangement.

  *

  Dripping wet, Reid pushed open the shower door. He grabbed a towel off the rack, draped it over his head and began to rub his hair dry.

  He was back in the cabin after a sleepless night trolling the hills. One question screamed over and over in his head. Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?

  He’d covered acres of terrain and seen no sign of Annie. No hint of her. She’d headed east when she fled; he could tell from the tracks that led away from the bathroom window. He saw no reason why she would have changed direction. Eventually she would have stumbled upon Ojai, the town nestled in the valley.

  If she got that far.

  He jerked the towel off his head, bent to rub his legs. The truth was that she might not have gotten far at all. The killer might have gotten her. Her body could be out there. Reid knew he could easily have missed it; in fact, it was most likely he had. He was a one-man search party, with one pair of eyes. He was searching a wooded area, with all the underbrush that entailed. And most of the time he’d been searching in the dark. Not that his dawn perusal had turned up anything, either.

  The skin on his legs burned from the roughness of his rubbing. He twisted the towel around his back, made the skin there burn, too.

  What did he do now? Not go back to LA. LA be damned. Crimewatch be damned. He wouldn’t leave these hills until he found her.

  He wrenched the towel around his torso, tucked the edge in so it would stay put, and stepped out of the shower. She’s alive, he informed his reflection, blurry in the steam-fogged mirror that fronted the medicine cabinet. He raked his fingers through his damp hair and reached for the .38 he’d balanced atop the shower stall. He jammed the gun in his makeshift waistband and half-wished the killer would show up so he’d have an excuse to use it.

  Come and get me, you bastard. He set his jaw and stomped down the short hall toward the main room. Let’s have this out. You and me.

  He bent over the computer and for the umpteenth time went on-line. His eyes ran down the Crimewatch message boards. There were both his postings, with plenty of replies from people he didn’t give a damn about. But there was no response from Annie, nothing using the code words they’d agreed on.

  Tap. Tap. He spun around. His heart thumped in his chest.

  There in the front window, finger poised against the glass. Wide-eyed. Pale. Annie.

  He ran to the front door, pulled it open. She collapsed onto his chest. She looked like an urchin and felt like a dream. Her fingers dug into his arms; her breath was hot and moist against his skin.

  “You’re all right.” It took him a second or two to realize he was the one who’d spoken. In those few heartbeats he hadn’t been quite able to tell where he stopped and she began. He clutched her tighter. “I looked for you all night. I was about to go out and look again.”

  “I saved you the trouble.” She stepped back, managed a wan smile. “I came back here when I saw you’d posted on the boards.”

  “I almost gave up hope that you’d see it. You got onto a computer somewhere?”

  “In Ojai. At the library.”

  He was amazed. “You made it that far?”

  There was a long story in those green eyes of hers. He took her hand, tried to pull her inside the cabin. She halted on the threshold. “It’s okay,” he told her. Still she didn’t budge. Finally she spoke. “I don't like how it feels to be back here.”

  “You’re safe now.” True, as far as that went. Yet would she be safe in an hour? Two? He couldn’t promise that, not
for either of them. He tugged on her hand and she stepped forward another pace. It was like pulling a child into pre-school on the first day.

  “I was in the bathroom when he got in,” she said. “Brushing my teeth.”

  Her comment was apropos of nothing and everything at the same time. Reid stilled. He tried not to visualize the scene, but his imagination spooled out the picture in excruciating detail.

  “He was all in black. Ski mask. Gloves.” She looked away and Reid knew she was conjuring the image of the killer in her mind. “I slammed the bathroom door shut and locked it but he was still here.” Her eyes moved toward Reid then, and there was a memory in them he would have given anything to erase. “He broke down the door.”

  Reid was still holding her hand. He squeezed it. “I know.”

  “He wanted to kill me.”

  Reid was silent. He followed us here to do it. He watched us. And he waited for his opening, for me to leave. That meant the killer had watched them in LA, too. He had his eyes on Annie from the moment she fled Corona del Mar.

  All those days in Glendale they had felt relatively safe? Fake. An illusion.

  So where was he now? Watching still?

  “Why does he want to kill me?” Annie shook her head, her eyes pained. “I don’t understand. I thought he just wanted to frame me. What good does it do him to kill me?” She started to tremble. Her knees buckled.

  Reid lunged forward and lifted her into his arms, her body light as a rag doll. He kicked the door shut, then carried her to the couch and laid her down. He crouched beside her and saw clearly the telltale signs of her pitched flight. The bloodied scratches on her arms, some frighteningly deep. The dirt and grass smears on her jeans and tee shirt. The caked mud on her sneakers.

  He had had a moment or two of doubting her when he’d first gotten back to the cabin the prior night. Now he wondered how that was possible.

  She noticed his appraisal and chuckled weakly, a semblance of the old Annie. “You should have seen how people stared at me in the library. I felt like a freak.”