Reid was less ready to cross Kevin Zeering off the suspect list but was forced to quiet down when it came time to place their drive-thru order. Annie did the talking to avoid the possibility of Reid’s voice being recognized. He traded cash for food at the pick-up window and merged back into light early evening traffic.
“I cannot believe how hungry I am.” Annie dove into the French fries and pushed one into Reid’s mouth.
“I’ll kill you if you finish that before we get back to the cabin.”
She ate one more fry then forced herself to set the bags in the footwell. A new thought occurred to her. “We can’t stay at the cabin.”
“I know.”
“He found me there once. He might think he can find me there again.” And he’d be right.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be gone in a matter of hours. And if he comes for you during that time, I’ll be ready.” The .38 hadn’t relocated from Reid’s waistband.
“Where to, then? Because every time I think about it, I come up with only one possibility.”
“Some sort of no tell motel.”
“Where we can pay with cash and check in without having to answer a lot of questions.” She thought for a moment as an idea took root in her brain. “Is there any reason not to move closer to Santa Barbara?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Because I stayed at a little motel just outside of town when I went to Maggie Boswell’s signing party. I didn’t want to spend a lot of money and I found this place on-line. I bet it would do the trick.” There was also a certain comfort to returning to a place with which she had some familiarity.
“They might recognize you, though. That was just a few weeks ago.”
“The clerk was really distracted when he checked me in. He was on his cell fighting with his girlfriend or somebody. I seriously doubt he’d remember me. Anyway, you’d check us in, and he wouldn’t recognize you any more than anybody else does. By the way, you’re fairly incognito with the cap and sunglasses.”
“Unfortunately, in another hour it’ll be too late to wear the glasses.”
Already the sun was drooping toward the horizon. The oaks and eucalyptus lining the road were casting long shadows.
They drifted into silence for the remainder of the drive. Reid conducted a reconnaissance of the cabin before they reentered, keeping Annie close at hand and his revolver drawn. When all was as they had left it, they settled at the small rustic dining table to devour their meal.
“I don’t give a hoot how much fat and calories this has.” Ten minutes later Annie wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, her burger only a delectable memory. “I’d eat a second one in a heartbeat. Oh God, I just thought of something.” Apropos of nothing, a forgotten image had invaded her memory. It propelled her out of her chair and across the cabin’s front room. “He had a rope. The killer had a rope coiled around his shoulder.”
Reid threw down his crumpled napkin and rose out of his chair. “You think—”
“He was planning to hang me. Oh God.” Annie held her head between her hands, doing her utmost to banish the terrifying scenario she could all too easily imagine. Reid wrapped her in his arms. Eventually she was able to speak again. “I don’t get it, though. None of my books has a hanging. All the other murders mirror one of the victim’s plotlines.”
Reid released her, with obvious reluctance. “I don’t want you thinking about any of that.”
“I have to think about it. I have to figure out what that monster is up to.”
“He must have had some other use in mind for the rope.”
Contemplating what that might have been did little to put Annie’s mind at ease.
*
Sam Trotter hadn’t counted on having to run a media gauntlet to get inside the detention center. But TV satellite trucks crowded the curb and cameramen and reporters mobbed the sidewalk. Several were doing live shots for their evening newscasts. He caught snippets of their reports as he strode past.
“—stunning development that TV crime fighter Reid Gardner may be involved with serial-killer suspect Annette Rowell—”
“—producer Sheila Banerjee has been taken into custody—”
“—no word on the whereabouts of Gardner at this hour—”
Sam marveled at how fast the news hounds descended. When Sheila had been taken into custody earlier that day, there had been no press on hand to witness her humiliation. Most likely some Crimewatch staffer had spilled the beans on her arrest to a fellow media buddy, one phone call led to another, and this frenzy was the result.
Sam could navigate the throng without having microphones thrust in his face, as the media were unaware of his attachment to the case. He entered the facility and went through the requisite security rigmarole. An escort led him to a small visiting room. Minutes later he was alone with the prisoner he had come to see.
She still wore her work clothes, looked even more tired. They took opposing sides at the interview table. That was pro forma but Sam wished the seating weren’t quite so antagonistic. Then again, Sheila Banerjee could hardly feel friendly toward one of the men who’d participated in her arrest.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Less than thrilled to be talking to you.”
“Is there somebody else you’d rather be talking to?”
She gave a short laugh. “You want the list? I warn you, it’s a long one.”
“I know you’re gonna find this hard to believe, but I really am on your side.”
She shook her head as if disgusted. “What’s your name again? Trotter?”
“Sam Trotter.”
She leaned forward. “Listen, Sam Trotter. Don’t bother trying to make nice. Don’t bother trying to massage me into some sort of revelation. I wouldn’t tell you anything even if I had anything to tell. So if that’s what you want, and I’m pretty sure it is, let me go back to my cell. Because you’re wasting both our time.”
“Seems to me you have a fair amount of time to waste.”
“I never have time to waste. I’ve got a show to put on the air Friday, and if I don’t, there’ll be hell to pay. Tell that to your boss, who has zero grounds for these trumped-up charges he’s filed against me. He can expect a civil lawsuit filed by my attorney before the week is over.”
Sam leaned back in his metal chair, drummed his fingers on the table. “I can see that a few hours in lockup haven’t softened you up.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said since you got here.”
He had to smile. It appeared Simpson would be right and he wouldn’t get anything out of this woman. Anyway, he enjoyed trying. He decided on a new tack. “Some of your buddies are outside.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your media pals. They’re outside in full force. Doing live shots.”
Her lovely olive skin seemed to pale. “About … me?”
“You. And Reid Gardner.”
He watched her process the information. Then, “Well, they smell blood.”
Almost everything she said surprised him. “That’s not a very complimentary observation about your own profession.”
“They’re doing a job and they’re upfront about it. That’s more than I can say for you.”
“How am I being deceptive?”
“You trot out all this false concern, like you did back at the studio. Telling me you’re worried about Reid, you’re worried about me. All to get me to divulge something I don’t even know.”
“I don’t give a damn about Gardner. But I am being honest when I say I’m concerned about you.”
Those brown eyes of hers narrowed. “And why would that be? You just met me this morning.”
“Let’s say you’ve had an effect on me. You’re a very attractive woman and you’re obviously very loyal as well. In my opinion, your loyalty to Reid Gardner is misplaced but that doesn’t mean I find it any less admirable.”
“Next time I’m looking for a job recommendation, I’l
l keep you in mind.”
“You may need one if this keeps playing out the way it is now. Gardner’s in serious trouble and probably in serious danger. If he loses his life, Crimewatch is gone. It may disappear even if he survives, given that he’s aiding and abetting a serial killer.”
She rose from the table, leaned over it toward him. “If by some chance what you say is true and Reid is in danger, my biggest concern is hardly my job.” She strode to the door and rapped on it. “Guard,” she called. Then she gave Sam a sidelong glare. “And tell Lionel Simpson not to send over any more of his minions. The only person I intend to speak to is my lawyer.”
She was gone. Sam signed out of the center thwarted and exhilarated at the same time. He found Simpson in the agency field office, where he’d set up shop in a conference room. Files, photos, laptops cluttered the long table, along with a seriously picked-over tray of Mexican food. Sam helped himself to a burrito that was cold to the touch but would have to do.
Simpson looked up after Sam had gotten down two bites. “Well? Any luck?”
Sam swallowed, then answered. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“She didn’t tell you squat?” Simpson produced a wry chuckle. “Better sit down. I’m about to be right for the second time today.”
*
“That idea is beyond terrible,” Reid said. “No way will I agree to that.”
Reid and Annie sat next to each other on the king-sized bed in the Santa Barbara motel Annie had suggested as their new safe haven. Reid had pulled out all the stops to make absolutely certain they weren’t followed from the cabin. Now pillows propped up their backs and both had kicked off their shoes to avoid dirtying the faded floral coverlet, though clearly prior guests hadn’t bothered to take the same precaution. The TV across the small room was muted but tuned to a local station whose 9 PM news would begin in less than three minutes. At the moment their entertainment was being provided by the vociferous couple next door, who couldn’t agree whether to bail out their eldest son. Reid got the idea that the hard line would carry the day. He approved. He couldn’t do the same when it came to the cockamamie plan Annie had just proposed.
“Another advantage of luring the killer back to me,” she went on, “is that we don’t have to figure out who he is. We simply lay our trap and wait for him to show up. That’s a huge benefit because we have wracked our brains for weeks and still haven’t been able to identify him.”
“Luring the killer is way too dangerous. Granted, I would be keeping an eye on you. Granted, I’m armed. But a million things could go wrong. And if any one of them did, you’d be dead.”
Somehow, even after Annie had been literally in the killer’s grasp, she didn’t understand the fundamental truth that Reid had learned five years before: You did not take this kind of risk. You did not do it, regardless how tempting, how high your confidence, how seemingly foolproof your plan. You did not play Catch Me If You Can with a killer, for one very simple reason: the cost of failure was death.
Annie knew that in her head but didn’t know it in her soul. That, Reid had to conclude, was the difference between them.
“End of discussion,” he said when she began anew to protest. He grabbed the TV remote and punched up the volume, drowning out both Annie and the couple next door with the newscast’s pulsating opening theme. “Let’s see if we’re the top story.”
They were and they weren’t.
An elder statesman anchor was speaking over video of a detention center. “In a stunning development in the ongoing search for serial-killer suspect Annette Rowell, Crimewatch producer Sheila Banerjee remains in custody at this hour on potential obstruction of justice charges. Sources say that even though Banerjee has the right to remain silent, investigators may compel her to give testimony under oath.” The video switched to file footage of Reid. “Reports indicate that investigators believe Banerjee is hiding information about the whereabouts of Crimewatch host Reid Gardner, who is thought to be on the run with Rowell.” The black-and-white photo of Annie that appeared in her books filled the screen. “Rowell, the subject of a nationwide manhunt, may be responsible for as many as four murders, the most recent that of bestselling mystery author Michael Ellsworth.”
The story that followed produced no new information. Reid shut off the TV.
“If Sheila’s forced to appear in court, she could plead the fifth,” Annie said.
Sheila could remain silent, Reid knew, but that wouldn’t necessarily end the matter. If she opened her mouth and spoke the truth, most likely she’d be in the clear, though she hadn’t exactly been helpful to Simpson and Company in recent days. If she lied, though, she would be liable for prosecution.
As her friend, what would he counsel her to do? There was one very obvious answer to that question.
Reid levered himself off the bed. Because Sheila loved him, and was loyal to him, she was in a jail cell. Her reputation, until this morning unassailable, was thanks to him taking an incalculable hit. She had lost her freedom; the people who loved her were frantic; and there was no end in sight.
“How can I ever make this up to her?” He asked the question of himself as much as he did of Annie.
“I have to believe that when all is said and done, when we find the killer, when it’s clear that I’m innocent of these murders, Sheila will understand that you did the right thing, the only thing you could do, and you won’t have to make anything up to her.”
It wasn’t that simple. There was no getting around the fact that he’d jeopardized everything that mattered to Sheila on the basis of a gut feeling that had been driven, at least in part, by his libido. She wouldn’t be quick to forgive that, and he couldn’t blame her.
He felt Annie’s eyes on him as he pulled out his laptop. “I’m going to soak in the tub,” she said to his back. “It helps me plot. Maybe it’ll help me figure this out.” Seconds later she shut the bathroom door and he heard water spill from the tub’s spigot. Though he felt churlish to admit it, he was grateful for the solitude.
She had thrown him earlier when she said she accepted that he didn’t want to get serious. It seemed an example of being careful what to wish for. Was he such a cad that he hated not having the emotional upper hand? Or was it that he couldn’t stand the possibility that she would leave him if he didn’t make her happy?
He wondered to what extent he’d simply gotten comfortable with his Get Larry Bigelow obsession. In a way it kept Donna by his side. Dead though she might be, she wasn’t in his past. Not really. She was front and center every waking day.
And all of this meant he was being royally unfair to Annie. He wanted to keep her without committing to her. He wanted her to be ready and willing should he one day decide he did want to get serious. Which might not ever happen. Because it depended on nailing a fugitive he’d spent five years chasing.
Reid’s laptop booted up, he went to the Crimewatch site tips line, which he hadn’t visited in more than 24 hours. As drawn as any addict to his drug of choice, he focused on the Bigelow tips first. There was the usual motley assortment of sightings, some described with precision and literary finesse, others barely coherent. One that fell in the top half of that spectrum caught his eye. Then got his pulse racing.
It wasn’t just that the age and physical descriptors fit the bill, or that the guy went by the name Lenny Barnwell, which boasted the same initials as Bigelow’s real name. It was the item noted under “additional physical description.”
The guy has a tatt on his bicep that looks like an 8 ball except that its not an 8 in the white circle its the letter B.
How would the tipster know that much about the tattoo unless he’d seen it with his own eyes? In the only photograph of Bigelow aired on Crimewatch, the tattoo was difficult to see, impossible to describe. In addition, this tip went so far as to include a photo of the suspected perp, which was unusual but not unheard of. It was a grainy shot taken in poor lighting across a subterranean parking lot, probably from a cell phone. Re
id enlarged it. There was no question the guy in question bore a strong resemblance to Bigelow. And there on his skinny arm was the tattoo.
The guy works as a security guard at an apartment building in Encino. My girlfriend lives there so I see him every once in a while. I told her to stay away from him. I dont like the look of him. She says hes been there since she moved in, about six months ago. They got a different guy weekends. This guys there overnight during the week.
Tipsters were asked to provide a level of sureness on a one-to-ten scale. This tipster had entered a nine.
Reid didn’t trust tens. In his view, a ten reflected cockiness on the part of the tipster. A nine he gave more weight. A nine showed a great deal confidence in the tip yet some degree of prudence.
It wouldn’t surprise Reid that Bigelow was working as a security guard. He knew it was far from difficult to obtain a fake security guard license, which Bigelow would have had to do given his felony record. He’d been arrested half a dozen times in the years before he killed Donna, and convicted once, of carrying a concealed firearm. The justice system being what it was, that had landed him in jail for less than a year.
Reid googled the San Fernando Valley address the tipster provided, then switched from a map to a street view. It showed an upscale apartment complex, on the large side, the sort that had the resources to provide a security guard as an amenity. Though if it were Bigelow on patrol, that was no perk.
Reid glanced at his watch. 9:27 PM. Monday night.
This guys there overnight during the week.
Reid could get there in just over an hour.
He rose, paced. Was it insane to leave Annie alone to follow up on this tip? Or was the true folly to let this chance pass him by, when in all likelihood—given the precautions he’d taken moving them from the cabin to this hotel—Annie would be just fine during the short time he’d be gone?
Chasing Venus Page 27