Chasing Venus (20 page)

“Don’t worry,” Reid
said.
 
Sometimes it seemed that
phrase had become his mantra.
 
“I’ll
come up with somewhere else for you to stay.
 
You’ll be safe.”

I want to stay with you
.
 
She knew it was self-serving.
 
She knew it made no sense.
 
She knew he was risking a great deal to keep her in his home.
 
But part of her wanted it just the
same.
 
She raised her eyes to
his.
 
“Anyone else we involve, we
put at risk.”

“Anyone else we involve
will be on our side.”
 
He took
another swig of his beer, watching her, then smiled.
 
“Nice trick using the magic marker to
change the license plates, by the way.
 
How’d you think of that?”

He was trying to
distract her.
 
She went with it,
eager herself to avoid thinking about the future.
 
“I used it in my second book.
 
But then it rained so the marker ran.”

“At least we don’t have
that problem this time of year.
 
By
the way, speaking of your books …”
 
He leaned forward and clicked his beer bottle against hers, as if in
toast.
 
“Congratulations.
 
Devil’s
Cradle
is number one on the
New York
Times
bestsellers list.”

For a moment she
couldn’t speak.
 
Then, “You’ve got
to be kidding.”

“I’m dead serious.
 
We got in a piece of tape today that
included a few sound bites from your agent.”

“Frankie?”

“I have to say, he
sounded pretty damn happy for an agent whose client is wanted for serial
murder.”

“What did he say?”

“That they can’t keep
your books on the shelves.
 
That
they’ve all gone back for multiple printings.
 
And that
Devil’s Cradle
has hit number one.”

It was like a news
flash from another planet, it seemed so unbelievable.
 
And so unrelated to her life.
 
Fat lot of good it was doing her, too,
at the moment.

“How long has
Morsie
represented you?” Reid asked.

“From the
beginning.
 
Michael asked him to
read my first novel.
 
Otherwise I’m
sure I never would’ve gotten him.”

“So Michael made the
introduction?”

“He was Michael’s agent
at the time.”

“At the time?
 
They stopped working together?”

“About two years ago
Michael switched to an agent in New York who’d been courting him forever.”

“So where’s
Morsie
?
 
Out
here in LA?”
 
Annie nodded and Reid
looked away, his expression suddenly thoughtful.
 
“
Morsie
couldn’t have been happy about losing a client like Michael Ellsworth,” he
murmured, then turned back to her.
 
“Was he at Maggie Boswell’s party?
 
Morsie
, I mean.
 
I remember seeing him with Michael at
her funeral lunch.
 
Big guy, isn’t
he?”

“He used to be a
professional wrestler.
 
Called
himself ‘The Pitchfork.’
 
And he was
at the party, as a matter of fact.”
 
She chuckled.
 
“Which
surprised me.
 
I thought there might
be another blowout.
 
Frankie
repped
Maggie for a long time but then she fired him.
 
Publicly, in a very embarrassing
way.”
 
She realized Reid was
watching her closely.
 
“What?”

“Was he at the mystery
writers conference here?”

“The one where Seamus
O’Neill was killed?”
 
She paused,
remembering that in fact Frankie had been there.
 
He hadn’t stayed at the conference
hotel, since he lived in town, but he’d attended many of the sessions.

Reid’s gaze didn’t
waver.
 
She shook her head.
 
“You can’t be serious.
 
Frankie?”

“Remember we talked
last night about who profits from these murders?
 
Doesn’t
Morsie
profit?”

“Well …”
 
She tried to make her brain cooperate,
link one fact to the next.
 
“I
suppose he does if I become a bestseller.
 
He’ll earn lots of commissions.
 
But it still doesn’t make any sense.
 
He never could have predicted that my
being accused of murder would cause me to become a bestseller.”

“An accusation like
this, in a case as high-profile as this, translates into enormous name
recognition.
 
And wouldn’t people be
very curious about the suspected serial killer who wrote mystery novels?
 
That could certainly lead to major
sales, and in fact it has.
 
Plus it
sounds like
Morsie
had a few scores to settle.
 
With Boswell and with Michael.”

“So he killed them to
get revenge for them firing him?
 
Not even Frankie is that much of a hothead.
 
And what about Seamus O’Neill and
Elizabeth Wimble?”

“Maybe he was angry
with them, too, and we just don’t know why.”

Her mind refused to
accept it.
 
“I don’t think it’s
plausible.”

“You don’t like the
idea that somebody you’ve been close to could have set you up?
 
Or that you had to become a serial
murderer to hit the top of the bestsellers list?”

She was readying a
retort to that pithy observation when the doorbell rang.
 
Reid’s finger rose to his lips.
 
“
Sshh
.
 
I’ll be right back.”
 
He rose and strode out of the bedroom,
pulling his wallet from his jeans pocket as he went.

Annie forced herself to
remain quiet.
 
She heard Reid open
the front door.

“Hey, thanks for
getting out here so fast.
 
What do I
owe you?”

Muffled male
reply.
 
Clear sound of a car driving
down the street.

Again Reid’s
voice.
 
“
Here.
 
Keep the change.”

Something else from the
deliveryman.

This time Reid sounded
surprised.
 
“The score?
 
Oh.”
 
A beat passed.
 
“The Dodgers are up.
 
By a run.”
 
He sounded completely sure of
himself.
 
Another brief exchange and
a few laughs.
 
“You got that
right.
 
Thanks again.
 
G’night
.”
 
The door closed.
 
Reid returned to the bedroom carrying
two large white plastic bags and the scent of night air.

“Were you multitasking
before?” she asked.
 
“Conducting a
conversation while listening to the baseball game?”

“Don’t worry, I was
listening to you, lady.”
 
He set
down the bags and chucked her under the chin.
 
“I made up the score.”

“You did?”

“Sort of.
 
The Dodgers are playing the Giants.
 
So the Dodgers are bound to be up by at
least a run.”

“As if!
 
My home team Giants are world champs,
remember?”
 
She lunged in his
direction to deliver a playful slap but he evaded her by darting into the
hallway, verboten territory.
 
“I have
half a mind to throw that signed ball of yours at your pathetic behind.”

He rolled his eyes in
mock fear.
 
“You’d whiff.”

“I’d nail your ass,
Gardner.
 
For your information, I
pitched softball in college.”

She ignored the
derogatory remarks that followed and dug into the takeout bags, from which
delicious aromas emanated.
 
It was
distressing.
 
Part of her wanted to
see more flaws in this man, because he was getting an alarming number of checks
in the positive column.
 
If he
behaved the way he did the prior night, he’d earn more.
 
She knew he’d return with plates and
cutlery and they’d picnic on his bedroom floor.
 
She knew that, thanks to him, they’d
imitate normal life, as if she weren’t on the lam and he weren’t under severe
stress trying to keep her out of the clutches of the criminal justice system.
 
She knew that he’d distract her from the
seriousness of her situation by entertaining her with stories and peppering her
with questions about her life Before.

She poked a stick of
chicken satay into her mouth.
 
If
Reid kept this up, she’d be in danger in more ways than one.
 
She swept an errant hair out of her face
and listened to him bang around in the kitchen.
 
If she wasn’t already.

*

Late the next morning,
Reid found himself riding shotgun in the
Crimewatch
van and wishing he could dodge the day’s assignment.

“Honestly, Reid, stop
complaining.”
 
Sheila spoke from the
rear, where she was squeezed in among the camera equipment that didn’t fit in
the trunk.
 
“I know it’s a long
drive down to Corona del Mar but we have to do it.
 
Besides we’ll just do the standup and
leave.”

He bit his tongue.
 
He had his window all the way open but
no amount of ambient noise could mask the irritation in Sheila’s voice.

“I don’t like doing
standups at funerals, either,” she continued.
 
“I understand that you think it puts too
much focus on you instead of on the deceased.
 
But the bottom line is that we need the
shot for tonight’s segment.
 
It’s
the best way to drive home our point.”

“Which is?”

She sighed, as if he
were impossibly obtuse.
 
“That
Annette Rowell is nowhere to be found at the funeral of her supposed best
friend, Michael Ellsworth.
 
Her
absence is very dramatic.
 
It
heightens the impression of her guilt.”

“Since when is that our
job?
 
Making people look more
guilty?”
 
He pivoted to glare at
Sheila.
 
“What about innocent until
proven guilty?”

She leaned closer.
 
“What about taking the FBI at their
word?
 
The way we always do?
 
They say she’s a murder suspect, she’s a
murder suspect.
 
That’s always been
good enough for you before.”

He couldn’t argue with
that observation.
 
Reid turned back
around.
 
“Simpson admits it’s a weak
case,” he threw out, though even as he spoke the words he knew they weren’t
entirely true.
 
“Even he’s not
completely sold on it.”

“That was weeks
ago.
 
He’s sold now.”

Trust Sheila to be
up-to-date.
 
Bested, Reid turned to
the cameraman in the driver’s seat, Buddy Hall, a crusty veteran who was
keeping his own counsel.
 
“What do
you say, Buddy?” Reid asked.
 
“You
think Annette Rowell is guilty?”

Buddy delivered a
sidelong glance that said
Geez, thanks
for asking
.
 
“Oh, I don’t know.”
 
He negotiated a complicated left turn,
clearly using the distraction to craft a noncommittal answer that wouldn’t get
him in hot water with the show’s host or its producer.
 
Then his face lit up.
 
“The case looks strong but I like to
keep an open mind.”

Reid had to
chuckle.
 
Sheila muttered something
unintelligible then piped up louder.
 
“Every single piece of evidence points to Annette Rowell.
 
I have no idea why you keep cutting her
so much slack, Reid.”

“I do,” Buddy said,
then slammed his jaws shut.
 
As
Sheila harrumphed even more grumpily than before, the older man winked at Reid.

This time Reid forced
himself to say nothing.
 
He knew
that was the wisest course and the one he should have been pursuing all
along.
 
And he should certainly
allow Buddy and Sheila and anybody else to believe that if he were
uncharacteristically open-minded about this particular suspect’s guilt, it was
due to nothing more than her feminine charms, which he, as a red-blooded
American male, had been swayed by.
 
It was a cliché but that was just fine.
 
Everyone would believe it.

 
Yet it was more than a little frustrating
to be forced to go along with Annie’s conviction in the court of public
opinion.
 
And Reid wasn’t merely
acceding to that judgment: he was advancing it.
 
Since the writer-murder case was too
high profile to ignore, and doing so would raise questions Reid didn’t care to
answer, that very night
Crimewatch
would air a segment on the story.
 
As always, it would feature the wanted criminal’s profile and ask viewers
to help apprehend the fugitive by calling in tips to the hotline.
 
Reid would have to do all of this with a
straight face, pointedly ignoring the gigantic hypocrisy that the suspect was
lounging in his very own bedroom, waiting for him to return home.