There was only one murder mystery she would let herself dwell on. The one in her own imagination.
*
Reid Gardner sat by a bank of phones in
Crimewatch
’s Hollywood studios. Past 2 AM, it was chilly and deserted, with most of the overhead lights off and the rest dimmed. In the newsroom behind him, the cleaning lady clattered, emptying trash cans, occasionally running the vacuum, humming a tune he couldn’t name.
Still he waited, even four hours after the show had gone off the air; still he hoped for one more call to come in on the viewer hotline. He loved when that happened. It meant they were getting a tip from someone who’d seen the show, a tip that might end up putting a fugitive behind bars. That night, like every other night for the past five years, there was one scumbag in particular Reid wanted to take down.
An incoming call button flared red. Phone headset on, fresh tipsheet on the computer screen, Reid jabbed the button. “
Crimewatch
hotline.”
“Yeah, I got somethin’ to say.” The caller was male, youngish. Per usual.
“Go for it.”
“That Espinoza dude on your show tonight?”
Damn. Not Reid’s personal Most Wanted. Still, of the ten they’d profiled on the broadcast, an important grab. “You know where he is?”
“Not right now. But I seen him.” Cocky. Per usual.
“You’re sure it was him?”
Silence. Not a good sign. Then, “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Right. This call was rapidly moving south on the priority list. “Where?”
“Outside Omaha, dump of a town called Murdock.”
Reid shook his head but moved his fingers dutifully over the computer keyboard. Unlikely. The last place they’d been able to confirm Espinoza’s whereabouts was South Florida. “That off interstate eighty?”
The guy chuckled. “Hey, pretty good, man. Nobody ever knows jackshit about Murdock. You got a big ol’ map there or somethin’?”
“No.” Except for the one in Reid’s head. Bagging fugitives wasn’t a desk job.
The guy on the line paused. Then, “Who is this, anyway?”
No point lying. “Reid Gardner.”
“No shit!” He pronounced it shee-it. “You the host and you answer the friggin’ phones? In the middle of the night? Not for me, man. If I was you, I’d be livin’ large.”
“Not my style.” He noted that Sheila Banerjee had come into the newsroom. The scent of patchouli was the first clue. The fact that they were the only two staffers left in the building was the other. “Anyway, give me what you got on Espinoza.”
That didn’t take long. In the meanwhile Sheila hiked a slim hip onto the table beside Reid’s phone and swung her right leg lightly back and forth, keeping her sandal on with a graceful arch of her toes. The soft fabric of her skirt swished rhythmically, lulling Reid into remembering just how tired he was.
He finished the call and peeled off his headset, then leaned back in the rolling chair and pinched the skin between his eyes.
“Finally ready to call it a night?” Sheila’s voice was soft, her Delhi accent more pronounced in the wee hours.
He raised his head to regard her. “You didn’t have to stay.”
She said nothing, just met his gaze. And really, there was nothing to say. It wasn’t just loyalty to her producer job that kept Sheila Banerjee at her desk well past midnight, and they both knew it.
She looked away. “There was one tip tonight that might be worth something.”
He knew which one. “I saw it.”
She read his skepticism and arched her brows. “You don’t think it’s any good?”
He shrugged. “They all look good until they look bad.”
Until they lead to the same dead end
. Abruptly he rose, sending his chair rocketing backwards. “I want to look at the story one more time. I’m not sure I worded everything right.”
“We went over it so many—”
“I know.” He was already in the control booth, the lights of the high-tech electronic equipment blinking red and white in the chilly, darkened room. He pulled the show archive off the shelf, then popped the tape in a deck and scanned for the segment on Larry “Eight Ball” Bigelow.
The man he hunted above all others. The man who’d changed his life. The man who’d ended Donna’s.
Sheila was beside him. “There.”
Reid slowed the tape, paused it as a photo of his nemesis filled the small screen. It wasn’t a great shot but it was the only one they had. There was Bigelow, his skinny body in a white muscle shirt and worn jeans, bending over a pool table with a cue in hand. Though it was hard to see here, Reid knew Bigelow had a tatt on his right bicep, a black 8 ball featuring the capital letter B instead of the numeral 8. He seemed intent on measuring a shot, so much so that his mouth hung open, revealing a missing tooth or two. Straggly blond hair half hid his unshaven face. And though his eyes weren’t visible, Reid had his own mental picture of their ice-cold blue depths. He knew the devil lurked within them. The devil himself.
For years we’ve tracked him.
Reid’s recorded voice boomed in the silent booth
. We’ve gotten close a few times, thanks to the tips you’ve given us. Those of you who are longtime viewers know this one’s personal for me.
There were a few details about Donna’s murder. Bigelow’s vital stats appeared on the screen: age, height, weight. A red line crisscrossed a map of the country, showing his known travels to Reno, Cheyenne, Duluth, and back again. The map cut to Reid in a nighttime standup, wearing his signature jeans and leather jacket, in front of a graffiti-spattered wall. His blond hair was cropped short; the bump on his nose from that brawl in college more than any makeup artist could shade away. He looked like the cop he used to be. Only the uniform was different, and the LAPD badge was long gone.
No one is safe with this punk on the streets.
Reid was embarrassed by the intensity of his voice. To his own ear, it bordered on desperation
. He’s a killer. I want him to pay. Help me bring him to justice ...
Sheila stopped the tape. Reid closed his eyes, listening to the word
justice
bounce off the control-room walls like a ball he could never quite catch. “You worded it just fine,” she said.
He couldn’t speak. He’d never used that kind of phrasing before, on the air:
This one’s personal … I want … Help me …
“I know,” she said, as if he’d actually spoken. “But our viewers will understand. And they’ll help if they can.”
He didn’t look at her as he ejected the tape and returned it to the archive shelf. “You think we’ll ever get him?”
It took her a while to answer. Finally, “Yes, I do.”
“We don’t always, you know.” He turned to face her. He didn’t say,
We didn’t get yours.
Like Reid, like many of the staff, Sheila was a crime victim. Maybe it was no surprise that so many victims were drawn to working on the show. Sometimes it felt like more of a calling than a job. Sure, they could make TV like the best in the business. They understood the bells and whistles and quick cuts and handheld-style video that gave cop-type shows their raw edge. But they knew something else, too, something you didn’t learn in TV and film school.
Sheila’s expression remained stoic. She never mentioned the rape anymore. It’d been years since she made Reid give up the search, stop airing the scumbag’s profile.
Reid couldn’t understand that but he knew that every victim made his or her own choice about how to get on with the rest of their life. That’s what it was, too. There was Before it happened, and After. Before you intersected with evil, when you didn’t think it could happen to you, and after, when you knew it could.
Together they abandoned the booth, shut down the studio for the night, and rode the elevator to the subterranean parking garage. Reid accompanied Sheila to her car as a courtesy. The building was secure as a fortress. Given the hate their work generated in the scum-of-the-earth population, it had to be.
Sheila settled herself in her white Jetta and rolled down the window. She seemed to hesitate, then, “Do you want to come over to my place for a nightcap? It might help you relax.”
He couldn’t let himself go down that road again. It would be no more fair to Sheila now than it had been then. “Not tonight.” He kept his tone light.
She nodded. He got the idea his refusal came as no surprise. “Tomorrow do you want to meet here or at the airport?” she asked.
“At the airport.” The flight left at 9 AM. It’d be another short night.
“The funeral is at noon. You have the background file I gave you?”
He nodded. He had it; he just hadn’t read it. He couldn’t focus on the segment about the writer murders until the Bigelow profile aired. He was too hyped about whether a good tip might come in.
It was naïve, he knew, the triumph of hope over experience. It’d aired how many times without a tip leading to a capture? Six. That made this seven.
Lucky seven.
He let his hope rise as he walked to his own car.
*
Before dawn broke over the Potrero Hills neighborhood of San Francisco, FBI Special Agent in Charge Lionel Simpson got a phone call. He reached a brawny arm toward his bedside table, kept his voice low so as not to wake his wife. “Simpson.”
“It’s Higuchi.” Simpson’s assistant in the local field office. “Sorry to call at this hour but I thought you’d want to know.”
“Whatcha got?”
“The prints ID’ed from the blowgun that shot the dart in the Maggie Boswell case.”
Simpson sat up a little straighter. “And?”
“We got a few matches. One in particular.”
Beside Simpson, his wife hiked the patchwork quilt higher on her shoulders and snuggled deeper into her pillow. He lowered his voice. “Whose?”
“One set belongs to Annette Rowell.”
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