Chasing Venus (18 page)

The woman of the hour,
stained with blood and dirt, was still in his
footwell
when he unlocked his truck and climbed inside.
 
She was smart enough, he noticed, to
remain silent as he turned on the engine and inserted his cell phone’s ear bud
as if he were about to place a call.
 
Once they exited the garage, and he was protected by the appearance that
he was in conversation, he issued one simple directive.

“Start talking.”

She talked.
 
Her mouth was dry when she started and
tasted like a desert floor when she was through, but she talked.

And she watched Reid,
scouting for clues.
 
He wore his
usual jeans and leather jacket ensemble but he seemed a different man.
 
His jaw was clenched and his muscles
taut.
 
He looked like a spring wire.
 
Did he believe a word she was
telling him?
 
Or was he humoring her
while he drove to the nearest police station to turn her in?
 
Was a Crimewatch van behind them to
cover REID GARDNER’S AMAZING TAKEDOWN! on videotape?
 
And why did he seem so angry now, so
much more than before?

“Don’t even think about
getting out of the
footwell
.”
 
His voice was curt and his eyes stayed
on the road.
 
“If I’m not under
surveillance now, I will be soon.
 
And I don’t want to take any chances.”
 
He laughed shortly.
 
“Yeah, right, like I’m not already.
 
Keep talking.”

As she resumed her
tale, she noted another oddity: he never looked at her.
 
Not a glance.
 
She understood why but there seemed more
to it than caution in case they were being watched.
 
It was as if he couldn’t stand the sight
of her.

Eventually she ran out
of story to tell and he ran out of questions to ask.
 
They lapsed into an uneasy silence.
 
She craned her neck to peer out the
passenger window.
 
From the
perspective of the
footwell
, LA seemed like nothing
more than a giant network of overhead wires with an occasional palm tree thrown
in for variety.
 
It was a dizzying
ride even without the unpredictability of Reid’s driving.
 
He favored quick turns and sudden
braking, both of which sent her ricocheting around the
footwell
like a pinball.

After a stint on the
freeway and a few more minutes of a nauseating city-street tour, he barked at
her again.
 
“We’re almost there.”

She was almost afraid
to ask.
 
“Where?”

It wasn’t reassuring
that he didn’t bother to respond.
 
Seconds later he made a sharp left and braked to a stop.
 
Outside her window she saw the top of a
neatly clipped hedge and in the distance she could hear children playing.
 
Apparently they were in a residential
neighborhood.
 
The idea that he’d
brought her to his house was buttressed when he reached for something above her
head on the dashboard and she heard a garage door spring into action.

“Don’t move until I
tell you,” he ordered, then advanced the truck into a garage and closed the
door behind them.
 
Relieved, she
began to stretch out of the
footwell
.
 
“Didn’t you frigging hear me?” he hissed
and pushed her backward.
 
Taken by
surprise, she conked the back of her head, hard, on the dash.
 
“Not … yet,” he snarled.

She gaped at him,
wondered if she was seeing the reemergence of the former cop she’d almost
forgotten was there.
 
The badge
seemed to reappear in the demand for submission, the set of the jaw, the
gunmetal gray that replaced the blue in his eyes.
 
She nodded mutely.
 
Then he got out of the truck and left
her there.

In a few minutes he
came back.
 
This time he opened the
passenger-side door and motioned for her to get out.
 
Her muscles felt ill-prepared for
standing and she got a head rush the moment she reached her full height.
 
No sleep and no food were taking their
toll.
 
She swayed and he grabbed her
by the arm to steady her.

But there was no
gentleness in his touch.
 
No
Are you all right?
escaped his
lips.
 
Instead he manhandled her up
a few stairs and into the house via the garage’s interior door.
 
She got a brief impression of a smallish
kitchen with nineties-era cabinets and counters before he propelled her down a
short carpeted hallway into a dimly-lit bedroom, shades drawn against the sun.
 
The room was dominated by an unmade
queen-sized bed and a few pock-marked oak bureaus that dated from some
style-challenged period.
 
A
selection of barbells hunkered on the blue carpet, along with an abandoned
basketball and a pair of running shoes she wouldn’t want to give the sniff
test.
 
In another corner was a pile
of yellowing newspapers and news magazines.
 
The only thing that distinguished the
bedroom from any other messy bachelor’s lair were the three Emmys atop one of
the bureaus.
 
She recognized the
gold statuettes from awards shows but had never actually seen one before.
 
Automatically she moved toward them.

Again he grabbed her
arm.
 
“Not near the windows.”

She winced at the
pressure of his grip and shook him off.
 
“You’re hurting me.
 
Besides,
the shades are down.”

“You like taking
risks?”
 
He lurched close to her
face.
 
“Not in this house.”

She rubbed her
arm.
 
“Is there a reason you’re so
angry?”

But again he
disappeared without answering, this time into the master-suite bathroom.
 
He emerged a few seconds later and
tossed a folded towel in her direction.
 
“I’ll wait here while you shower,” he told her.

“You’ll wait here?”

“I live alone,
remember?”
 
His voice assumed a
patient tone, as if he were talking to an imbecile.
 
“If I’m showering, I can’t be somewhere
else in the house.”

“You really think
somebody is watching?”

He stared at her, the
imbecile judgment seeming to take firmer root in his mind.
 
“You want to risk it?
 
Fine.”
 
He moved toward the door, waving an arm
in a gesture of dismissal.
 
“I’m
sure the SWAT team would love moving in on you while you’re in the shower.
 
It’ll give the boys a good story for the
bar tonight, not to mention an eyeful.”

“All right, all right.”

“And be quick about
it.”
 
He spoke to her from the
bed.
 
He’d taken off his leather
jacket and sat down to wait.
 
“I’ve
gotta get down to Corona del Mar.”

She spun to stare at
him, the towel clutched to her chest.
 
“You’re going down there?”
 
Understanding dawned.
 
“So
it’s out?
 
People know?”
 
She dropped the towel as her hands rose
to her face.
 
“Michael’s been found?”

He chose this as
another occasion not to respond but she didn’t need his confirmation.
 
A sob rose to her throat.
 
She gave in to it, not that she had much
choice.
 
Her grief was too raw to be
reined in.

Despite all the
horrible ramifications for her, in a way she was relieved.
 
She had felt so guilty about abandoning
Michael.
 
But this meant that he was
no longer alone in his house, his face contorted in that gruesome death mask,
his lifeblood drained onto the hardwood floor.
 
Someone was taking care of him, laying
him carefully to rest, with the respect and dignity he deserved.

Oh God, somebody was
calling his daughters …

She forgot about Reid
until he spoke up.
 
“Get your ass in
the shower.
 
I told you, I’m in a
hurry.”

“I don’t get it.”
 
She swiped at her nose.
 
She could only imagine the picture she
made, snot mixing with blood and tears on her face.
 
“You told me over and over that you
thought I was innocent of these murders, you told me you understood what it was
like to be falsely accused.
 
‘You can
trust me,’ you said.
 
‘Let me
help.’
 
Now I’m asking you to.
 
What, you suddenly think I’m guilty?”

“I don’t know.”
 
His gaze was steady.
 
“Are you?”

“If you thought I was,
you’d never have brought me to your own home.”

He nodded slowly.
 
“So why did you come to me anyway?
 
Why did you choose me out of everybody
you know?”

“Because on top of the
fact that you keep telling me you believe I’m innocent of these crimes, I got
the crazy idea that you care about capturing dangerous criminals.
 
You can take it from me, there’s one out
there.
 
If I was wrong and you want
no part of this, now would be a good time to tell me.”

He broke her stare,
then rose and began to pace his bedroom.
 
Back and forth.
 
One second
followed on another, linked in a chain that made her think he was about to say
the last thing she wanted to hear.
 
Yes, you were wrong, Annette Rowell.
 
You’re on your own.

Suddenly he stopped and
spoke again, jabbing his finger toward her face.
 
“Let me make sure I got this
right.”
 
He narrowed his eyes as if
trying to think back.
 
Then he
snapped his fingers.
 
“That’s
it.
 
‘I have no reason to trust
you.’
 
That came out of your mouth,
too, if I recall.
 
Am I right?”

“At the time, I
was—”

“The time you’re
referring to was just the other week, lady.
 
And the only thing that’s changed
between then and now is that the shit you’re standing in has gotten even
deeper.”

“No, one other thing
has changed.
 
Michael got
butchered.
 
Forgive me if I thought
that would matter to you.”

“It does.
 
But I still think it’s pretty damn
convenient that now you do a one-eighty and decide that I’m the one and only
person on this planet who can pull you out of this quagmire you’ve gotten
yourself into.”

“I haven’t gotten
myself into anything.
 
Some maniac
is out there killing people.
 
Four
so far, one of them my friend.
 
And
he’s setting me up to take the fall.”
 
She pushed her hands into his chest so hard she forced him back a
step.
 
“And while we’re at it, let
me tell you what else I thought about you, Gardner.”
 
She felt her tongue loosen and knew she
was about to say a few things she shouldn’t.
 
But by now she was angry herself, and
sick and tired of being blamed for a situation she hadn’t created.
 
“I thought you were in cahoots with
Simpson.
 
I thought you were only
pretending to be interested in me to soften me up so I’d cough up details about
the murders.
 
And I thought you lied
about being accused of your fiancée’s murder.
 
To gain my sympathy.”

*

The house was dead
silent.
 
Reid counted to ten, then
twenty.

He kept his voice
low.
 
“Don’t you ever talk to me
about Donna again.”

“That was her
name?
 
Donna?”

“Did you not hear
me?
 
Are we having trouble
communicating here?”

Her tongue darted out
to moisten her lips.
 
“I’m
sorry.
 
I shouldn’t have accused you
of lying about her.”
 

She looked afraid and
genuinely regretful.
 
But it wasn’t
enough for him.
 
The rage still
twisted in his belly, the rage that any less than reverential mention of Donna
invariably conjured.
 
“Do you still
think I made it up?
 
That she was
murdered and that I was accused of the crime?”

“No.
 
Michael told me it was true.”

“Ah.
 
And him you believe.”

“Of course I do.
 
We’ve been friends for years.”
 
She looked away.
 
He could see her modify her words into
the past tense.
 
We were friends
.

“You’re wanted in his
murder, by the way.”
 
Reid knew he
was being cruel telling her this way, but right now he was letting the niceties
go by the wayside.
 
He was riding a
Donna-is-dead-and-her-killer-is-loose wave of hate which made everything he did
A-OK.
 
“Warrant for your arrest,
APB, the whole nine yards.”