Chasing Venus (21 page)

He was way past
thinking Annie was guilty.
 
He’d
moved on to other, more mundane concerns, the kind that arose when a man was
suddenly shacked up with a woman he’d found attractive from the get-go, a woman
who was in his bed day and night—even though he was being such a
gentleman he was sleeping on the floor—a woman who was walking around
wearing nothing but his shirts and looking sexy as hell in them, who was gazing
at him with these big green eyes that said
I
trust you, I need you, I know you’ll help me
.
 
Sometimes he wanted to take advantage of
that trust in the basest of ways, and then do it again in a different position,
and sometimes when he caught a certain look in her eyes he felt pretty damn
sure she’d let him.

Reid let out a breath
and tried to distract himself by gazing out the passenger window and watching
Southern California go by in a blur of sunshine and storefronts and palm
trees.
 
From the rear of the van,
the other woman in his life was as silent as a thundercloud.
 
Sheila’s stalwart adherence to the
Guilty As Charged!
theory was another
serious problem and one he’d have to get her past soon.

“We’re here,” Buddy
announced, and neatly parallel-parked the van in one of the spaces earmarked
for the media in front of the Presbyterian church.
 
A somberly-dressed crowd milled about
while reporters and photographers jostled for position.
 
It was a grim replica of the scene for
Maggie Boswell’s funeral services.
 
All that had changed was the denomination of the church and the identity
of the deceased.

Reid exited the van and
helped Buddy unload the gear unto the sidewalk.
 
He had just dislodged a box of
videotapes when a flash of longish blond hair on a man across the street half a
block away caught his eye.

The man was also
unloading gear, in his case from the back of a painting company’s van.
 
He was skinny.
 
Spindly arms poked out of a worn yellow
tee shirt; his ass was flat in his faded jeans.
 
He wore a baseball cap over his straggly
hair, the color of wheat.
 
He
glanced to the side and Reid saw the flat planes of his face.
 
The weak chin.
 
The day-old beard.

It’s the bastard who killed Donna.
 
Bigelow.

Time telescoped into
the moment.
 
Reid didn’t think; he
ran.
 
He was across the street’s
four lanes in a flash.
 
His vision tunneled
toward the unsuspecting mass of bone and muscle that was his object.
 
Bigelow was bent over, feeling for
something in the open rear of his vehicle.
 
Easy, easy prey.
 
Only a few
yards now.
 
Only a yard.
 
Reid grabbed him on the shoulder,
wrenched him out of the van and spun him around.

“Shit!”
 
The man hissed at him.
 
“What’s up with you, man?”

Not Bigelow.

“What’s your frigging
problem?”

Not Bigelow.

The man’s face was
twisted, mean.
 
Reid raised both
hands, palms out, in a gesture of apology.
 
“Hey, I’m sorry.
 
I thought
you were somebody else.
 
I’m sorry.”

“Get a fucking clue,
man.
 
Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.”
 
Reid backed away, turned around and
began walking the way he had come.
 
From their small knots on the pavement in front of the church, people
gaped at him, clearly mesmerized by the spectacle.
 
A few raised their brows, murmured to
one another.
 
He slowed to let a car
or two pass, catch his breath.
 
All
the while Sheila and Buddy stood behind the
Crimewatch
van watching him approach, the camera equipment around their feet.

Buddy clapped him on
the shoulder, his brow furrowed with concern.
 
“You okay, Reid?”

“I’m fine.”
 
Reid nodded, met Sheila’s eyes.
 
She said nothing, her silence more
potent than any rebuke.

She wasn’t mute for the
rest of the morning, though.
 
She
merely waited until the next awkward juncture, when the standup was in the can
and Buddy was reloading the van for departure.
 
Then she sidled close to Reid and gazed
up into his face, her brown eyes clear and appraising.
 
“That guy didn’t look that much like Bigelow.
 
There’s something wrong with you,
Reid.
 
And it worries me.”

*

Annie was asleep when
Reid came home from work.
 
She woke
to the sound of his keys and coins clattering onto the bureau and sat up in
bed.
 
His bed, which these days served
as her own.
 
She levered herself up
on one elbow and rubbed her eyes.
 
“What time is it?”

He didn’t turn on the
light.
 
“About two.
 
Sorry I’m so late.”

“That’s okay.
 
You told me you would be.”

He said nothing, just
stood there beside the bureau.
 
She
frowned.
 
She could barely see him
in the dark but sensed something different about him.
 
“How was your day?
 
How was the show?
 
Did you get a lot of calls to the
hotline?”

“Yeah, that’s why I
stayed so late.”

“Were any of them
people who said they’d seen me?”

“Some, but none were
legit.
 
I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Not worrying was not an
option.
 
“You know,” she sat up
straighter, “I’ve been thinking about Frankie.
 
My agent?
 
You remember what we talked about last
night?”
 
Reid didn’t respond.
 
“That he might have motive,” she added.

That got a grunt out of
him.
 
Then a question.
 
“Did you eat?
 
Are you hungry?”

“Uh … yes, I ate.”

“I’m going to get
something.”
 
He walked out.

She remained still,
watching lights dance across the ceiling as a lone car made its way down the
street.
 
Reid had certainly
exhibited a lack of interest in Frankie
Morsie
.
 
And now that she was halfway alert, she
was full of other questions.
 
What
had Michael’s funeral been like?
 
Who was there?
 
How did his
daughters seem?
 
Had anybody found the
rental car?

She got out of bed and
padded toward the open bedroom door, then hesitated.
 
Reid hadn’t booted up the desktop
computer in the living room like he usually did, or turned on any lights.
 
That was odd.
 
But the darkness encouraged her to step
into the hallway, to venture forward at a creeping pace.
 
She passed the arched entry to the
kitchen and peeked inside but he wasn’t there.
 
Instead, she realized, he was straight
ahead in the living room, sitting on the couch.
 
Not eating, not doing anything.
 
Staring into space.
 
In the dark.

“Reid?”
 
He didn’t look her way.
 
She tried again.
 
“Since it’s so dark, do you think it’s
safe if I join you?”

He waved a hand, but
not as if he were really listening, or much cared.
 
“Sure.
 
It doesn’t matter.”

He was being unusually
cavalier.
 
And though he hadn’t
extended much of an invitation, she didn’t need much.
 
She moved forward and claimed a spot on
the couch beside him, careful not to sit too close.
 
It was clear he wanted distance
tonight.
 
From her, she
assumed.
 
Or maybe from everybody.

They sat without
speaking.
 
Annie looked at the few
pieces of heavy old-style furniture that lived in this room and wondered if
there were stories behind it.
 
Had
Reid inherited it from his grandparents?
 
Were any of them still alive?
 
She realized she knew nothing about his family.
 
It was as if he sprang whole into the
universe and joined the LAPD.
 
Got
engaged to Donna.
 
Lost her.
 
Left the force.
 
Went on to
Crimewatch
.
 
Donna was
the only name from Reid’s past that Annie had ever heard him mention.

Minutes passed.
 
Still he didn’t move.
 
It was bizarre behavior.
 
Her mind began to run amok, spin
doomsday scenarios.
 
Maybe the
rental car had been found.
 
Maybe
Reid was coming under pressure from the feds.
 
Maybe some tip came in that had made him
doubt her all over again.
 
Maybe he
was gearing up to tell her he was going to turn her out.
 
Or turn her in.

She’d been emotional
all day, edgy one minute and weepy the next.
 
Some of it she chalked up to Michael’s
funeral, the renewed realization that he was gone forever.
 
She’d been rocked by guilt that she was
unable to honor him when the last respects were paid.
 
And it was horrifying, almost
inconceivable, that so many people believed she had killed him.
 
She who had loved him.

Grief had given way to
resolve to prove all those people wrong.
 
Yet it was Friday and she had been with Reid since Tuesday and what had
they done, really, to further her cause?
 
They’d come up with a few theories but nothing really promising.

She turned to look at
Reid.
 
Still he stared straight
ahead.
 
“Did something happen
today?
 
Did you hear from Simpson?”

He glanced at her as if
he’d forgotten she was there.
 
The
light from the streetlamp outside shone full on his face, revealing the
once-broken line of his nose, the midnight stubble on his jaw, the creases that
fanned from his blue eyes.
 
“Did I
hear from Simpson?”
 
It was as if
she were dragging him back from a trance.
 
“No.”

“So everything is still
okay?
 
The car is still okay?”

“As far as I know.”

“Do you want to talk
about, I don’t know, real steps we could take?”

“Annie …”
 
He waved a dismissive hand.
 
“Not now.”

When
? she wanted to scream.
 
When
?
 
But something stopped her, some
reflexive common sense that warned her to leave the man alone, it was the end
of a hellacious week for him, thanks largely to her, and she should bide her
time till morning.
 
Which, as it
happened, was not that far away.

“I’m going to go back
to bed,” she said.
 
“I’ll see you in
the morning.”
 
She rose from the
couch and was nearly to the hallway when Reid’s voice cut through the air.
 
“I thought I saw him today.”

She spun around.
 
“Saw who?”

“Bigelow.
 
The scum who shot Donna.”

So Donna had been shot
to death.
 
The details of her murder
came out of Reid in dribs and drabs, each more horrible than the one
before.
 
And today, today Reid
thought he saw her killer.

“It wasn’t him.”
 
Reid spoke again.
 
“I thought it was but I was wrong.”

She moved back toward
him, crouched on the carpet at his feet.
 
“That must have been terrible for you.”

He met her eyes.
 
“People thought I was crazy.”

“No, they didn’t.”
 
She had no way of knowing that but was
sure it was true.

“I chased after a guy
and turned him around and he was nobody.”

“You had no way of
knowing that beforehand.”

“He’s close.”
 
Reid’s gaze broke from hers, fixed on a
point in the distance that only he could see.
 
“I can feel him.
 
He’s close.”

“You must really have
loved her.”
 
The words came out in a
murmur.
 
She hadn’t meant to say
them but there they were.
 
Accompanied
by a little stab of jealousy that Annie couldn’t deny.

“I don’t want to talk
about Donna.”
 
His voice was more
forceful now.

“I’m not asking you
to.
 
You don’t have to.
 
It’s your … private thing.”

Again his eyes dropped
toward her face.
 
They were wary, as
if he wasn’t quite sure that he believed her.
 
But his hand reached out and, very
softly, traced the curve of her cheek.
 
She was mesmerized into stillness by his touch, by the blue eyes with
their unreadable depths, the firm jaw that would brook no opposition, the mouth
that she guessed could work real magic.
 
She fought the impulse to shut her eyes, and lost.
 
Outside the small house she heard a cat
mew, and then its companion, their calls mixing in a caterwauling that could
have been inspired by love or hate.
 
Annie sensed Reid lean closer and opened her eyes to see his face within
inches of hers.
 
His gaze had
dropped to her lips now, parted in the yes she was so close to voicing.