Chasing Venus (37 page)

He took a deep breath
and pulled open the door.
 
“Lionel.
 
This is a
surprise.”
 
He waved the older man
in.
 
“Don’t tell me you’re on the
job Sunday night.”

“I’m on the job night
and day, Reid.”
 
Simpson halted in
the foyer and turned to face him.
 
“Weekdays and weekends.
 
Just
like you.”

Keep it light
, Reid thought.
 
He ambled toward the kitchen.
 
“Well, it’s still off hours, so you want a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

Reid got one for
himself and twisted off the cap.
 
“What brings you here?”
 
He
took a swig of his beer and let his eyes go wide.
 
“Don’t tell me you got something new on
Bigelow.
 
I know I asked you the
other day to beat the bushes.”

“Yesterday.
 
Yesterday morning you asked me.”

“Right.”
 
Apparently to Simpson, yesterday morning
didn’t seem like another lifetime.

“Mind if we sit down?”

“Be my guest.”
 
Reid stretched out his beer-laden arm to
indicate the living room.
 
Simpson
made himself at home on the sofa and Reid sat in the only other available spot,
an overstuffed chair he should have tossed ages ago.
  
He watched the agent glance
around, fix his eyes on the laptop.

Simpson cocked his chin
at it.
 
“You working, too?”

“Just scanning the tips
coming into the website.
 
As you
might imagine, it’s a big pastime for me.”
 
One false statement; one true.
 
Fortunately the screen saver had kicked in so it wasn’t obvious he’d
actually been on the message boards.

Simpson nodded.
 
“What you been up to this weekend?”

A casual question whose
underlying seriousness of purpose could not be disguised.
 
Reid knew he couldn’t lie and claim he’d
been home.
 
He’d probably been under
surveillance since the prior night when Annie’s rental car had been found.
 
He leaned forward and focused on the
blue carpet, his elbows resting on his knees, his beer chilling his hands.

Finally he raised his
eyes to Simpson’s.
 
“Is that the
reason for this visit?
 
You want to
know what I did this weekend?”

Simpson shrugged.
 
“I’m just making friendly conversation.”

“I don’t think so,
Lionel.”

The men eyed each
other.
 
At the house next door, the
phone rang.
 
And kept ringing until
the voicemail picked up.
 
Only then
did Simpson speak again.

“Look, Reid.
 
A few things came up in the last 24
hours.
 
I’m sure they’re nothing
more than coincidences but people at the agency are asking questions and so I
need to ask you a few questions.”

“Who are these people
asking questions?”

“Your friends,
Reid.”
 
Simpson’s gaze behind his
eyeglasses was steady.
 
“We’re all
your friends.”

Funny.
 
Until recently Reid had never doubted
that.
 
Now he wasn’t so sure.

He leaned back and
crossed his ankle over his knee, took another swig of his beer.
 
Seconds passed.
 
Finally, “So what are these coincidences
you’re talking about?”

“Well, for one, I
happened to hear that you showed up last night at a motel in Hollywood.
 
The Palm Tree Inn.
 
Not the sort of place I’d have expected
you to frequent.”

Now it was officially
time for serious damage control.
 
Reid knew he couldn’t deny he’d been there; all he could do was come up
with a plausible explanation.
 
He’d
given this some thought on the drive back to LA, knowing that he would land on
the hot seat given the discovery of Annie’s rental car near the
Crimewatch
studios.

“Your information is
correct,” he said.
 
“I was there.”

“Were you alone?”

“Unfortunately.”

Simpson raised his
brows.
 
“What does that mean?”

“That means I had
intended to meet someone but she failed to show.”

“She?”

“Yes, Lionel.
 
I don’t swing on the other side, if
that’s what you’re asking.”

Apparently his weak
attempt at humor fell on deaf ears.
 
Simpson’s mien remained as somber as ever.
 
“Who is this woman?”

This time Reid raised
his brows.
 
He laughed.
 
“What, you looking for a little action
on the side, big guy?
 
Because I
could set you up if need be.
 
But
I’d rather not plow the same field, if you don’t mind.”

“Gardner, I’d
appreciate your taking this a little more seriously.”
 
Reid noted his downgrade from first name
to surname.
 
“I have a reason for
asking the identity of the woman you were planning to meet.
 
So I’ll ask again.
 
Who is she?”

Reid looked away as if
reluctant to say.
 
Then, “Look, it’s
a little embarrassing.”

Simpson said nothing.

Reid sighed.
 
“All right.
 
Her name’s Brandy.”

“Brandy?”

“That’s right.”

“Does Brandy have a
last name?”

“Not that I know
of.”
 
He matched Simpson’s
unblinking stare.
 
“Neither of us
has ever really felt the need to get past a first-name basis.”

“So this is an ongoing
relationship?”

“I’d call it more of an
arrangement.”

Simpson was silent.

“I’m not proud of it,”
Reid went on.
 
“But right now this
sort of thing works for me.”

“So have you met this …
Brandy at the Palm Tree Inn before?”

“No.
 
We meet at different places.
 
That’s part of the, shall we say,
appeal.”

That should be a
conversation stopper.
 
Simpson
looked away and cleared his throat.
 
Then, “But you say last night she didn’t show up.”

“No.
 
She called later with some half-assed
excuse.”
 
Reid shrugged, noting the
new light in the agent’s eyes at the mention of a phone call.

“What time did she
call?”

“Oh …”
 
Reid squinted as if trying to think
back.
 
“I’d say a little after ten.”

“And she used her cell
phone?”

Nice try.
 
“I’m not sure she owns a cell.
 
At least I’ve never seen her use
one.
 
She must’ve called from a pay
phone.”

“And where were you at
the time she called?”

Reid shook his
head.
 
“You really need to know
that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He clenched his jaw as
if annoyed.
 
Then, “All right, if
it’ll make you happy.
 
I was on my
way to Vegas.”

“Vegas?”

“Only takes about four
hours.”

“You drove last night
to Vegas.”

“And got back
tonight.
 
Only a little while before
you showed up.”
 
Hint, hint.
 
You’re on to me?
 
Well, I’m on to you, too.

“And what were you
doing in Vegas?”

Reid eyed Simpson.
 
“You really need to ask?”

“Do you have any
credit-card receipts you could show me?”

“I didn’t use a credit
card.
 
It’s bad enough that I get
recognized on these jaunts.
 
I don’t
want to leave a paper trail, too, if you follow my drift.”

“So you have no way to
prove that you were there.”

“Only my word.”

Which, by the time this is all over, will be worthless
.
 
Reid knew he was taking a bullet for
Annie.
 
But he also knew that this
little charade would buy them time.
 
The problem was that all this lying would leave a sour aftertaste in
Lionel Simpson’s mouth.
 
Reid’s
relationships with the feds, and with local law enforcement, were a huge factor
in his success.
 
If those
deteriorated,
Crimewatch
would
follow.

Simpson spoke.
 
“May I speak to this Brandy?”

“Sure, if you want
to.
 
I can’t summon her on a dime,
though.”
 
But he could call in a
favor if he had to.
 
He could
produce a woman who would lie on his behalf.
 
“Let me ask you a question, Lionel.
 
What does it matter where I’ve been the
last 24 hours?
 
Since when do you
care if I was shacked up at a fleabag motel?”

Simpson didn’t
flinch.
 
“Are you aware that Annette
Rowell was seen in Los Angeles last night?”

“Sure.
 
I follow the news.”

“Is that how you
know?
 
From the news?”

Reid set down his
beer.
 
“What exactly are you
asking?”

“Look, I don’t
seriously believe you’re involved in this.”
 
Bullshit
.
 
“But you’ve admitted to me in the past
that you’ve been interested in this woman.
 
And then suddenly she shows up in LA.”
 
Simpson shrugged.
 
“Of course it’s going to raise
questions.
 
Now that we’ve spoken,
though, you’ve put my mind at ease.”

He stopped.
 
Again the men eyed each other.
 
Reid broke the impasse.
 
“Well, I’m glad I could help.”

Could the lies flow any
more thick and fast?
 
Reid guessed
Simpson didn’t believe him any more than he believed Simpson.
 
But most likely the agent wanted Reid to
think he was off the hook.
 
Maybe
then Reid would relax, Simpson would think.
 
Maybe then he’d lead them to Annie.

Simpson rose from the
sofa.
 
“So I’ll get out of your
hair.
 
Thanks for your time.”

Reid followed Simpson
to the foyer, and decided to maintain the pretense of their conversation.
 
He kept his tone low and
confidential.
 
“What we talked about
tonight, Lionel.
 
You’ll keep it on
the QT?”

“I’ll do what I
can.”
 
The agent turned to face him,
his hand on the door knob.
 
“And you’ll
contact me if Rowell gets in touch?”

Reid nodded.
 
“Of course.”
 
He kept his gaze as steady as
Simpson’s.
 
He could be disingenuous
if need be.
 
In fact, he could be
downright deceptive.

There was no one in the
cabin with her.
 
Nor was there
anyone outside—not out front where the graveled lot spread emptily, not
out back where the forested hill rose dark and silent.

It was getting on to be
night, and Annie was alone.

She tried to crank the
front window even more tightly shut, though it couldn’t close any further.
 
Methodically she moved from one window
to the next, performing the same pointless ritual for the third time that
evening.
 
The doors she’d checked,
too, both of them, the front door with its
jiggly
doorknob and the side door near the kitchen, which boasted a chain.
 
An insubstantial chain, but nonetheless
a safety feature the front door did not possess.

She inched down the
short hallway, not sure what she was looking for but looking all the same.
 
She edged inside the lone bathroom and
glanced inside the shower stall, with its 80’s-era opaque glass and uneven
mosaic-tile floor.
 
Droplets clung
to both surfaces from the shower she’d taken earlier.
 
One ran down the vertical glass like a
tear.

Back into the hall,
where to her left and right were the bedrooms.
 
She pushed on the door to the larger of
the two, where she’d spent the night with Reid.
 
The door creaked slightly as it opened
all the way, revealing the full-size bed with its rumpled bedclothes, red silk
coverlet half cascaded onto the plank floor, pillows still smashed with the
imprints of two sleeping heads.
 
Moonlight snaked through a narrow gap in the drawn curtains like a
silvery intruder, cutting a slice across the bed’s sensuous disarray.

The other bedroom
revealed less activity.
 
Annie drew
those curtains closed, then smoothed the coverlet of the twin bed on which
she’d napped that afternoon, hours before when she hadn’t been alone.

She returned to the
bathroom, switched on the light, and got the cold water running.
 
It was an old-style sink with two
faucets, one hot and one cold.
 
She
splashed frigid water on her face, then grabbed the hand towel and patted her
stinging skin dry.
 
Her eyes,
reflected back at her in the mirror above the sink, looked oddly sunken.
 
In the harsh fluorescent light, her dyed
blond hair appeared hideously fake.