Chasing Venus (45 page)

“I don’t give a hoot
how much fat and calories this has.”
 
Ten minutes later Annie wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, her burger
only a delectable memory.
 
“I’d eat
a second one in a heartbeat.
 
Oh
God, I just thought of something.”
 
Apropos of nothing, a forgotten image had invaded her memory.
 
It propelled her out of her chair and
across the cabin’s front room.
 
“He
had a rope.
 
The killer had a rope
coiled around his shoulder.”

Reid threw down his
crumpled napkin and rose out of his chair.
 
“You think—”

“He was planning to
hang me.
 
Oh God.”
 
Annie held her head between her hands,
doing her utmost to banish the terrifying scenario she could all too easily
imagine.
 
Reid wrapped her in his
arms.
 
Eventually she was able to
speak again.
 
“I don’t get it,
though.
 
None of my books has a
hanging.
 
All the other murders mirror
one of the victim’s plotlines.”

Reid released her, with
obvious reluctance.
 
“I don’t want
you thinking about any of that.”

“I have to think about
it.
 
I have to figure out what that
monster is up to.”

“He must have had some
other use in mind for the rope.”

Contemplating what that
might have been did little to put Annie’s mind at ease.

*

Sam Trotter hadn’t
counted on having to run a media gauntlet to get inside the detention
center.
 
But TV satellite trucks
crowded the curb and cameramen and reporters mobbed the sidewalk.
 
Several were doing live shots for their
evening newscasts.
 
He caught
snippets of their reports as he strode past.

“—stunning
development that TV crime fighter Reid Gardner may be involved with
serial-killer suspect Annette Rowell—”

“—producer Sheila
Banerjee has been taken into custody—”

“—no word on the
whereabouts of Gardner at this hour—”

Sam marveled at how
fast the news hounds descended.
 
When Sheila had been taken into custody earlier that day, there had been
no press on hand to witness her humiliation.
 
Most likely some
Crimewatch
staffer had spilled the beans on her arrest to a fellow
media buddy, one phone call led to another, and this frenzy was the result.

Sam could navigate the
throng without having microphones thrust in his face, as the media were unaware
of his attachment to the case.
 
He
entered the facility and went through the requisite security rigmarole.
 
An escort led him to a small visiting
room.
 
Minutes later he was alone
with the prisoner he had come to see.

She still wore her work
clothes, looked even more tired.
 
They took opposing sides at the interview table.
 
That was pro forma but Sam wished the
seating weren’t quite so antagonistic.
 
Then again, Sheila Banerjee could hardly feel friendly toward one of the
men who’d participated in her arrest.

“How are you?” he
asked.

“Less than thrilled to
be talking to you.”

“Is there somebody else
you’d rather be talking to?”

She gave a short
laugh.
 
“You want the list?
 
I warn you, it’s a long one.”

“I know you’re gonna find
this hard to believe, but I really am on your side.”

She shook her head as
if disgusted.
 
“What’s your name
again?
 
Trotter?”

“Sam Trotter.”

She leaned
forward.
 
“Listen, Sam Trotter.
 
Don’t bother trying to make nice.
 
Don’t bother trying to massage me into
some sort of revelation.
 
I wouldn’t
tell you anything even if I had anything to tell.
 
So if that’s what you want, and I’m
pretty sure it is, let me go back to my cell.
 
Because you’re wasting both our time.”

“Seems to me you have a
fair amount of time to waste.”

“I never have time to
waste.
 
I’ve got a show to put on
the air Friday, and if I don’t, there’ll be hell to pay.
 
Tell that to your boss, who has zero
grounds for these trumped-up charges he’s filed against me.
 
He can expect a civil lawsuit filed by
my attorney before the week is over.”

Sam leaned back in his
metal chair, drummed his fingers on the table.
 
“I can see that a few hours in lockup
haven’t softened you up.”

“That’s the first smart
thing you’ve said since you got here.”

He had to smile.
 
It appeared Simpson would be right and
he wouldn’t get anything out of this woman.
 
Anyway, he enjoyed trying.
 
He decided on a new tack.
 
“Some of your buddies are outside.”

“What are you talking
about?”

“Your media pals.
 
They’re outside in full force.
 
Doing live shots.”

Her lovely olive skin
seemed to pale.
 
“About … me?”

“You.
 
And Reid Gardner.”

He watched her process
the information.
 
Then, “Well, they
smell blood.”

Almost everything she
said surprised him.
 
“That’s not a
very complimentary observation about your own profession.”

“They’re doing a job
and they’re upfront about it.
 
That’s more than I can say for you.”

“How am I being
deceptive?”

“You trot out all this
false concern, like you did back at the studio.
 
Telling me you’re worried about Reid,
you’re worried about me.
 
All to get
me to divulge something I don’t even know.”

“I don’t give a damn
about Gardner.
 
But I am being
honest when I say I’m concerned about you.”

Those brown eyes of
hers narrowed.
 
“And why would that
be?
 
You just met me this morning.”

“Let’s say you’ve had
an effect on me.
 
You’re a very
attractive woman and you’re obviously very loyal as well.
 
In my opinion, your loyalty to Reid
Gardner is misplaced but that doesn’t mean I find it any less admirable.”

“Next time I’m looking
for a job recommendation, I’ll keep you in mind.”

“You may need one if
this keeps playing out the way it is now.
 
Gardner’s in serious trouble and probably in serious danger.
 
If he loses his life,
Crimewatch
is gone.
 
It may disappear even if he survives,
given that he’s aiding and abetting a serial killer.”

She rose from the
table, leaned over it toward him.
 
“If by some chance what you say is true and Reid is in danger, my
biggest concern is hardly my job.”
 
She strode to the door and rapped on it.
 
“Guard,” she called.
 
Then she gave Sam a sidelong glare.
 
“And tell Lionel Simpson not to send
over any more of his minions.
 
The
only person I intend to speak to is my lawyer.”

She was gone.
 
Sam signed out of the center thwarted
and exhilarated at the same time.
 
He found Simpson in the agency field office, where he’d set up shop in a
conference room.
 
Files, photos,
laptops cluttered the long table, along with a seriously picked-over tray of
Mexican food.
 
Sam helped himself to
a burrito that was cold to the touch but would have to do.

Simpson looked up after
Sam had gotten down two bites.
 
“Well?
 
Any luck?”

Sam swallowed, then
answered.
 
“I hate it when you’re
right.”

“She didn’t tell you
squat?”
 
Simpson produced a wry
chuckle.
 
“Better sit down.
 
I’m about to be right for the second
time today.”

*

“That idea is beyond
terrible,” Reid said.
 
“No way will
I agree to that.”

Reid and Annie sat next
to each other on the king-sized bed in the Santa Barbara motel Annie had
suggested as their new safe haven.
 
Reid had pulled out all the stops to make absolutely certain they
weren’t followed from the cabin.
 
Now pillows propped up their backs and both had kicked off their shoes
to avoid dirtying the faded floral coverlet, though clearly prior guests hadn’t
bothered to take the same precaution.
 
The TV across the small room was muted but tuned to a local station
whose 9 PM news would begin in less than three minutes.
 
At the moment their entertainment was
being provided by the vociferous couple next door, who couldn’t agree whether
to bail out their eldest son.
 
Reid
got the idea that the hard line would carry the day.
 
He approved.
 
He couldn’t do the same when it came to
the cockamamie plan Annie had just proposed.

“Another advantage of
luring the killer back to me,” she went on, “is that we don’t have to figure
out who he is.
 
We simply lay our
trap and wait for him to show up.
 
That’s a huge benefit because we have wracked our brains for weeks and
still haven’t been able to identify him.”

“Luring the killer is
way too dangerous.
 
Granted, I would
be keeping an eye on you.
 
Granted,
I’m armed.
 
But a million things
could go wrong.
 
And if any one of
them did, you’d be dead.”

Somehow, even after
Annie had been literally in the killer’s grasp, she didn’t understand the
fundamental truth that Reid had learned five years before: You did not take
this kind of risk.
 
You did not do
it, regardless how tempting, how high your confidence, how seemingly foolproof
your plan.
 
You did not play Catch
Me If You Can with a killer, for one very simple reason: the cost of failure
was death.

Annie knew that in her
head but didn’t know it in her soul.
 
That, Reid had to conclude, was the difference between them.

“End of discussion,” he
said when she began anew to protest.
 
He grabbed the TV remote and punched up the volume, drowning out both
Annie and the couple next door with the newscast’s pulsating opening
theme.
 
“Let’s see if we’re the top
story.”

They were and they
weren’t.

An elder statesman
anchor was speaking over video of a detention center.
 
“In a stunning development in the
ongoing search for serial-killer suspect Annette Rowell, Crimewatch producer
Sheila Banerjee remains in custody at this hour on potential obstruction of
justice charges.
 
Sources say that
even though Banerjee has the right to remain silent, investigators may compel
her to give testimony under oath.”
 
The video switched to file footage of Reid.
 
“Reports indicate that investigators
believe Banerjee is hiding information about the whereabouts of
Crimewatch
host Reid Gardner, who is
thought to be on the run with Rowell.”
 
The black-and-white photo of Annie that appeared in her books filled the
screen.
 
“Rowell, the subject of a
nationwide manhunt, may be responsible for as many as four murders, the most
recent that of bestselling mystery author Michael Ellsworth.”

The story that followed
produced no new information.
 
Reid
shut off the TV.

“If Sheila’s forced to
appear in court, she could plead the fifth,” Annie said.

Sheila could remain
silent, Reid knew, but that wouldn’t necessarily end the matter.
 
If she opened her mouth and spoke the
truth, most likely she’d be in the clear, though she hadn’t exactly been
helpful to Simpson and Company in recent days.
 
If she lied, though, she would be liable
for prosecution.

As her friend, what
would he counsel her to do?
 
There
was one very obvious answer to that question.

Reid levered himself
off the bed.
 
Because Sheila loved
him, and was loyal to him, she was in a jail cell.
 
Her reputation, until this morning
unassailable, was thanks to him taking an incalculable hit.
 
She had lost her freedom; the people who
loved her were frantic; and there was no end in sight.

“How can I ever make
this up to her?”
 
He asked the
question of himself as much as he did of Annie.

“I have to believe that
when all is said and done, when we find the killer, when it’s clear that I’m
innocent of these murders, Sheila will understand that you did the right thing,
the only thing you could do, and you won’t have to make anything up to her.”

It wasn’t that
simple.
 
There was no getting around
the fact that he’d jeopardized everything that mattered to Sheila on the basis
of a gut feeling that had been driven, at least in part, by his libido.
 
She wouldn’t be quick to forgive that,
and he couldn’t blame her.