Too Close to the Sun (48 page)

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.”

Chasing Venus
is
available from all major retailers of e-books.

Continue reading for an excerpt from
Ms America and the Offing on Oahu
, introducing
beauty queen and budding sleuth Happy Pennington and the cozy
mystery series that readers call “wonderful,” “funny,” and “a
perfect summer beach read” …

Being a beauty queen can be murder …

Ms Ohio Happy Pennington finds out it’s not
all sequins and silicone when she competes on Oahu for the Ms
America crown—the first national title of her life.

When her fiercest competitor tumbles dead out
of the isolation booth during the televised pageant finale,
Honolulu PD gets to thinking Happy might have killed her.

What’s the only thing a beauty queen worth
her sash can do? Nab the real killer—even if that means tangling
with snarky rival contestants, a local who claims to be Hawaiian
royalty, a brooding helicopter pilot, and a pageant emcee who’s hot
enough to die for …

CHAPTER ONE

I know it’s hard to imagine a woman getting
offed by a tube of lipstick, but I’m here to tell you, it can be
done.

I wouldn’t have believed it until the night I
saw it myself. It was the same night I won the coveted crown of Ms.
America, or should I say, was given the crown, since the woman who
was poised to emerge triumphant got iced instead.

Seriously bad luck for her, I won’t quibble
about that, but it just goes to show that what’s unfortunate for
one beauty queen can really open up doors for another ...

Don’t let me get ahead of myself. Allow me to
set the scene.

Oahu. Early September. A balmy evening.
(Aren’t they all in Honolulu?) The Royal Hibiscus Hotel, an oasis
of splendor on an island whose entire land mass is pretty
oasis-like as far as this Midwesterner is concerned.

The pageant finale, complete with live
audience and television crews beaming the proceedings to millions
of homes across the nation. Fifty-one contestants primped, pinned
and poured into evening gowns with more sequins per square inch
than a
Dancing With the Stars
contender. All of us wearing
massive quantities of glittering jewelry, most of it faux, and
sashes displaying the names of our home states. Our hair is held in
place by so much hairspray that the CFCs we spewed into the
atmosphere getting ready probably caused a measurable retrenchment
of the ozone layer over the middle Pacific. On a stage as wide as
my suburban block back home, we’re arrayed on tiers like brides on
the wedding cakes we stuffed into our husbands’ mouths in years
past, since this particular pageant is geared toward married women,
who, as we all know, rule.

In another fifteen minutes, though, one of us
will rule more than the rest. We’re down to the short strokes now,
past the parade of states and the swimsuit, talent, and evening
gown competitions. We’re not far from that exhilarating moment when
the host announces the winner.

But before he does, it’ll get truly tough.
Because a handful of us will be named to the Top Five and they will
have to open their mouths to do more than just smile. They’ll
actually have to
speak
.

The interviews have been known to trip up the
best of us.

Host Mario Suave, who is more beautiful than
anyone else on stage and knows it, parts his luscious Latin lips.
“For the last two weeks, as these stunning ladies have graced this
gorgeous island, we here at the Ms. America pageant have been
searching for that one special woman who embodies the best
qualities of the American wife. Beauty, charm, kindness, poise, and
determination!”

Mario pauses to let the crowd holler and
clap. He basks in the glow, then waves his buff, tuxedoed arm to
indicate us lesser luminaries, trapped on our tiers. “And these
ladies behind me have risen to the challenge. Do you know why?” He
leans forward and cups his hand to his ear, as if expecting a
brilliant answer to burst from the crowd.

“I’ll tell you why!” he shouts a second
later. He straightens and points his finger at the audience.
“Because the last four letters in American spell I CAN!”

The crowd goes wild. Clearly there is no
observation too corny for a beauty pageant. This I’ve known all the
years I’ve competed, which is basically my entire life.

To my left I hear a barely contained wince. I
glance at Ms. Arizona, the brunette and statuesque Misty Delgado,
who that very afternoon became the
infamous
Misty Delgado of
YouTube fame. Or should I say, notoriety.

“Cut the crap, Mario,” she mutters. To her
credit, her smile hasn’t wavered. She is hissing through teeth a
Disney heroine would envy. “Name the top five. These effing
stilettos are killing me.”

Mario seems to pick up the cue. “With no
further ado, I will now name the outstanding married ladies who
will be our top five finalists. One of them—” Pause for effect.
“—will take home the crown of Ms. America.”

With that portentous segue, a drum roll
begins. Mario flourishes a white index card. The crowd holds its
breath. We queens do, too. “Ms. Wyoming, Sherry Phillips!”

Redheaded, very pretty, a threat from head to
toe. She sashays down to stage level. I relax briefly, then tense
again for the second card.

“Ms. Rhode Island, Liz Beth Wong!”

Darn! Extremely perky Asian girl. And again,
not me.

“Ms. North Carolina, Trixie Barnett!”

Her I have to be happy for. She’s a real gem.
But
shoot
! Only two more names.

“Ms. California, Tiffany Amber!”

Argh! I nearly stomp my foot. Awful creature.
Her type rhymes with witch. Tall, blonde, flawless, fake.
Absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.

Oops. Forget I said that.

“Ms. Ohio, Happy Pennington!”

I don’t recognize it at first. Then Misty
pinches my thigh, with more vigor than is strictly necessary.

I squeal. Me! I can’t believe it. One of the
top five! The last one to make it in! My hands fly to my face in
that
I can’t believe it!
gesture that’s as natural to
successful pageant contenders as taping our boobs for extra lift
and separation.

I get a hold of myself and begin the
treacherous descent from my tier, clutching the arms of my fellow
contestants for support so I won’t topple to certain, ignominious
defeat. I encounter barely veiled glares as I progress but by that
point am too delirious with rhinestone ambition to much care.

By the way, don’t ask about the origin of my
first name. Not now, anyway. My mother came up with it, and believe
me, there’s a story there.

I keep a smile plastered to my face, never
forgetting the cardinal rule of pageantry: Sparkle! Sparkle!
Sparkle! I wink playfully at Mario, who flashes his dimples in
return, then cross the stage to assume the position, my eyes
trained on the judges in the first row. Of course, what with the
glare of the stage lights, I can’t actually see them, but still I
nod in their direction with what I hope passes as confidence. No
one measuring my heart rate would be fooled.

Ms. North Carolina trips over to grab my hand
in what after two weeks of acquaintance I know to be a genuine
display of happiness for me. Earlier that evening she won Ms.
Congeniality and I guarantee you that vote wasn’t rigged. Some
beauty queens might be vipers in spandex and silicone but this one
is truly nice. I squeeze her hand back, she giggles in shared glee,
then returns to her mark a few feet away.

I take a deep breath and try not to think
what winning this thing would mean to me. Of course I’ve claimed a
few crowns—after all, I had to win Ohio to get here—but I’ve limped
away defeated far more often than I’ve taken that thrilling victory
walk down the runway. And I’ve never come close to winning a
national competition before.

I already know where I want the prize money
to go. Straight from the Ms. America coffers to my daughter’s
college fund. With a little something left over for my husband.
Then we could all advance our lives from this.

Oh boy, how excited Jason must be for me
right now. And my mom …

For a moment I’m forced to squeeze my eyes
shut. I can’t imagine what this would mean to her. All those
rinky-dink pageants she put me through … Of course, to her they
were swank events that could catapult her daughter to a
socioeconomic level she herself could never achieve. Not so
different from what I want for Rachel, is it? Ironic, let me assure
you. And let’s not forget, if I did manage to grab a national
crown, it might make up a little, just a little, for Pop
leaving.

I know they’re out there in the audience
right now, Mom and Jason, sitting next to each other in forced
comradeship. No doubt Pop is home watching on the tube and cheering
me on. Rachel? Not so much. I’m sure she’s on-line bemoaning how
her mom is embarrassing her.

Mario’s voice cuts through my thoughts. And
none too soon, for I realize that we top five are about to make our
way to the isolation booth. It’s been wheeled onstage by two of the
buffer male dancers, who are holding onto the thing so it doesn’t
slip around as we step inside. Great: another way to fall over.

En route Mario waylays Ms. Wyoming, who’ll be
first to do the final interview. The rest of us slither inside the
booth. Buff Dancer #1 closes the door. Profound silence
descends.

“Wow.” That in a tone of awe from Liz Beth.
She’s one of a half-dozen Asian girls in the competition. “This
thing is, like, really sound-proof.”

“Did you, like, just fall off the turnip
truck? Or in your case should I say the bok choy truck?”