He eyed her. “You realize that was us behind you just now.”
“Yes, but there was that guy alongside me. Did you see him?”
“In a maroon sedan, you told me.”
“Yes. At least the first guy was. I’m not sure about the second. I couldn’t see that well because it got so dark.” Helms didn’t say anything and she got the idea he didn’t believe her. “I’m not making this up,” she added.
Helms regarded her a second longer then flipped his notebook open and jotted a few lines. Then he returned it to his pocket. “I have a piece of advice for you, Ms. Rowell.”
“I know. I shouldn’t be out running at this … ” She paused. “You know my name?”
“You’re that mystery writer from out of town who rents the old Marsden place.”
Pincus spoke for the first time. “You live there alone.”
He didn’t need to remind her. Nor did she care to remember how that came to be—how Philip left her once he finished the medical training she’d helped pay for, how he’d traded her in for a woman doctor “soul mate,” how she’d moved to this remote town to get the lower rent she could afford on her tiny advances.
She looked at Helms and a frightening idea took root in her mind. “Is there a reason you’re keeping an eye on me?”
His gaze skittered away. Then, “We’ve been asked to be on the alert where you’re concerned.”
“Because of the murders of those writers,” Pincus added.
Helms shot Pincus a look that said Zip it. Then he turned his eyes again toward Annie. “It’s a routine alert given to law-enforcement agencies that have known mystery writers in their jurisdiction.”
It might be routine to him. It wasn’t to her.
“We’ll drive you home,” Helms went on. He opened the cruiser’s rear door and stood beside it. “And my advice is you shouldn’t be out alone at this hour. You need to be more careful.”
Truer words were never spoken. She got inside the cruiser and settled on its cracked black Naugahyde.
On a rational level she knew she wasn’t a likely target. True, three big-name mystery writers had been murdered. One after the next, in the space of a few months. First Seamus O’Neill, then Elizabeth Wimble, and a week ago Maggie Boswell. All of them literary superstars.
That didn’t describe her. She was a little-known name with a small to middling readership. But it was growing. Each of her four mysteries had done better than the one before. And with the latest release, the series was really building.
What if it does really well? What if I do become a bestseller? For the first time it seemed possible. Her publisher was really pushing her. And she knew that Devil’s Cradle, which had just come out, was her best work. After Philip told her he wanted a divorce, she’d poured her heart and soul into her writing and the effort showed. How ironic it would be if the success she’d struggled so hard for was a double-edged sword.
She gazed out the cruiser’s window as hills and trees flew past, hulking shadows in the dark. Mystery writers getting killed was terrifying. It wasn’t theoretical, like writing mysteries. There she had no problem spreading bodies around like peat moss.
These people she knew. They were flesh and blood. She’d met them, talked to them. Just days ago she’d gone down the coast to Santa Barbara to attend the book party where Maggie Boswell was killed.
Meaning, she knew, that the murderer had been there as well. He’d probably had a few drinks, told a few jokes. He might have been within inches of her. Maybe he’d brushed up against her. Maybe he was standing outside when she left the party, watching her go. The same man who shot Seamus O’Neill and plunged the crochet hook into Elizabeth Wimble’s throat.
She slid on the seat as Helms made the left turn that led past the churchyard cemetery, its weatherbeaten headstones decades old. She’d been renting in Bodega Bay for almost a year and she completely understood why Alfred Hitchcock picked it as the site for The Birds. It was perfect. The windswept terrain and unforgiving rocky cliffs, the fog rolling in from the cold surging Pacific …
Ahead she could see her house. With none of the lights on, it didn’t look welcoming. It was a rambling, rundown yellow Victorian with cockeyed front steps. Several of its black shutters were one storm away from falling to pieces. It needed a paint job and a security system and since it was a rental it wouldn’t get either.
Helms stopped the cruiser and Pincus got out to open her door. She thanked them and hightailed it indoors, aware of two pairs of eyes on her back.
Inside the house, she double-locked the door, hooked the chain, then went around and switched on every lamp she owned. When the old house was lit up like a Christmas tree, she headed for the kitchen and pulled a Gatorade from the fridge. Then she sat down at the small pine table tucked into the corner beneath the curtained kitchen window.
You have to stop thinking about the murders. You’re not getting enough writing done.
It was so difficult to focus. And tomorrow she had to attend Maggie Boswell’s funeral, which would bring it all back full-force. But Michael had asked her to go with him and she couldn’t refuse, not after everything he’d done for her over the years.
Nobody’s coming after you. Keep your eye on the ball. Write.
Her next deadline wasn’t far off. And she had to meet it, with a fabulous manuscript. The best way to build her name was to get those books out thick and fast, keep her readership captivated. This was her chance to break through. She couldn’t let it slip away because she turned into a basketcase.
That’s just what Philip would expect you to do.
No greater motivation existed. “That’s it.” She levered herself up from the chair, tossed a frozen burrito in the microwave for dinner, and marched upstairs to the spare bedroom she used as a study. She’d shower later. For now she’d work. She clicked on the file for chapter seventeen and settled in.
There was only one murder mystery she would let herself dwell on. The one in her own imagination.
*
Reid Gardner sat by a bank of phones in Crimewatch’s Hollywood studios. Past 2 AM, it was chilly and deserted, with most of the overhead lights off and the rest dimmed. In the newsroom behind him, the cleaning lady clattered, emptying trash cans, occasionally running the vacuum, humming a tune he couldn’t name.
Still he waited, even four hours after the show had gone off the air; still he hoped for one more call to come in on the viewer hotline. He loved when that happened. It meant they were getting a tip from someone who’d seen the show, a tip that might end up putting a fugitive behind bars. That night, like every other night for the past five years, there was one scumbag in particular Reid wanted to take down.
An incoming call button flared red. Phone headset on, fresh tipsheet on the computer screen, Reid jabbed the button. “Crimewatch hotline.”
“Yeah, I got somethin’ to say.” The caller was male, youngish. Per usual.
“Go for it.”
“That Espinoza dude on your show tonight?”
Damn. Not Reid’s personal Most Wanted. Still, of the ten they’d profiled on the broadcast, an important grab. “You know where he is?”
“Not right now. But I seen him.” Cocky. Per usual.
“You’re sure it was him?”
Silence. Not a good sign. Then, “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Right. This call was rapidly moving south on the priority list. “Where?”
“Outside Omaha, dump of a town called Murdock.”
Reid shook his head but moved his fingers dutifully over the computer keyboard. Unlikely. The last place they’d been able to confirm Espinoza’s whereabouts was South Florida. “That off interstate eighty?”
The guy chuckled. “Hey, pretty good, man. Nobody ever knows jackshit about Murdock. You got a big ol’ map there or somethin’?”
“No.” Except for the one in Reid’s head. Bagging fugitives wasn’t a desk job.
The guy on the line paused. Then, “Who is this, anyway?
”
No point lying. “Reid Gardner.”
“No shit!” He pronounced it shee-it. “You the host and you answer the friggin’ phones? In the middle of the night? Not for me, man. If I was you, I’d be livin’ large.”
“Not my style.” He noted that Sheila Banerjee had come into the newsroom. The scent of patchouli was the first clue. The fact that they were the only two staffers left in the building was the other. “Anyway, give me what you got on Espinoza.”
That didn’t take long. In the meanwhile Sheila hiked a slim hip onto the table beside Reid’s phone and swung her right leg lightly back and forth, keeping her sandal on with a graceful arch of her toes. The soft fabric of her skirt swished rhythmically, lulling Reid into remembering just how tired he was.
He finished the call and peeled off his headset, then leaned back in the rolling chair and pinched the skin between his eyes.
“Finally ready to call it a night?” Sheila’s voice was soft, her Delhi accent more pronounced in the wee hours.
He raised his head to regard her. “You didn’t have to stay.”
She said nothing, just met his gaze. And really, there was nothing to say. It wasn’t just loyalty to her producer job that kept Sheila Banerjee at her desk well past midnight, and they both knew it.
She looked away. “There was one tip tonight that might be worth something.”
He knew which one. “I saw it.”
She read his skepticism and arched her brows. “You don’t think it’s any good?”
He shrugged. “They all look good until they look bad.” Until they lead to the same dead end. Abruptly he rose, sending his chair rocketing backwards. “I want to look at the story one more time. I’m not sure I worded everything right.”
“We went over it so many—”
“I know.” He was already in the control booth, the lights of the high-tech electronic equipment blinking red and white in the chilly, darkened room. He pulled the show archive off the shelf, then popped the tape in a deck and scanned for the segment on Larry “Eight Ball” Bigelow.
The man he hunted above all others. The man who’d changed his life. The man who’d ended Donna’s.
Sheila was beside him. “There.”
Reid slowed the tape, paused it as a photo of his nemesis filled the small screen. It wasn’t a great shot but it was the only one they had. There was Bigelow, his skinny body in a white muscle shirt and worn jeans, bending over a pool table with a cue in hand. Though it was hard to see here, Reid knew Bigelow had a tatt on his right bicep, a black 8 ball featuring the capital letter B instead of the numeral 8. He seemed intent on measuring a shot, so much so that his mouth hung open, revealing a missing tooth or two. Straggly blond hair half hid his unshaven face. And though his eyes weren’t visible, Reid had his own mental picture of their ice-cold blue depths. He knew the devil lurked within them. The devil himself.
For years we’ve tracked him. Reid’s recorded voice boomed in the silent booth. We’ve gotten close a few times, thanks to the tips you’ve given us. Those of you who are longtime viewers know this one’s personal for me.
There were a few details about Donna’s murder. Bigelow’s vital stats appeared on the screen: age, height, weight. A red line crisscrossed a map of the country, showing his known travels to Reno, Cheyenne, Duluth, and back again. The map cut to Reid in a nighttime standup, wearing his signature jeans and leather jacket, in front of a graffiti-spattered wall. His blond hair was cropped short; the bump on his nose from that brawl in college more than any makeup artist could shade away. He looked like the cop he used to be. Only the uniform was different, and the LAPD badge was long gone.
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.”
Want to find out what happens next? If you buy from Amazon.com:
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in Vegas (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 2)
Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 2) Page 25
