Authors: Diana Dempsey
Annie had to
laugh.
Michael, as usual, had made
her feel better.
Already she saw
her exit ahead.
“I’ll call you
tomorrow to tell you how this so-called search went.”
“Be careful,” Michael
urged, and Annie ended the call with a surge of frustration.
What a waste it was for the FBI to focus
on her.
Michael was petrified and
she wasn’t feeling any too secure herself.
And meanwhile who knew what evil the real killer was plotting?
It was another 45
minutes of driving along two-lane rural highways before she got home.
Only then did she call Simpson
back.
He declared he’d rather talk
in person and showed up in minutes, with his posse of Higuchi, Helms, and
Pincus
in tow.
She pulled open the door.
“I
hope this doesn’t become a habit.”
All four men filed into
her foyer.
It was as if they’d
never left.
Simpson turned to face
her.
“Believe me, Ms. Rowell,
that’s not our intention.”
They assumed what she
was starting to think of as their usual positions in the living room.
Though she’d love a cup of coffee, she
refused to mention caffeine.
Now
that they were actually in her home, she found herself even more irritated, and
toyed with the idea of refusing to consent to a search.
But would she be cutting off her nose to
spite her face?
Because if they
searched they’d find nothing.
They’d have to leave.
And
she’d be up a point.
They’d be
reluctant to bother her again.
She crossed her arms,
taking care to modulate her tone.
Pissing the feds off wouldn’t further her cause, either.
“You gentlemen took up a great deal of
my time the other day.
I do not
want that to happen again.”
Simpson’s expression
remained unchanged.
“We’re not
interested in wasting your time or ours, Ms. Rowell.
We’re here today because we would like
you to consent to a partial search of your property.”
“What part?”
“The backyard.”
That was the last thing
she expected to hear.
What passed
for a backyard at “the old Marsden place” was a sad half-acre of hard uneven
terrain that rolled away from a cockeyed stoop at the rear of the house.
In days of yore, some hardy soul had
taken a stab at clearing out the rocks and weeds, but they’d given up a few
yards into the job.
The area was
bordered by a motley assortment of shrubs and gnarled trees, some of which
looked so dry she worried they were a fire hazard.
The whole thing was so unsightly that in
the year she’d been renting the house she never used the backyard.
She barely remembered that she had it.
“What do you think
you’re going to find in my backyard?”
Higuchi spoke.
“We can’t answer that question.”
Simpson took over.
“Ms. Rowell, it would aid our
investigation to search your backyard.
I don’t believe it will take an inordinate amount of time.
In fact, you can go about your business
here in the house while we’re at it.”
She stared out the
window to give herself time to think.
They’d thrown her a curve ball with this one.
She’d expected them to want to search
the house, maybe go through her computer files.
But the backyard?
In a way this made giving her consent
even easier.
Again she faced
Simpson.
“We agree that it would be
just the backyard.
Not the front,
not the interior of the house, just the backyard.
That’s it.”
Simpson was about to
respond when the doorbell rang.
*
“May I come in?” Reid
asked.
He could tell she
wasn’t happy to see him.
Once she
got over her initial shock, her green eyes flashed and her chin rose.
She looked like an irritated sprite.
“What are you doing
here?” she said.
“I know that Lionel
Simpson wants to search your property.”
He’d gone into the studio early that morning and seen the
tipsheet
.
More
to the point, he’d spoken to Sheila and found out that she’d alerted Simpson to
it.
She wasn’t always so proactive
but he could guess why she had been this time.
“News sure travels
fast.
But what does this have to do
with you?”
She stepped onto her
porch to look up and down the street.
“Did you bring a camera crew so you could film this?
I won’t give you permission to do that.”
“I didn’t bring a
crew.”
In fact, he’d come on his
lonesome.
All the way from LA and
on a Saturday.
The reasons why were
complex, and not entirely business.
Simpson appeared behind
her.
He didn’t look any too pleased
to see the new arrival, either.
“Hello, Reid,” he muttered.
“Lionel.
Have you started yet?”
“No.
She was about to give her consent when
you showed up.”
“Please don’t talk
about me as if I’m not here.”
She
glared at each of them in turn.
“I
am very much here and I’m beginning to think twice about this entire thing.”
“You should,” Reid
said.
Her head snapped in his
direction.
Simpson edged closer to
the open door.
“Gardner …” he
growled.
Reid raised his hands,
all innocence.
“I just want to make
sure she understands her Fourth Amendment rights.”
Simpson pointed in
Reid’s direction.
“We are not attempting
to take advantage of this woman and you should know better than to suggest that
we are.”
“You’re talking about
me again,” she said, “and I understand my rights without your help, thank
you.”
She shot a look at Reid.
“I know all about warrantless searches
and I know that I don’t have to consent to one.”
Simpson raised his brow
as if to say,
See? I told you so
.
“That’s good,” Reid
said.
“That puts you ahead of most
people.”
He sensed a softening in
her demeanor and took it as an opening.
He motioned toward her still open door.
“Then may I join you?”
“I don’t see that as
necessary,” Simpson put in, but Annette Rowell ignored him and kept her gaze
steadily on Reid.
She’s nobody’s fool
, he thought.
After Donna’s murder, he’d found himself
often feeling a surge of protectiveness where women were concerned.
But, he reminded himself now, some
needed it more than others.
“If you use this
incident on your show,” she said, “and thereby impugn my reputation in any way,
I will sue you for slander.”
“I don’t doubt it.
But nothing that happens here today will
appear on my program.
As I said
before, I didn’t bring a crew with me.”
She considered that for
a second, then relented.
Simpson,
too savvy to fight over a point he’d lost, just shook his head.
Reid nodded at Higuchi and the two
uniformed sheriff’s deputies in the living room, both of whom sported the
excited REID GARDNER!
CRIMEWATCH
HOST! expression.
Simpson did get in an
aside.
He edged close to Reid and
kept his voice low.
“Interesting
you came all the way up here without a crew, Gardner.
Safe to say you’re taking a personal
interest in this case?”
“I take a personal
interest in all the cases that appear on my show.”
“Yeah.
Right.”
Reid knew Simpson
wasn’t taken in for a second.
He
hadn’t achieved his rank within the FBI by lacking insight into human
behavior.
In addition, he was a
man, with a good set of eyes.
“Don’t get in my way on
this,” Simpson added.
“I don’t intend
to.”
Simpson was only doing his
job.
Reid understood that.
The agent had gotten a tip concerning a
woman he already had reason to be suspicious of and he’d be derelict in his
duty if he didn’t follow up.
The
person who really ticked Reid off was Sheila.
Sure, she claimed she was only “doing
what was right.”
But when was the
last time she’d picked up the phone to hand-deliver an anonymous tip to the
feds?
She’d circumvented the normal
process for reasons that had nothing to do with the moral high ground.
Simpson moved
away.
Reid made himself at home on
a slightly tattered wing chair and took a look around.
If Annette Rowell was
raking in the bucks, it wasn’t evident.
The house had seen better days and so had the furniture.
But there were feminine touches which
prettied the place and gave it character.
White draperies at the window.
An elegant piece of yellow glassware lit golden by a ray of
sunlight.
Tulips artfully arranged
in a porcelain bowl.
Should he be reluctant
to follow up on his attraction to her? he wondered.
He saw no reason to be.
He was single, she was single—as
far as he knew—and if she felt anything toward him, too, they might have
a good time together.
He was in no
position to promise more but he was no monk, either.
No part of him believed
she was a murderer.
True, he
couldn’t explain the tip that had come in to the hotline.
But he’d met killers.
He'd seen the shark-like coldness in
their eyes; he’d heard the twisted logic of their confessions.
Annette Rowell might have her prickly
moments, but she was no killer.
Higuchi spoke.
“So where are we here?
We’re going to lose the light before
long.
Ms. Rowell?
What do you want to do?”
She set her hands on
her hips.
“First of all, I want to
confirm that the search will be limited to the backyard.”
Simpson nodded.
“Agreed.”
“And one more thing.
I can tell you right now you’re not
going to find anything out there.
And when you don’t, I want you to stop bothering me.
If you make one more visit to this house
after today, I’ll consider it harassment.
And believe me, I’ll take the appropriate steps.”
Reid kept his
expression neutral.
It was safe to
say this woman could stand up for herself.
It was funny.
She was so
different from Donna yet she intrigued him in so many ways.
Where Donna had been all gentleness and
serenity, Annie was fiery and determined.
She was physically different, too: petite and brunette where Donna had
been tall, blond and willowy.
It occurred to him that
he should stop reflexively comparing all attractive women to Donna.
Yet even that felt like a betrayal.
“All right,” she
said.
“You have my permission.
Backyard only.”
Simpson nodded.
“We’ll access it from the street.”
“Fine.”
Simpson and his team
filed out the front door.
The house
fell silent.
Reid watched Annette
Rowell walk to her front window to monitor their progress, the afternoon’s
fading sunlight casting a golden glow on her face.
After a minute she spoke.
“They brought K-9
units.”
She didn’t turn around.
He joined her at the
window.
“Those are usually used to
search for narcotics.”
Or bodies.
Is that what Simpson thinks she has out
there?
She said nothing.
A frown furrowed her brow.
He stared at her profile, making no
attempt to hide his perusal.
She
had lovely clear skin, pale in contrast to her dark hair, with a hint of
freckles over the bridge of her nose.
A line or two fanned out from those emerald-green eyes, rimmed by
unusually long black lashes.
There
were faint laugh lines around her mouth as well.
Meaning she’d laughed enough in her life
to get them.
He tried to imagine
the sound.
Something told him he
wouldn’t hear it that day.
Finally he turned his
attention out the window as well.
Two German Shepherds trailed their handlers through a narrow alley on
the house’s north side.
“You’re
sure you want to do this?” he asked her.