Authors: Diana Dempsey
“You want to tell me
something I don’t know?
I live with
that every day of my life.”
“You do, don’t
you?
You live with that every day
of your life.”
She held his
stare.
There was a regret in her
eyes that seemed bottomless.
“I
feel for you, I really do.
You’ve
been through hell.
But you’ve got a
problem, Reid.
If this has been
going on for five years and there’s no end in sight, you’ve got a problem.”
She rose and walked away
then, slowly, like a woman who’d seen too much, heard too much to bother making
an effort to move fast.
She left
him no opportunity to dispute her, though his pride wanted to lash out, hard,
at that characterization.
But she
was gone, into the second bedroom this time, shutting the door behind her,
deliberately making a statement that she’d had enough of him, that she was
ready to be alone.
Mission
accomplished.
No more illusions on
either side.
*
Just two more blocks
and she’d be back at her apartment.
Sheila winced with
every step.
It seemed every muscle
in her body was sore.
She’d put
herself through an extra-punishing workout, as if exercise could purge her
anger at Reid or her frustration with herself.
She frowned at the
sidewalk as she moved along.
Monotonous squares of pavement, many cracked, some dirtied with dog
waste, others so uneven they were a sprained ankle waiting to happen.
LA was ugly.
Only people who didn’t know it could
think it was glamorous.
In reality
the city was cynical, garish, superficial, and greedy.
At moments like this she thought there
was only one reason she stayed.
She happened to be
furious with that reason at the moment.
What gave him the right
to ask her to break the law by harboring a fugitive?
What gave him the right to demand that
she believe his version of the truth?
In Reid World, Annette Rowell was an innocent victim framed for crimes
she didn’t commit.
What basis did
he have for that opinion?
What
evidence?
None, as far as Sheila
could tell.
Only his
holier-than-thou gut feeling.
It
was amazing.
And men said women
were fools for love.
Though, really, who was
the bigger fool here?
Sheila turned
up the bricked walk to her apartment building.
Had she sent Reid away with nothing the
day before?
No.
She’d caved, as she always did with him.
Her apartment was
housed in an 8-unit Spanish-style yellow stucco building whose best feature was
its prime West Hollywood location.
Truth be told, it was on the
scruddly
side.
She’d just pulled her house
keys from her gym bag when she heard a male voice at her back.
“Sheila Banerjee?”
She spun.
“Lionel Simpson?”
She stiffened, smoothed back the strands
of hair that had come loose from her post-workout ponytail.
“It’s nice to see you.”
Liar
.
“Sorry to show up
without calling first but I hoped we could talk for a few minutes.”
He’s not sorry.
He wanted
to catch me by surprise
.
“Sure.”
She led him into the
building’s central courtyard, complete with a colorful tile fountain that
hadn’t worked for years.
Her mind
raced while her hand unlocked the door to unit six.
She had a surge of new respect for the
FBI in general and Lionel Simpson in particular.
Talk about effective law
enforcement.
She contemplates
breaking the law Saturday afternoon and the feds show up at her apartment
Sunday morning.
“May I offer you some
coffee?”
She dumped her gym bag on
the hardwood floor and headed for the kitchen, wanting a delay.
Anything would be preferable to sitting
down to a Q&A with this man.
She’d known for a long while how smart he was.
Before today, she’d never been on the
opposite side of his razor intelligence.
“Nothing, thanks.”
He stood in her living room, clearly
waiting for her.
She poured herself some
water and reluctantly joined him.
“Please sit down.”
He unbuttoned his suit
jacket and sat exactly where Reid had the day before, in the same position,
leaning forward and clasping his hands between his knees.
“I’ll get right to the point.
Are you aware of a personal relationship
between Reid Gardner and Annette Rowell?”
Her worst nightmare
come to life.
Simpson had come to
talk about Reid and that woman.
Of
course, on some level Sheila had known that was the reason for his visit from
the start.
She sat down across from
him and feigned ignorance.
“Annette
Rowell?”
“The suspect wanted in
the writer murders.”
His gaze was
steady.
“Surely you remember the
name?
You produced at least two segments
on the case for
Crimewatch
.”
“Yes, but this is so
out of context.”
She forced a
laugh.
“Well, Reid is interested in
her case, I can tell you that.
But
a personal relationship?”
It hurt
even to say it.
She shook her head.
“No, I can’t imagine that.
I really don’t think so.”
Liar
.
“Would it surprise you
to hear that we have evidence that Rowell came to Los Angeles after Michael
Ellsworth’s murder specifically to find Reid?”
She was so stunned she
couldn’t speak.
The feds had
tracked Rowell to LA?
And Simpson
had actual evidence that she hooked up with Reid?
Maybe he was bluffing.
Or fishing.
She took a sip of water.
“That would certainly surprise me,” she
managed.
“What kind of evidence?”
“She abandoned her
rental car near the
Crimewatch
studio.
Which by the way required
her to drive fifty miles from Corona del Mar, where the murder occurred.”
Did the man never
blink?
His eyes were like a human
lie-detector test.
Sweat broke out
on Sheila’s neck beneath her untidy ponytail.
She cursed Annette Rowell.
What if she did murder that poor author
she pretended was her friend and then came looking for Reid to bail her
out?
She dragged him into this.
And now she’s dragging me into it, too.
At that very moment
Annette Rowell could be hiding in her family’s cabin.
If the feds tracked her there, how could
Sheila dodge responsibility?
Pretend ignorance?
That had
been her plan the night before but in the bright light of day it seemed
idiotic.
She forced herself to
laugh again, as if Simpson’s logic were obviously flawed.
“But that’s pretty flimsy evidence,
isn’t it?
There could be any number
of reasons why Rowell left her car where she did.”
“There could be.
But only one makes sense given the
totality of the situation.”
“What totality is
that?”
“From the beginning,
Reid has repeatedly given Rowell the benefit of the doubt despite evidence of
her guilt in these murders.
You and
I both know that’s uncharacteristic for him.
To me it says there’s a connection
between them.”
It must be love
, Sheila thought, struggling not to let her emotions
show on her face.
Why else would
every fiber of her being rise to Reid’s defense, now that he was in trouble,
when for weeks she’d agreed with every word flowing from Lionel Simpson’s
mouth?
Simpson spoke
again.
“I also have reason to
believe he was seeking her at a motel in Hollywood.”
“That’s
preposterous!”
Sheila let her voice
rise.
“I don’t believe that for a
second.”
Was Simpson buying her
incredulity?
She couldn’t
tell.
He leaned back and eyed her
with that laser stare, as if he could read every thought that crossed her mind
as quickly as she could conceive it.
Then he spoke.
“Were you
ever romantically involved with Reid?”
Don’t lie to this one
.
She had to throw Simpson a few crumbs of truth if she hoped to emerge
from this interrogation unscathed.
“Briefly.”
She made herself
shrug.
“It didn’t work out.
But we’re good friends.
And we work well together.”
He nodded.
His expression was inscrutable.
“To your knowledge, is Reid harboring
Annette Rowell?”
“What?”
She jumped to her feet.
“Lionel, this is getting more ridiculous
by the minute.
What would make you
think that?
Reid would never do
such a thing.”
She hardened her
voice.
“Never.”
“Are you sure that’s
not just wishful thinking?”
“I don’t engage in
wishful thinking.”
Liar
.
She set her hands on her hips.
“And frankly, I don’t like where you’re going
with this.
You’re impugning the
reputation of my coworker and personal friend, a man I and millions of other
Americans hold in very high esteem.”
She gestured toward the door.
“It’s time for you to leave.”
Simpson didn’t
argue.
Instead he rose and buttoned
his suit jacket.
Inches from the
door, he paused.
“I don’t need to
tell you that it’s a crime to withhold information in a criminal investigation,
do I, Sheila?”
“I am well-versed on
the law, thank you.”
He nodded, gave her
another penetrating stare, and let himself out.
She was trembling even before the door
clicked shut behind him.
By late Sunday
afternoon, Annie was certifiably stir crazy.
Earlier, the cabin had seemed the
perfect refuge.
Now its four walls
closed in on her like a vise.
It didn’t help that she
was trying to avoid Reid.
The cabin
wasn’t big enough for that trick.
He spent most of the day at the desktop computer set up on a small table
near the kitchen, on-line at the
Crimewatch
site from what she could tell.
Looking for tips about Bigelow, probably.
She kept herself to the second bedroom,
lying on one of the twin beds and wracking her brain trying to figure out who
was behind the murders and the frame-up.
Every name she came up with, she ended up discarding.
Desperate for a
diversion, she abandoned her sanctuary, flopped onto the green corduroy couch
in the main room and switched on the TV.
Before long she found local news.
She got a quick shock.
The
top story was about her.
She punched up the volume
just as nighttime video of her abandoned white Kia
Sephia
rental car, surrounded by cops and yellow crime tape, filled the small screen.
A chill ran through her
body.
A woman reporter’s voice
boomed from the TV.
“—found
last night and was towed to a police facility for DNA tests and other
analysis.
Police have confirmed
that wanted serial-murder suspect Annette Rowell rented the vehicle at Orange
County airport six days ago, only hours before bestselling novelist Michael
Ellsworth was slashed to death in his Corona del Mar home.”
Reid abandoned the
computer and came to sit on the arm of the couch.
“So they finally found the car,” he
murmured.
Annie didn’t look his
way.
Her eyes were glued to the
screen, which now showed a blonde reporter standing where Annie had left the
car.
“Police will not speculate on
why Rowell abandoned the vehicle in this Hollywood neighborhood fifty miles
from the scene of Ellsworth’s murder.
“One theory is that
Rowell hoped for assistance from her longtime literary agent, Frankie
Morsie
, who resides in LA’s affluent Hancock Park
neighborhood.”
Next came a shot of
Frankie’s house, in all its Spanish stucco glory.
“
Morsie
stunned investigators today when he held a news conference to announce that he
spoke with Rowell yesterday when she showed up at his home.”