Too Close to the Sun (47 page)

She wished for the fearlessness she’d enjoyed
as a girl. In those days she was scared of nothing and no one.
Since then, two decades of life had intervened. Philip had
intervened, wreaking havoc with the confidence that used to fill
her.

Behind her a car door opened. She heard the
beep-beep-beep
of the ignition when the key is left in, then
voices, and static, like radio on a bad frequency. A flashlight
beam lit up the grass ahead of her.

“Miss!” a man’s voice shouted. “Stop!”

She paused—she was almost on all fours, she’d
been scrambling so hard—and glanced behind her.

It was a cop, late forties or so, with a
thick build, a wide lined face, and a flashlight in his hand. He
was standing in front of a black-and-white with both doors open.
“Are you all right?”

Now she understood the static sound: it was
the police radio. She let herself drop onto the grassy bank, cool
against her skin, and watched the cop make his laborious way up the
incline. When he got closer, she could see that his badge read
HELMS. “Are you all right?” he repeated.

She nodded, for a second couldn’t find her
voice. Then, “I’m fine.”

He motioned at the hill. “Why’d you come up
here?”

“I thought I was being followed.” She relayed
the story. Behind Helms, down the hill, his fellow deputy exited
the cruiser. He was white, too, roughly the same age, height, and
build as his partner but with a gut that sagged over his belt.

Helms offered her a hand and hoisted her to
her feet. He motioned toward the road. “Let’s talk down there.”

She followed without protest. Once at the
base of the hill she could read Helms’s partner’s badge:
PINCUS.

Helms slid a notebook from his back pocket.
“Did you see the license plate?”

“No.” How embarrassing she hadn’t even
thought to look. But the car had sped off so fast she might not
have been able to read it even if she had.

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.