Chasing Venus Read Online Free PDF Page A

again, this time by a man who eschewed the dress code by
wearing denim and leather.   “Let me
help you,” he said, and attempted to edge Annie aside and take her place behind
the wheelchair.
    “Thank you, no.”   She kept moving.   Unfortunately none too quickly, as the
ramp was on the steep side and she hadn’t yet recovered from the uphill walk
from the car.
    “Please.”
    “I’m fine.”   She hated when men treated women like
weaklings.   Plus, these days she
liked to prove to herself that she could manage things on her own.
    The man stopped trying
to wrest the wheelchair from her but didn’t leave her alone.   “You don’t like the press?”
    “Not when they ask
inappropriate questions just so they can get a juicy sound bite.   Are you all right, Michael?”
    “I’m fine,” he called
back.
    “It’s up to reporters
to ask the tough questions,” Leather and Denim said.   “The questions everybody wants answered
but is too afraid to ask.”
    “Maybe so, but they
should still exercise some common sense.”   Annie reached the top of the ramp and stopped so Michael could greet an
editor who’d rushed over.
    Who was this guy? Annie wondered.   She didn’t recognize him from
publishing; plus he had a man’s man look about him she didn’t often run across
in the literary world.   He didn’t
seem like a politician, either.   Maybe an actor?   No, his face
was too lined, too world-weary.   Not
pretty enough.   Attractive, though,
in a tough-guy way.
    “Are you a reporter,
too?” she asked.
    “No.”
    She was about to
inquire how he knew Maggie Boswell when a TV cameraman appeared at his
side.   “I got the set-up shots you
wanted.   Ready to go inside?”
    “You go on ahead.   I’ll be right there.”   Then he turned again toward her.
    She crossed her arms
over her chest.   “You said you
weren’t a reporter.”
    “I’m not.”
    “Then why are you
walking around with a camera crew?”
    “I’m a show host.   For Crimewatch .   It’s on Friday nights at nine.”
    Crimewatch ?   She’d heard
of it, never watched it.
    “I was hoping,” he
said, “that we could put a camera on you so you could give your thoughts about
the writer murders.”
    “I don’t think so,” she
said, then pushed Michael forward when he gave a slight wave of his hand.
    Inside the church,
Annie claimed the end of a pew and parked Michael’s wheelchair beside her in
the aisle.   He leaned toward
her.   “So you met Reid Gardner?” he
whispered.
    “Is that what his name
is?”
    “He must be doing a
story on the murders.”   Michael
gazed at the altar, where several ministers were assuming the starting
position.   “I’ll be interested to
hear his take.”
    That surprised
her.   “You watch his show?”
    “I’ve watched it for
years.”
    Annie felt a tap on her
shoulder.   It was her agent, looking
as unkempt as ever despite his suit and tie.
    She hadn’t retained
Frankie Morsie for his looks.   He was a former wrestler whose muscles
had long ago gone to fat and who never grasped that no man past college age
should sport a ponytail.   Still, Frankie
“The Pitchfork” Morsie had proved he could pin a publisher
to the mat when need be and that was all Annie really cared about.
    Frankie reached down to
shake Michael’s hand, then spoke to Annie.   “I didn’t think I’d run into you here.”
    “Same goes double for
you.”
    His mud-colored eyes
darted away.   Annie got the feeling
he was reliving past hurts with the deceased, the stuff of legend in the
industry.   Frankie had repped Maggie Boswell for a few years.   Then she’d fired him in the most
humiliating way possible, by screaming insults in a Manhattan restaurant that
catered to the publishing crowd.   In
true wrestler style, he’d overturned the table and stalked out.
    His eyes came back to
hers and this time they shone with a new light.   “I got good news for you, Annie.   You made it.”   She watched