Free Convicted by Jan Burke Page B

asked him.
    He nodded, but didn’t move forward.
    â€œYou’ll have to give up hesitating if you’re going to ride with me,” she said, opening the driver’s door. But Bill was distracted from this edict when he saw an elderly man sleeping on the front seat.
    â€œWake up, Harry,” she said, gently nudging the old man, who came awake with a start. “We’re taking . . .” She looked over her shoulder. “I’m Ellie. What’s your name?”
    â€œWilliam. William Gray.”
    She turned back to the old man. “We’re taking Bill here for a ride on Mulholland Drive. You can sleep in the back.”
    The old man reached for a cap, rubbed a gnarled hand over his face and quickly transformed himself into a dignified chauffeur, moving to hold the passenger door open for Bill, waiting patiently as Bill finally moved toward the car. Harry gave a questioning look to Ellie, now behind the wheel.
    â€œNo, you need your rest.”
    Harry nodded and climbed into the back, asleep again before Ellie had started the car.
    They had traveled Mulholland and beyond that night, climbing canyon roads that twisted and turned.
    She was a good driver; calm and assured, not crazy on the winding roads. At first, he was afraid, wondering if he had made the biggest—and perhaps the final—mistake of his life. He started envisioning bold headlines: “Missing UCLA Student Found Dead,” or “Still No Suspects in Topanga Canyon Torture-Murder Case.” Perhaps he wouldn’t be missed much. Maybe he would only rate a small article on a back page, near a department store ad: “Boy Scout Troop Makes Grisly Discovery in Canyon.”
    â€œEither you just had a big fight with your girlfriend or you’re a writer,” she said, not taking her eyes off the road. “I’m betting you’re a writer.”
    He hesitated, then said, “I’m a writer. Or I want to be one. How did you guess?”
    â€œThe time of day, the way you were walking. You looked frustrated, I suppose.”
    â€œAnyone can be frustrated. Why would you think I’m a writer?”
    She shrugged, then smiled a little. He waited, hoping she would answer, but she startled him by saying, “You’re also a bit of a romantic.”
    He laughed nervously. “That’s an odd thing to say.”
    â€œI am odd. But there’s nothing odd about knowing a romantic when you see one. At three—” She glanced at the clock on the dash. “At approximately three-twenty-five in the morning, you agreed to get into a Rolls-Royce with a sleeping old man and a woman you had never met before.”
    â€œPerhaps I just needed an adventure.”
    â€œPerhaps. Perhaps both. So, what’s your favorite movie of all time?”
    â€œRear Window,” he said without hesitation.
    â€œWonderful!” she said, laughing but still not taking her eyes from the road. “Whose work in it do you admire, Hitchcock’s or Woolrich’s?”
    He smiled. Many people knew that Hitchcock directed Rear Window . Fewer knew that it was written by Cornell Woolrich. “Both, really,” he answered. “I’m a fan of both. I’ve seen every Hitchcock film, with the exception of a few of the very early British ones.”
    Soon they were discussing Hitchcock and Woolrich, and Bill forgot all about Boy Scouts and headlines. She had seen most of the films he had seen, read more Woolrich.
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    HE EASED BACK INTO THE passenger seat, studying her. She didn’t make a move toward him, didn’t reach across the seat, didn’t even look at him much. Every so often, finding a vista she liked, Ellie would stop the car. The first time she stopped, Bill expected her to turn her attention to him. But she didn’t do more than glance at him. “Just look at it,” she said, gesturing to the carpet of city lights below. Soon he realized that was all