The Shadow Hunter (10 page)

He missed nothing. He wished the newscast had been all Kris, no one but Kris—she need not even speak, just sit before the camera, turning her head at different angles, posing like a model. In art classes female models posed nude while the students sketched.

Imagine a class in which Kris was the model, naked on a pedestal, and he was the only student, free to stare.

Staring, however, would not be enough. For it to be perfect, she would have to descend from her pedestal and embrace him, and he would kiss her neck, her breasts-He rose. With a sweep of his arm he flung the soda can against the wall, dousing the plaster with a spray of foam.

Then he stood with his hands on his knees, his head down, his breathing shallow and rapid. He didn’t move for a long time.

His fantasy of lovemaking had brought him comfort once. But now he had accepted the truth. Maybe it was seeing her with her husband—maybe that was what had made things clear to him at last.

Whatever the reason, he knew that his fantasy was only a fantasy, and that he could not have her, ever.

Therefore no one would have her.

It was that simple and that absolute. Howard Barwood would not have her, and her audience would not have her, and this city would not have her, and the world would not have her.

Hickle raised his head. The newscast was continuing.

It had reached the intro to the sports segment. Kris and her co-anchor were joshing with Phil, the sports guy. Making jokes about the Lakers’ easy victory last night. Laughing.

“Laugh, Kris,” he breathed.

“Have fun. Enjoy life.”

But not for long.

Because he was gaining proficiency with the shotgun.

Soon he would be ready to lie in wait, a shadow among shadows. Ready to spring up and with a single trigger-pull erase her from existence, and where she had been, there would be nothing—no face, no voice, no eyes, no Kris.

He aimed an imaginary shotgun at the TV set, and when she appeared in a smiling close-up, he worked the pump action.

Blammo. Blammo. Blammo.

Back in her apartment, Abby removed a microcassette recorder from her purse and dictated her initial observations.

“Wednesday, March twenty-third. Made contact with Hickle. He’s socially awkward but possesses basic interpersonal skills. Shy around women. He asked if I was an actress. The question seemed inappropriate.

He claimed to work in a restaurant in Beverly Hills. Maybe he wanted to impress me. He’s not a skilled liar, has a tendency to blurt things out. His defenses should be easy to penetrate.

“After talking with him, I visited his nextdoor neighbor on the other side. Hickle’s apartment is a mirror image of mine; we share the bedroom wall. His other neighbor, in number four-two-two, shares the living room wall with him. She’s an elderly lady named Alice Finley, and she was happy to give me the cup of flour I asked for. Mrs. Finley likes to gossip. She informed me that Hickle never has friends over to visit and almost never goes out at night. He’s usually quiet, but at times she hears him shouting, and once or twice she’s heard loud banging on the shared wall, like he was pounding with his fist. Her conclusion was that, quote unquote, he’s not quite right in the head.

“Bottom line: Hickle is socially isolated, probably paranoid, and deeply angry. He suppresses his most antisocial responses when dealing with others but can be violently enraged when alone. He’s a borderline personality, possibly schizo typal but sufficiently well organized to hold down a job and pay the rent.”

These notes were only partly for her benefit. In the event of her death, she wanted to leave a record that would allow the police to reconstruct what had happened.

She was not entirely sure she could count on Travis to tell them what they needed to know. In her line of work, it was invariably necessary to break the law now and then, as Travis well knew. Faced with a police investigation, he would have to protect himself, quite possibly by denying all knowledge of her activities.

A grim thought, but not unrealistic.

She switched off the recorder, then used her cell phone to call Hollywood Station, asking for Sergeant Wyatt.

“Vie’s not on duty tonight,” she was told.

“You can reach him at home.”

She knew his home number. He answered on the third ring.

“Wyatt.”

“Hey, Vie. Guess who.”

He made a sound like a chuckle.

“Took you nearly twenty-four hours to call. I was starting to think you didn’t need me after all.”

“I need you. I’m a very needy person. There’s a guy in Hollywood we have to talk about, but not over the phone.”

“You had dinner?”

“Not yet.”

“There’s a place on Melrose that’s not bad.” He gave her the address.

“Half hour?”

“I’ll be there. Thanks, Vie.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I may not be able to help you this time.”

“You’re always able to help.”

“But I may not want to. It only encourages you, and I’m not sure I should do that.” He hung up without a goodbye.

Most people Vie Wyatt could figure out. A decade spent riding patrol in Hollywood Division had taught him everything he needed to know about human nature, and although his promotion to sergeant confined him to a desk more often than he liked, he still saw a greater variety of people, night after night, than the average working professional would encounter in a lifetime.

He was sufficiently jaded to think he had seen it all. At least, he used to be—until he met Abby.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” she said as she slipped into the Leatherette bench opposite him.

He checked his watch.

“You’re right on time.”

“Am I? That’s a first.”

She was wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a vinyl zippered jacket bearing the LA Dodgers logo. It was not an outfit that ought to have flattered her, but Wyatt found himself taking note of the smooth fall of her hair, the shapely stem of her neck. She was twenty-eight, four years younger than he was, a fact he had learned by the simple expedient of looking up her DMV records shortly after they’d met.

He knew she never noticed him in that way. To Abby he was nothing but a resource. He had no chance with her at all.

“What looks good here?” she asked, reaching for a menu.

“I’m opting for the Matterhorn. Half-pound burger with Swiss cheese and pickles.”

Her nose wrinkled.

“You’re clogging your arteries just by talking about it.”

“You might prefer the Garden of Veggie Delights.”

She surveyed the menu.

“Sounds like the least damaging of the possible choices.”

“It’s funny, you being so concerned about health hazards.” He leaned forward, studying her.

“Something gives me the feeling you aren’t so cautious when it comes to other hazards in your life.”

“Me? I’m the original shrinking violet. I always play it safe.” She was smiling.

He found that smile infuriating. He didn’t know why he had agreed to meet her. Their meetings were always the same. She pumped him for info, then went off and broke the law in some obscure way he couldn’t quite figure out—surveillance or undercover work or… something. She used him. At the same time she mocked him with her sweet smile and her evasions.

She was polite about it, good company, very charming, but he couldn’t trust her to level with him, ever.

After the waitress took their orders, Wyatt folded his hands and asked! “Who’s the guy you want to ask me about this time?”

“His name is Raymond Hickle. He lives on Gainford. I’ll give you his address. I don’t think he has a record, but maybe you could ask around, see if any patrol guys have had run-ins with him or…” She trailed off, seeing his face.

“You know something about him already, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So give.”

He didn’t respond right away, and when he did, it was with a question.

“How did you get mixed up with Hickle?”

“It’s a case. I can’t go into details.”

“This is dangerous, Abby.”

“I’m just doing some background research—”

“Shut up. Quit telling me that bullshit. It’s getting on my nerves.”

She was silent, chastened for the first time in their relationship.

“I’ve met Hickle,” Wyatt said after a moment.

“Back when I was riding patrol, I went to his apartment twice, some low-rent place on La Brea.”

“The La Brea Palms,” Abby said.

“South of Hollywood Boulevard. He lived there from 1989 to 1993.”

“Sounds like you’ve done some checking on him already.”

“Not me. The firm I’m consulting to. Employment history, residential addresses, things like that. But they didn’t find anything about a criminal case.”

“There was no case. Hickle was never charged. He doesn’t have a rap sheet. It never got that far.”

“How far did it get?” “Like I said, I went to his apartment twice. Me and my partner, together. We were sent over there for a little intimidation session with Hickle. First time it didn’t take, so we went back for an instant replay a couple weeks later. It still didn’t take, but it did get Hickle evicted. The landlord didn’t like having a tenant who was in trouble with the police.”

“Why was it necessary to confront him at all?”

“Because he was harassing a woman who lived in the building. He was stalking her.”

“What woman?”

“Her name was Jill Dahlbeck. She was in her early twenties, and she’d moved to LA from Wisconsin, planning, naturally, to be a movie star.”

“An actress,” Abby said.

Wyatt thought he heard a special emphasis in her voice but couldn’t decipher its meaning.

“She got a few small roles in TV shows, infomercials, and she did a lot of Equity-waiver theater work. Typical story. She was a nice kid.

That was her problem. She was too nice.”

“How so?”

“She made the mistake of smiling at Hickle, treating him like a human being. He misinterpreted it, or over-interpreted. Whatever. He decided she was meant for him. She had zero interest in the guy. I mean, they say men are from Mars, women are from Venus? Well, Hickle’s from Pluto, and I don’t mean the Disney version.”

Abby nodded, unsmiling. In the darkness outside the coffee shop a kid sauntered by, rocking on his heels, shouldering a boom box that cranked out an obscene rap number. Abby waited until the noise had receded before asking, “What form did the harassment take?”

“Following her, sending letters, waiting outside her apartment. Finally she moved to a different address.

He tracked, her down. He was persistent. He kept saying she had to give him a chance.”

“So she complained to the police…”

“And a couple of us—Todd Belvedere and me-were dispatched to have a talk with Hickle. Put a scare in him, make him back down.”

He saw Abby shake her head slowly in disapproval.

“Not the way to handle it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Yeah. Well, we found that out. You have to understand, we were treading on new territory here. The LAPD had established the Threat Management Unit only the previous year, and it was still limited to highprofile celebrity cases. And Jill, regardless of her movie-star ambitions, was definitely no celebrity, so we were pretty much on our own.”

“I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying that a direct confrontation generally makes things worse. What Hickle wanted was some response from Jill. Your showing up qualified as a response—not the kind he was hoping for, but at least it showed he’d gotten through to her; he was on her mind. It cemented the connection between them.”

Wyatt nodded.

“And it made him mad. Subsequently he became a lot more aggressive in his pursuit.

It was like his manhood was on the line.”

“It was. Hickle was a loser with no career prospects and no social life, living in a rundown neighborhood.

His self-esteem was precarious at best. When you came along, trying to intimidate him, it threatened what was left of his dignity. His manhood, as you said.”

“Now you tell me. Where were you when I needed you? Anyway, we went back a second time for a more serious conversation, but it was like pouring gasoline on a fire.”

“What happened to Jill Dahlbeck?”

“We finally had to admit to her that there wasn’t a lot we could do. We couldn’t protect her twenty-four hours a day, and we couldn’t charge Hickle with anything serious. He stayed just inside the law. All Jill could do was get away. She moved back to Wisconsin.”

The waitress returned, bearing a tray laden with a cheeseburger and a beer for Wyatt, a large salad and bottled water for Abby.

“Was Jill attractive?” Abby asked, lifting her fork.

“Very”

“Blond? Blue eyes? Nordic?”

“What hat did you pull that rabbit out of?”

“It was an educated guess. So if this all happened when Hickle moved out of the La Brea complex, it must have been 1993. He was twenty-seven.”

“That sounds right.”

“I’m surprised you remember the case in that much detail after all this time.”

“Well… there was one thing that happened. Jill was attacked.”

Abby looked at him. It occurred to him that she had beautiful eyes.

They were calm and clear and the same shade of golden brown he had seen once on a trip to Nebraska, when the westering sun caught the wheat fields in a burnished haze.

“Attacked how?” Abby asked slowly.

“She was taking a class at some little hole-in the-wall actors’ studio near Hollywood and Vine. The place has closed down since then. Anyway, one night when she was walking to her car, somebody jumped out from behind a hedge and splashed her with battery acid.”

“In the face?”

“That might have been the idea, but she spun away in time, and the stuff only got her coat. Her skin wasn’t burned at all. The assailant fled. She never got a look at him. The street was dark, and it all happened in a second.”

“But she thought it was Hickle.”

“Obviously. And we did too. We went over to his new address and rousted him. Thing is, he had something close to an alibi. He was a stockboy in a supermarket, and he’d worked pretty late that night.

Plenty of people saw him. He left only a few minutes before the attack took place. He might have had time to get there and lie in wait for Jill, but the time frame was right.”