The Shadow Hunter (3 page)

“They’re waiting in the Lincoln,” Courtney said.

“Mr. Drury and Mr. Barwood.”

Kris glanced at her watch. She was running late.

Having Steve bring the car out of the garage to idle in the driveway was Howard’s way of telling her so.

A garden path, bordered by rosebushes, white oleander, and bird-of-paradise, led from the main house to the guest cottage attached to the garage. A gray Lincoln Town Car, the Carrier model, idled in the driveway, Steve Drury at the wheel. The car was her own, but the pleasure of driving it was one more thing Hickle had taken from her.

Steve got out and opened the rear door for her. He had changed into slacks, a button-down shirt, and a suit jacket that concealed his Beretta. She slipped into the backseat, next to Howard, while Steve slid behind the wheel and adjusted the volume on the Alpine audio system. He was playing a CD of Mozart’s Magic Flute, her favorite. It soothed her.

The Lincoln pulled out of the driveway and headed down a narrow lane colonnaded with tall eucalyptus trees. At the gate, guards waved the Town Carthrough, and the sedan accelerated onto Pacific Coast Highway, rushing over the bridge that straddled Malibu Creek. In the lagoon fed by the estuary, a few shore birds lifted themselves into the afternoon sun.

“Did you check?” she asked Howard tonelessly.

He acknowledged her only with a half turn in her direction.

“I checked. Nothing serious to report.”

“Meaning?”

“He called a couple of times this morning. Not since then. It’s been a quiet afternoon. Maybe he’s losing interest.”

“Sure. Maybe.”

But she knew Raymond Hickle would never lose interest in her as long as she was alive.

Hickle sat on the roadside, a hat covering his face, and watched the Town Car pull out of the Malibu Reserve gate. He took a good look at it when it turned onto the coast highway. The car was close; he could see his own reflection in the polished panels of the passenger doors.

In the lightly tinted rear window there was the vague outline of a silhouetted figure.

There was no chance that Kris or her driver would spot him. Sitting cross-legged on the curb, the hat pulled low, he was just one of the many faceless derelicts who wandered through Malibu and other towns along the California coast. He could watch Kris come and go, and no one would be the wiser.

His gaze followed the car as it disappeared down the road. He kept staring after it even when it was long gone. Then he got up and retraced his steps to his own car, a Volkswagen Rabbit parked on a side street a mile from Malibu Reserve.

He had no intention of trying to catch up with Kris.

Her driver was a security officer trained to spot a pursuing vehicle and take evasive action.

Even so, he expected to arrive at the studio gate well before she did.

She had left earlier than usual, and the route she’d taken—southbound on Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward West LA—was not the most direct way to Burbank.

He figured she had an appointment to keep. It would occupy her for a half hour or longer. By the time she reached the studio, he would be positioned near the entrance to the parking lot.

In his car, he had his duffel bag. And in the duffel, he had the shotgun. He imagined holding it now, feeling its sleekness, its smoothness, pumping the action and then the trigger, and the satisfying recoil as the spray of lethal shot fanned wide.

“Blammo,” Hickle said. He was smiling.

Abby Sinclair was late and walking fast as she came out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor of the Century City high-rise where Travis Protective Services housed its office suite. She had fixed her hair as best she could in the elevator, but in T-shirt, jeans, and Nikes, she wasn’t exactly dressed for a business meeting.

At the end of the hall she paused before the double doors emblazoned with the TPS logo. The doors were mirrored, and she was able to ascertain that she looked okay, despite her ensemble. Her reflection stared back at her with cool hazel eyes that revealed little of what she felt inside. Lately, it was just as well that no one knew what she was feeling.

She entered the reception area, passing through a metal detector, then handed a carryon bag to the security officer at the front desk.

“Came straight from the airport. Keep this nice and safe for me, okay?”

The guy frowned at her.

“I didn’t know you were still working for Travis.”

“I’ve been away for a while. Now I’m back in the saddle.”

His frown didn’t waver.

“Well, ain’t that great news.”

She wasn’t surprised at his hostility or at the cool stares that greeted her as she hurried through the maze of corridors. Only a few people at TPS knew exactly what role she had played in the Devin Corbal disaster, but throughout the firm it was common knowledge that she had been involved somehow, and that her involvement had cost Corbal his life.

She walked past conference rooms, workspaces partitioned into cubicles, and private or semiprivate offices.

Roughly half the offices, she noted guiltily, were empty now. TPS was thinning out its staff, making massive cutbacks to stop the hemorrhage of money.

Only the most essential employees had been retained, performing the services that were the backbone of the company—threat assessment, personal protection, and investigation. Before long, maybe they would be gone as well, and this office suite would be occupied by insurance salespeople or stockbrokers. She didn’t want to think about that.

She reached Travis’s corner office and nodded at his assistant. Rose, receiving a squinty glare in return.

“You’re late,” Rose said, her tone implying that this was the least of Abby’s sins.

“Just buzz me in.”

“Hold on.” Rose took her time activating the intercom.

“Mr. Travis? Miss. Sinclair is here.”

Over the cheap speaker, Abby heard Travis’s tinny voice grant her admittance.

“Yes, sir.” Rose looked at her.

“You can go in.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Abby crossed the anteroom to Travis’s door. She was turning the knob when Rose said, “This client’s important to us. You might try keeping her alive.”

Various rejoinders ran through Abby’s mind. She swallowed them all.

Sometimes the best thing to say was nothing at all.

She entered Travis’s office and found him in conference with a blond woman instantly recognizable as Kris Barwood and a somewhat older, heavyset man who had to be her husband.

“Better late than never,” Travis said as he rose from behind his desk.

Et to, Paul? she thought, but all she said was “My plane was delayed.”

Her gaze widened to include everyone in the room.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting.”

Introductions were made. Howard Barwood had a firm handshake of long duration. Kris, no surprise, looked exactly the same in person as she did on TV.

Having met a number of celebrities over the past two years, Abby had learned that the beautiful ones really were beautiful. The notion that the camera performed some alchemical transformation of ordinary folks into superstars was a sop to the envious multitudes.

“You just flew in from out of town?” Howard asked.

“Yes—which explains my less than professional attire.

I only brought casual clothes with me on the trip.”

“} hope we didn’t interrupt your vacation.”

“No, I was working another case, actually. Got done last night.”

“I thought TPS only handled LA clients.”

“This wasn’t a TPS case. I haven’t worked with TPS”—since Devin Corbal, she nearly said, but caught herself—”in a few months. I’m an independent consultant.

I work with a variety of firms all across the country. Paul left a message on my answering machine yesterday. I got back to him first thing this morning, and he told me a little about the situation you find yourselves in.”

“Situation.” Kris Barwood leaned forward in her chair, balancing her hands lightly on her knees, a pose she must have learned while doing on-camera interviews.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“I know it feels like a crisis,” Abby said, “but it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

Howard snorted.

“Tell that to Devin Corbal.”

For a startled moment Abby wondered how they had found out about her involvement in that case.

Then she realized Howard had been looking at Travis when he said it.

She and Travis were rescued from any response when Kris cut in smoothly, “When you arrived, Paul was just about to explain what it is you’re going to do for me.”

“I have kind of an unusual job, Mrs. Barwood.”

“Call me Kris.” The anchorwoman flashed a smile that ought to have looked artificial but didn’t.

“Okay, Kris. I’m Abby” Howard Barwood spoke up again.

“How old are you, Abby, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Twenty-eight.”

His eyelids lifted in skeptical appraisal.

“Isn’t that a little young to be a licensed psychologist?”

“I’m not a licensed psychologist.”

“Travis here”—Barwood cocked a thumb in the direction of the desk—”called you a psychological consultant.”

“That’s one way of describing the work I do. I call myself a dynamic interpersonal risk evaluator. But there’s a simpler way of putting it.

I’m a pilot fish.”

Kris and her husband exchanged a bemused glance.

“A pilot fish,” Abby repeated. She tossed her purse on a chair but remained standing.

“You know those little fish that swim in the wake of a shark? They gather scraps. So do I. Only, the sharks I swim with are people like Raymond Hickle, and the scraps I gather are scraps of information.”

She crossed behind Travis’s desk to stand before the wide windows, the panoramic backdrop.

“See, when it comes to assessing the threat, personal protection services have to rely on background information and profiling.

It would be better to get to know the real man. It can’t be done from a distance. It has to be up close and personal.” “How close?” Kris asked.

“How personal?”

“If all goes well, I’m going to be Hickle’s best friend.”

There was a beat of silence, and Kris said, “This man may not have any friends.”

“But he wants one. Everybody does. Do you know what people look for in a friend? Someone to talk to.

Someone who’ll listen.” Abby smiled.

“I’m a good listener.”

“You mean you’re going to analyze him without his even knowing it?”

“Not analyze him in a psychological sense. Instead, I need to assess him from a security standpoint. Gauge his intentions, his timetable.

And keep an eye on him so if he does decide to act, I’ll be there to head him off at the pass.”

“And you think you can do all that?”

“I’ve done it before, many times.” And only failed once, she added silently with another twinge of guilt.

Howard straightened in his chair.

“Let me get this straight. You’re talking about some kind of undercover thing?”

“You can call it that.”

“So you meet him, give a phony name, get to be friends. Then it’s you and him alone together?”

“Right.”

“But you’ve got armed men stationed outside, radio communication with them in case he turns crazy or sniffs you out?”

“No, it’s just me. I carry a cell phone and a gun.”

“Just you? Why, for God’s sake?”

Travis fielded the question.

“Because you’re suggesting we attempt virtually round-the-clock surveillance of Raymond Hickle, and that sort of operation almost never works.”

“When the police carry out an undercover operation,” Kris said, “they have a backup team listening on a radio.” “Yes,” Travis said, “for a twenty-minute drug buy.

We’re talking about installing Abby in Hickle’s life for days or weeks.

It’s not the same. Surveillance requires more than one or two officers sitting in a car outside somebody’s home. In a residential neighborhood, that car and its occupants will draw attention within hours.

Someone will call the police, there’ll be a commotion, and our subject will see it or hear about it.”

“Usually men like Hickle are paranoid to begin with,” Abby added.

“It doesn’t take much to push them over the edge.”

Howard shook his head.

“So don’t have them sit in a car. Have them watch Hickle from the building across the street.” “The risk of detection is still too high,” Travis said.

“A successful stakeout is extremely difficult to pull off over any extended period of time. Somebody will see the binoculars in the window or intercept a radio transmission or wonder about the food deliveries to a vacant apartment or hear something through the wall.

Neighbors talk, word gets around, and before you know it, the surveillance team’s cover has been blown.”

“And if their cover is blown,” Abby said, “so is mine.”

“There’s another factor,” Travis said.

“You’re assuming Hickle stays put. Suppose he and Abby go out together.

We’d have to follow. That’s not a job that can be done with a single vehicle or even two or three. To keep Hickle in sight at all times without being spotted ourselves, we need a minimum of a half dozen cars rotating in and out of the pursuit, sometimes hanging back in traffic, sometimes moving ahead to intercept him at points where we expect him to go.”

“And if he takes me to someplace crowded, like Third Street Promenade on a Saturday night,” Abby said, “then TPS would need twenty agents to cover every exit and byway. Hickle could lose the pursuit without even trying, and I wouldn’t even know I was unprotected. Besides, in most cases, if things get ugly, it all happens so fast that a backup detail across the street wouldn’t reach me in time anyway.”

“So things do sometimes… get ugly?” Kris asked, sounding more curious than concerned.

Abby flashed on a gunshot in an alley, a voice saying, We lost him.

“Now and then,” she said evenly, hoping her expression betrayed no emotion.

“It comes with the territory.”

Howard shook his head.

“How exactly do you expect to protect yourself against a psychopath like Hickle?”

“I’m trained in self-defense. If a subject turns violent I know how to respond.”