The Shadow Hunter (39 page)

My bet is, he’s been spotted everywhere from Oxnard to La Jolla.” She looked at him, her face upturned in a streetlight’s glow, her expression hard.

“The only way I could convince them to take me seriously is if I explain my involvement in the case. And that’s more than I want them to know.”

“They’ll know it anyway, once Hickle is in custody and starts to talk.”

“But maybe they’ll be inclined to go easy on me, overlook some of the various felonies I’ve committed over the past few days—if I’m the one who brings him in.”

A minivan burred past, headlights sweeping the pavement. Neither of them spoke until was it gone.

Then Travis said, “You want to capture him? Personally?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of us. As in you and me together.

We go up into the building, and we find a way to make Hickle come along quietly.”

“We’re not vigilantes, Abby.”

“Speak for yourself. Besides, it’s a citizen’s arrest, that’s all. We get the jump on Hickle, disarm him, and drive him to the West LA police station.”

“Unless he gets the jump on us first.”

“It’s a risk, admittedly.” She puffed her cheeks and blew out a jet of breath.

“Everything I’ve done in the past few days is a risk. So how about it?

You with me?”

Travis made a show of indecision, though of course there was nothing to debate. On the drive over, he’d plotted gambits to get Abby inside the tower, where he could deliver the fatal shot with no risk of being heard by anyone but Hickle. Now she was volunteering to go in, even insisting on it. It was perfect.

“Oh, hell, I’m with you,” he said finally.

“Of course I am.”

Chris was glad she lived at Malibu Reserve. The J -gated complex had not protected her from Hickle, but tonight it served the almost equally important function of keeping out the crush of reporters stationed beyond the fence.

As a reporter herself, she understood the desperation that drove her colleagues to camp out on the shoulder of Pacific Coast Highway, or dial her home number sixty times an hour until Courtney disconnected the phone, or buzz overhead in helicopters taking footage of her deck, or slip onto the beach and focus long lenses on her windows. She had done such things herself during the earlier stages of her career when she had delivered reports from the field.

She risked opening the vertical blind on her bedroom window far enough to see a slice of the moonlit beach and the pale, restless tide. She supposed she couldn’t complain too loudly about her present circumstances.

She was, after all, alive. Her heart still pumped, and her face in the mirror had lost some of its haunted, harried strangeness. She had begun to feel almost like herself again. The strain of waiting for something to happen had finally been relieved. Now there were only the broken pieces of the aftermath that had to be picked up and put together.

She wondered where Howard was.

The police had confirmed what Abby had told her-he’d been hiding their joint assets in overseas accounts.

The accounts had been opened in the Netherlands Antilles. It was possible Howard had made his way to the islands already. Of course he need not go there. He could travel anywhere in the world and still be within reach of his money. Martin Greenfeld, Howard’s lawyer, had speculated that he might have headed south to Mexico, but Kris couldn’t picture her husband in a Third World country. He was too accustomed to the good life.

She doubted he’d ever planned an escape. He had fled out of sheer panic. He would be caught before long. Her husband had his areas of competence, but running from the law was not likely to be among them.

Luckily for her, in conspiring with a stalker to have her killed, he had proven equally inept.

“To have me killed,” she whispered. It still didn’t seem real. An extramarital affair she could believe all too easily. But to plot her murder… to rendezvous with a man like Hickle, a lunatic, a fanatic Her husband, the overgrown child with his toy trains and radio-controlled model airplanes, was a killer. Or a would-be killer anyway, foiled only by Travis’s foresight.

“Kris?” That was Courtney, calling from downstairs.

Kris left the bedroom and leaned over the railing in the hallway to gaze down at the living room.

“Yes?”

“They just talked to me over the intercom. The guys in the cottage.”

Travis’s men, still on post until Hickle was caught.

“And?” “They said Mr. Barwood’s come back.”

These words were so strange that Kris couldn’t absorb them.

“Come back?” she echoed.

“He’s here with some police. They’re letting him in for a minute. I don’t know why.” The doorbell chimed.

“That’s him.”

There was silence while Kris tried to sort this out.

“Well, let him in,” she said finally.

Slowly she descended the stairs while Courtney opened the door for Howard and four other men. One was Martin Greenfeld, two others were uniformed patrol officers, and the fourth was a man in a business suit who must be a detective.

At the foot of the stairs Kris stopped, staring at her husband from across the room. She saw fear in his face and something more, something that might have been a desperate, faltering effort at courage. He was not handcuffed, she noticed. They had granted him that much dignity.

“Howard,” she said.

“Hello, Kris.” Even from a distance she saw the heavy swallowing motion of his throat.

“It’s not true.”

“What isn’t?”

“All the crap they’re saying on TV. The charges and allegations. I never talked to Hickle. I never gave him any help. I never wanted to see you hurt.”

“Then why did you call him on that cell phone?”

“I didn’t. It’s not even my phone. I never bought it.”

“Then how did it get into our downstairs closet?”

“I don’t know. It’s a frame. It has to be.”

Kris had done enough interviews with the guilty to know that nearly all of them said they had been framed.

“Then why did you run?” she asked tonelessly.

“I got scared. I figured these sons of bitches planted the phone to hang me. I figured there was no way to fight them.”

The man who must be a detective spoke Howard’s name in a low tone of warning. He and the two patrol officers hadn’t liked being called sons of bitches.

Howard didn’t seem to notice.

“I came back,” he said.

“That’s what you have to understand.”

“You got caught.”

“No, I turned myself in. I walked into the West LA station and surrendered. I didn’t have to. I was halfway to Arizona when I turned back.”

“Arizona? What’s there for you?”

“Nothing. That’s what I realized. That’s why I had to come back. I called Martin”—he glanced at the attorney as if reassuring himself that Greenfeld was still there—”and he worked out a deal. I would turn myself in, and in exchange I’d be brought here.”

“Why?” She tried to sound hard, though the effort was exhausting her.

“Did you forget your toothbrush?”

“I wanted to see you… here, in our home. I had to tell you what I just told you—whether you want to hear it or not.”

Kris was quiet for a moment.

“That was the deal?

Just to be escorted home?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“County jail, until Martin can work things out, however long that takes.”

Despite herself Kris almost smiled.

“A night in stir?

I’ll bet you’d rather be in Arizona.”

“No. Right here is where I have to be. All I want is for you to believe me.”

“You did transfer our assets overseas, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been having an affair?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

To his credit Howard did not avert his gaze.

“Amanda.”

Kris blinked, appalled as much by his bad taste as by anything else.

“Amanda at work? Anorexic Amanda?”

“I’m sorry, Kris.”

She thought of Amanda Gilbert’s sympathetic cooing when told that Howard might be unfaithful, her promise to sit down for a nice heart-to-heart. She made a mental note to have the bitch fired.

“You could have done better,” she said simply.

“I already did. I was too stupid to know it.”

Kris knew he was hoping for some encouragement or forgiveness. She would not give it to him.

“I think you should go,” she whispered.

“I didn’t do it,” Howard said.

Martin advised him not to say anything more.

The two patrolmen were easing him toward the door when he turned back, grief written on his face.

“I never even wanted her. It’s just that she was available’ and, well, she was—” “Young,” Kris said. It sounded like an epitaph.

He left with the others. Before Courtney shut the door, Kris heard the whir of a chopper overhead.

Somebody was getting first-rate footage of Howard Barwood as he was led down the garden path to the police car.

It would lead the late news on some local station. Kris hoped it wasn’t KPTI.

The office tower was hemmed in by cyclone fencing, but the side gate had been forced open, allowing access to the grounds. Abby led Travis directly to it, explaining that she’d already reconnoitered the area and found the way in.

Travis silently admired her diligence. Except for her one blunder in the Corbal case, she really was quite good at what she did. It would be almost a shame to lose her.

But even one blunder was more than he would permit.

The lobby of the office building was two stories high, enclosed by wide windows, one of which had been smashed. Travis stepped through, kicking away wedges of glass that clung to the frame. Abby followed.

The glow of streetlights penetrated only a few feet into the building.

The rest of the lobby was dark.

“Bring a flash?” Abby whispered.

“No.” He should have thought of it, but he’d had other things on his mind.

“I’ve got one.”

She rummaged in her purse and removed the mini flash Its beam swept the room, highlighting a quarry tile floor, curved metal-lath walls partially finished in plaster, and a high coffered ceiling.

Dropcloths, ladders, and worktables on sawhorses were distributed throughout the cavernous space.

“No Hickle,” Travis said.

Abby shrugged.

“If he were down here, we would have been dead the minute we stepped inside.”

The beam found a doorless opening in an alcove, with a steel staircase visible inside. She led Travis to the stairwell and played the beam up the shaft, illuminating the concrete walls and steel landings.

“Empty,” she said, “at least as far as I can see.”

“Then up we go.”

“Just a minute.” She shifted the flashlight to her left hand and reached for her purse.

“I’m starting to feel a little naked without my thirty-eight.”

He couldn’t allow her to get the gun in her hand. He had to make his move now.

“Don’t do that, Abby,” he whispered.

His tone stopped her for a moment, which was all the time he needed to pluck the Colt from his waistband and press it into her rib cage.

Abby’s gaze ticked down, registering the gun in her side, then rose to his face.

Travis studied her expression. He expected to see shock, fear, anger.

He was looking forward to it.

But she disappointed him. What he saw was only a look of sad reproach.

“So it really was you,” Abby said quietly.

“I’m sorry, Paul. I was hoping I was wrong.”

Abby watched Travis’s eyes narrow as his mouth formed a bloodless line.

“You knew?” he whispered, his voice returning in soft echoes from the corners of the stairwell.

“I suspected,” she said calmly.

“I wasn’t sure. I guess I didn’t want to believe it.”

The muzzle of the gun was a hard circle of pressure against her ribs.

She felt the pistol trembling slightly, perhaps with her own breath or with Travis’s pulse.

She waited for whatever he would do next.

“Hold your hands up,” he said finally. She obeyed, her movements deliberately slow, like the subtle progressions of a tai chi exercise.

“Now give me the flashlight/ She let him take it with his left hand. He took a half step back, the gun shifting to the spot between her shoulder blades.

“All right,” Travis said, “let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Up.”

“Is there some advantage to killing me on a higher floor?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Now get going.”

Abby climbed the stairs, guided by the flashlight and the gun in her back.

“I’m betting that gun isn’t silenced,” she said.

“True.”

“When it goes off, the report will echo through the building. Hickle will hear it. He’ll panic and flee, maybe take a different stairwell.”

“And I may not be able to intercept him. Very good.

You get an A plus.”

“I’m not your student anymore, Paul.”

They reached the third-floor landing and continued higher. Abby noticed that the fire doors on the landings had not yet been installed.

Dark halls lay beyond the doorways. They looked like the narrow passageways of a pharaoh’s tomb, the kind of place where ghosts walked.

But there were no ghosts here. Not yet.

“It’s Howard Barwood’s gun,” she said quietly, “isn’t it? You stole it from his bungalow this morning, after you left the hospital.”

“That’s right.”

“Was that before or after you planted the cell phone in the beach house?”

“Oh, I took care of that chore several weeks ago, during one of my visits to Kris to update her on the case. The phone, of course, is registered in the name of Western Regional Resources, though poor Howard never knew anything about it.”

“If you planted the phone back then, how did you use it to call Hickle on Thursday night?”

“I didn’t. I used a different phone, which I’d programmed with the identical code. It’s not hard to do.

Some people make a nice living by stealing cellphone codes.”

“What happened to this other phone?”

“It’s at the bottom of the canyon behind my house. I threw it off the deck earlier this evening. I had no further use for it.”