It was a risk, calling her condo. There was a good chance no one would answer. Even if someone did, it might not be Tess—and Tess was the only one Abby could trust.
Even so, she had decided to chance it. Making contact with Tess might be her last shot at getting out of this mess relatively unscathed.
Tess would be in L.A. by now, obviously. That much was easy to predict. From the moment Faust had mentioned Hauser, a number of things had become clear. One of them was that Abby had gotten entangled in an undercover FBI operation, with Brody as the UC man. This one fact explained a lot of anomalies. As an ordinary stalker, Brody made no sense—not with his background, experience, and equipment. But he fit the bill of federal agent just fine.
Except for the part about trying to kill her. But she had that figured out, as well. Hauser must have arranged it. Presumably, Hauser was his supervisor, and he had some kind of buddy-buddy thing going on with Faust. When Faust called him for advice on the unwanted attention he and Elise were receiving from the new man in their lives, Hauser suggested the services of one Abby Sinclair, certified stalker stopper. Which she really ought to thank him for, word of mouth being the best advertising and all, except somehow she didn’t think he’d had her best interests at heart.
She remembered Hauser from the Medea case. He’d assisted in her arrest. He’d been none too hospitable toward her. He had, in fact, been royally pissed off. She had compromised the integrity of his precious FBI. He hated her for it. And apparently he was the type who held a grudge.
Ever since, he must have been looking for an opportunity to get her off the street. She was a loose cannon, which in his world was probably even worse than a loose woman. Which she also was, but that was another story.
Of course, putting her behind bars was one thing. Putting her in the morgue was something else. She wasn’t clear on his exact motivation, but somehow he’d let personal animosity overrule his judgment.
And if he had been Brody’s supervisor, then it was likely that he was now in charge of the homicide investigation. And it was a sure bet that Tess was hip-deep in this mess, too. As soon as she’d learned of a killing in conjunction with Faust, she would have informed her superiors of Abby’s possible involvement. She wasn’t likely to stay in Denver when something like this was going down. Most likely she was in L.A. already, working with Hauser and never suspecting that he was the real bad guy.
There were lots of other angles to this thing, and Abby had been exploring them ever since leaving Elise at the Texaco station. The business of the Rohypnol, for instance. Hauser would have known about that. He’d searched the contents of her purse—what cops called “pocket litter”—after her arrest. He would have found the small bottle of pills and understood their purpose. And, of course, he would have warned Brody, who’d taken the appropriate countermeasures.
Now it was time to take some countermeasures of her own.
She had crossed over the Hollywood Hills into the L.A. basin, chucking her cell phone into one of the canyons on the way. A cell phone sent out a periodic signal check even when it wasn’t in use, which meant it could be used to trace her whereabouts even if she didn’t place or receive any calls. She could have just switched it off altogether, but it was easier to ditch it. Most likely she would never be using it again.
In Hollywood she stopped at a thrift store and purchased a Mexican shawl, a pillow, and an oversize jacket. Then she drove into Westwood, parking her Miata on a side street several blocks from her condo building.
With the pillow stuffed under the jacket and the shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders, she looked like a pregnant lady from south of the border—one of the innumerable maids, housekeepers, and nannies who rode the buses into this neighborhood from East L.A. every day.
She stationed herself on a bus stop bench across the street from the Wilshire Royal. And she waited.
It wasn’t a long wait. At four thirty a Hoover blue Bureau sedan pulled into the Royal’s parking garage. A few minutes later Tess was visible through the plate-glass lobby doors.
“So you are here,” Abby whispered. “Welcome back.”
The man with Tess could have been Hauser, but Abby couldn’t distinguish his features well enough to be sure. Anyway, she had seen enough. She left the bus stop and walked back to her car, shed her costume, and drove to a pay phone. She punched in her home phone number and hoped Tess answered.
Distantly she was surprised at how much she wanted to talk to Tess. How much she needed an ally in this fight. Had it been only a couple of days ago when she’d coldly reminded Tess that they weren’t friends anymore? Yet now she needed Tess as a friend. Otherwise there was nothing left for her but the nuclear option, as she thought of it. And she didn’t want to go nuclear. When it came to her personal future, she was definitely antinuke.
“Hello?”
Tess’s voice on the phone. Abby closed her eyes and did her best to sound casual.
“Hey, Tess. How’s it hanging?”
She heard a muffled movement on the other end of the line, which had to be Tess alerting her fellow agents to the fact that Abby Sinclair, the wanted criminal, the class-A fugitive, was calling. Abby had to hope they hadn’t thought to put a trace on the line. She was betting they hadn’t; they would never have expected her to call her own number.
“If you know enough to call me on your home phone,” Tess said evenly, “then I guess you know.”
“Yeah, I’m in another pickle, it looks like.” She was trying to find her old insouciance but not quite getting it. “You know, if you were coming to L.A., you could’ve given me a heads-up. We might have been able to get together, chat about old times.”
“We still can.”
“Maybe not right now. My schedule’s a little tight.”
“Abby, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
“I didn’t get myself into anything. I was set up.”
“Set up. Is that the best you can do?” There was no empathy in her tone, no willingness to listen.
“It’s the truth.”
“Yes, you know all about the truth, don’t you? How to spin it, how to conceal it, how to turn it inside out and play mind games with it ...”
“I have to admit, Tess, you’re harshing my mellow.”
“This isn’t a joke. And it’s not a game.”
“I’m very much aware of that.”
“If you are, then why are you calling me with some kind of lame self-justification when it’s one of our people you killed?”
“In self-defense,” Abby said.
“Then you’re admitting you did kill him.” All the inflection had gone out of Tess’s voice.
“I repeat: in self-defense. Three little words that make all the difference. Or actually two little words, one of which is hyphenated.” She was racing through the story, her words crowding together.
“He had you in handcuffs, Abby. We found them here in your apartment.”
“Yeah, so?”
“He had placed you under arrest. He was taking you in. All you had to do was cooperate. Instead you decided to shoot your way out.”
“He wasn’t taking me in. If you’ll just listen to me—”
“I’m not interested in your lies.”
“That’s a pretty closed-minded attitude, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it is. Did I ever tell you about Paul Voorhees?”
“Who?”
“Another fed, like me. He died seven years ago. Murdered. I found him. And by the way, I was in love with him. Care to make any wisecracks about that?”
“No,” Abby said softly.
“Maybe you’ll understand why I’m not too eager to hear your explanations right now. If you have anything to say, just turn yourself in and you can talk all you want. And I’ll listen.”
“I want you to listen now.”
“And I want you to surrender yourself to the authorities now. So it looks like we’re at an impasse.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“He told me his plans for the evening. They consisted of a prolonged and, it’s safe to say, painful interrogation, followed by the old lights-out. He was buying me a one-way ticket on the midnight train to Slab City. He wanted me toe-tagged and body-bagged.”
“Mark Brody was a federal agent.”
“A rogue agent.”
“I have no evidence whatsoever to support that claim.”
“You have my testimony.”
“And how much is that worth, Abby? You’ve lied to me before, when your neck was on the line. Who’s to say you’re not lying again?”
“See, this is why you’re off my Christmas card list.”
“Damn it, you know I can’t trust you. I can’t trust a word you say.”
“So you’re just blowing me off, is that it?” Abby heard her own voice climbing toward hysteria and tried to settle down. She hadn’t realized until this moment just how badly she needed Tess to listen, to believe.
“I’m willing to consider what you’re saying,” Tess said. “If you give yourself up—”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Then arrange a place where we can meet.”
“Yeah, right. Like you’re not going to take me down the minute I show up. I don’t like playing whack-a-mole, Tess, especially when I’m the mole. Look, I’m taking a risk by making contact. I have a lead in the case. It involves—”
“I don’t care what it involves. I’m not interested in whatever red herring you want me to chase down. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a ploy to distract my attention and waste investigative resources.”
“I would never waste resources, Tess. I’m a conservationist. I’m also not a murderer. You ought to know that.”
“I don’t know anything about you anymore, Abby. You took a job working for Peter Faust. You placed a crazy phone call to me, making some wild accusations—”
“That’s just the thing. I was wrong about that, wrong about you. I admit it. But it gave me the lead I—”
“You don’t get it, do you, Abby? I am not giving you the benefit of the doubt this time.”
That stung. “Since when have you ever given me the benefit of the doubt, Tess?”
“Since I first agreed to work with you. Which I never should have. I think we both know that now.”
It was over. No sale. “Yeah. I guess we both do. I take it this means I can’t exactly count on your support.”
“No. You can’t.”
“Then all that’s left to say is good-bye. So good-bye, Tess ... and fuck you.”
She slammed down the pay phone, drawing a stare from a homeless guy working the intersection. She paid him no attention.
She was on her own, no friends, no allies.
So what else was new?
* * *
“Abby,” Tess said into the dead phone.
Nothing. She was gone.
Tess slowly replaced in the handset in its cradle.
At the far end of the room, Hauser came in from the bedroom where he’d been listening on the extension. “You should have acted more cooperative,” he said. “Given her more hope of persuading you. Then maybe you could have talked her into a meeting.”
“There was never any chance of that. She would see right through that kind of ploy. You realize that if she knew I was here, she had to be watching the building?”
“I have our guys across the street out scouting the neighborhood.”
“She’s long gone by now. They didn’t see anyone earlier?”
“Mailman, delivery boy, pregnant Hispanic woman waiting for a bus ...”
“Pregnant Hispanic woman?” Tess almost smiled.
Hauser turned away. “Shit.”
Together they returned to the lobby, where they stopped at the front desk to ask once more if the guards had any idea where Abby might have gone.
“We don’t keep tabs on our residents,” one of them said coolly.
Hauser gave the men a parting glare before accompanying Tess into the garage. Halfway to their car, they came face-to-face with the doorman in his red livery.
“You two need to talk to me,” he announced with a sly, oddly discomfiting smile.
“Do we ... Alec?” Hauser had read the man’s name tag.
Tess stood back and let him handle it.
Alec nodded. “I told Vince and Gerry I was taking a bathroom break. That was just so we could talk without them seeing. I don’t want them to know.” He released a nervous chuckle. “It’s kind of cool, anyway—meeting in the garage. Like I’m Deep Throat or something.”
Hauser managed a friendly grin. “You going to tell us to follow the money?”
“I’m going to tell you how you might be able to track down Ms. Abby Sinclair.”
“We’re listening.”
“There’s a guy who comes to see her pretty often. Drives an old Ford Mustang. Calls himself Mr. Bryce.”
“When you say calls himself ...”
“It’s not his real name. His name is Wyatt.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him on the local news. He was being interviewed at a crime scene in Hollywood. See, he’s a cop. Sergeant or lieutenant, I think. Someone on the patrol side, anyway. Wears a uniform. I mean, not when he comes here ...”
“I understand. A cop named Wyatt, works patrol out of Hollywood.”
“That’s it.”
“You know where to find him?”
“All I know is what I just told you. Sinclair might be with him, or he might know where to find her. If anyone would know, it’s him. He’s the only person who ever comes to visit. Maybe the only friend she has.”
Hauser thanked him. The doorman was walking away when Tess said, “May I ask you something? Why did you help us out?”
Alec turned to look at her, and his blandly affable face turned hard and unfeeling. “Because the bitch thinks she’s too good for me.”
He left the garage. Tess stared after him.
“A cop,” Hauser said. “You know what that means? We have leverage.”
“Yes. We probably do.” But Tess wasn’t thinking about that. She was remembering what Alec the doorman had said so casually.
Maybe the only friend she has.
34
Loud rapping roused Wyatt from sleep. He looked at his clock on the wall: 6:15 p.m.
He’d been awake for much of the day, but had taken a nap on his sofa around five o’clock. Irregular sleeping habits were one of the hazards of working the night watch.
He checked his peephole and saw a man and woman in official-looking suits in the hallway. Immediately he knew they were trouble.
He opened the door. “May I help you?”
“Victor Wyatt?” the man asked.
Nobody called him Victor. “Yes.”
“We’re from the FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”
He could ask what this was about, but there was no point. They would tell him when they were ready. “Sure, no problem. Come on in.” It had to involve Abby. He was sure of it.
He sat on his couch and gestured vaguely to the other seats available—a somewhat ratty armchair and an uncomfortable folding chair with a canvas seat. Perhaps wisely, the two agents chose to stand. Of course, this also gave them a psychological advantage over him, but he tried not to worry about that.
“You’re acquainted with a woman named Abby Sinclair,” the woman said. She was about forty, with reddish blond hair. Somehow he had the impression he’d seen her before.
“That’s not a question.”
“No, Mr. Wyatt. It’s a statement of fact.”
“Do I know you?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Come to think of it,” he said, “I never did get a look at your credentials.”
&n
bsp; This was an obvious play for time, but he knew they had to show him their ID upon request. They did. He studied the two leather-backed ID folders. The man was named Ronald Hauser, and the woman ...
“Tess McCallum. Now I know why you look familiar.”
“Your reputation precedes you,” Hauser told her sardonically.
“You did a hell of a job on Mobius,” Wyatt said, not trying to kiss up to her, just stating a fact. “And the Rain Man ... Medea ...”
Something crossed McCallum’s face when the last two cases were mentioned. “Abby’s never spoken to you about me, I take it?”
“Why would she? Does she know you?”
“She’s ... she’s a friend of mine.”
Wyatt found this hard to believe, and said so.
Hauser cut in. “Why is it so implausible? You’re in law enforcement, and you’re a friend of hers. A very close friend—aren’t you, Mr. Wyatt?”
“It’s Lieutenant Wyatt,” he corrected. “LAPD.” As an intimidation tactic, this was weak. The feds never allowed themselves to be impressed by local law officers.
“Yes. We’re very much aware of your rank.” Hauser’s tone was cool. “Do you think it’s appropriate for a lieutenant of the LAPD to be consorting with Abby Sinclair?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced at McCallum. “Is it appropriate for an agent of the FBI to consort with her?”
Hauser wouldn’t be put off. “You’ve had a long-term, secret relationship with Miss Sinclair. You’ve visited her at the Wilshire Royal on numerous occasions. And you’ve used an assumed name.”
He thought about denying it, but knew it was hopeless. “That’s not a crime.”
“Conspiring with a vigilante is a crime. Lieutenant Wyatt.” Hauser was bearing down, playing the bad cop. “Giving inside information to a civilian who routinely goes outside the law is a crime.”
Wyatt shrugged, feigning indifference, though his heart was starting to race. “You’re fishing. You don’t know anything.”
McCallum took over. Her voice was gentle. “Abby’s in trouble, Victor.”
So she was the good cop. Using his first name, making nice, showing sympathy. Oldest ploy in interrogation techniques, but damn if it didn’t work.
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