Lying on the couch, she dictated what she had learned from Wyatt into her microrecorder. Then she fixed herself a cup of herbal tea and drank it slowly, sitting on the fire escape and watching the night sky.
Once, she saw a shooting star that traced a pale arc above the distant rooftops. It might be an omen—good or bad, she couldn’t say.
Loud voices echoed through the parking lot below. The party crowd was leaving the spa area. She heard inebriated laughter, fading out.
The hot tub must be empty now. She decided to try it. She could use some R and R.
Among the items of clothing she had packed, there was a one-piece swimsuit. She changed into the suit and took a large bath towel with her as she went downstairs to the lobby. She crossed the parking lot to the spa area. The gate was closed, but she discovered that the lock was broken, and she didn’t need to use her apartment key. A sign warned that the Jacuzzi was to be used only by residents of the Gainford Arms and only between the hours of 8 A.M. and 10 P.M. She checked her watch. The time was 10:15. Well, there was nobody around to complain that she was breaking the rules.
The kids who’d partied here had left the place a mess. Empty beer bottles ringed the tub. Potato chips and pretzels were scattered around, and near one of the cheap lounge chairs lay the uneaten remnant of a Twinkie.
“Slobs,” Abby murmured. She set down her purse and the towel on the lounge chair, then took off her wristwatch and her sneakers. Finally she eased herself into the tub. The water was still frothing and gurgling; the kids had neglected to turn off the jets when they left.
Eyes shut, she rested her head against the concrete rim of the tub and let the hot bubbling water massage the small of her back.
She had not rested, really rested, in much too long. The New Jersey case had been tricky, and then Travis had called her back to LA as soon as it had ended. There had been almost no downtime.
She wondered if she had been wrong to accept the TPS case. True, she desperately wanted to prove herself to Travis, make amends for the Devin Corbal disaster, if she possibly could—but she might be driving herself too hard. Fatigue was the real enemy in a profession like hers. Fatigue could be fatal.
After this one, she promised, she would take a vacation. Maybe head over to Phoenix and look up some old friends. Hike in the Superstition Mountains, ride a horse on a dusty trail, be a kid again.
Yes, she would do all those things…when this job was over…
She felt herself drifting into the alpha state on the threshold of sleep. Her thoughts fuzzed out and grew distant. All tension left her, and there was only a humming meditative sense of calm.
Then a sudden lurch forward, water over her head, the hot jets stinging her neck—
She was submerged in the tub, the surface only inches away but out of reach, because she couldn’t rise.
Someone was holding her down with a strong hand clutching the top of her head, gripping her hair in tangled bunches.
She tried to grab the hand that held her, knowing she could inflict instant pain by bending back one of his fingers or squeezing the tender ball of flesh below his thumb, but with his free hand he deflected her attack.
If she could only see him—
But she couldn’t, she was underwater, blinded by the lights ringing the interior of the tub, and above her was only darkness and she couldn’t see anything, and there was no air.
She struggled to duck lower, pull free, but he had her by the hair and wouldn’t yield. She braced both feet against the bottom of the tub and pushed hard, fighting to overcome the downward pressure that kept her submerged, but he had the advantage of leverage.
A cry of frustration burst out of her in an explosion of bubbles, blending with the jets of churning water.
The cry cost nearly the last of her oxygen. She would black out at any moment, and then he would simply have to hold her down until her lungs flooded with water in a final instinctive breath.
But she couldn’t die this way, facedown in a Jacuzzi, surrounded by empty beer bottles and trash—
Beer bottles.
A weapon.
With her last strength she raised her arm out of the water and groped behind her, along the rim of the spa.
Her hand closed over the neck of a bottle.
She tilted it, smashed it against the concrete, then jabbed upward with the broken, jagged end.
Instantly the hand holding her down withdrew.
She stabbed again, blindly, not sure if she had made contact the first time—then surfaced with a hoarse, spluttering gasp.
Sucking air into her lungs, she spun in the tub, looking everywhere for her assailant, but all she saw was the gate clanging shut.
In the parking lot—running footsteps, fading out.
She leaned against the side of the tub, fighting to control her breathing, then noticed that she still held the beer bottle in her hand.
She examined the jagged end for blood, found none. She saw no red droplets on the concrete surface of the spa area.
The bottle had merely scared him. She hadn’t inflicted a wound. Too bad. Blood could be tested and matched to an eventual suspect. Besides, she would have liked to hurt the bastard after what he put her through.
She set down the bottle and climbed out of the spa, shivering in the cool air. With a towel wrapped around her, she considered the big question.
Who the hell was he?
She was quite certain her attacker had been male. Those hands had been decidedly masculine in their size and strength. But whose hands had they been? Hickle’s? Was he on to her somehow, or had he simply equated her in his mind with Jill Dahlbeck, his earlier obsession?
He had asked if she was an actress, as Jill had been. Maybe there was something about her that had triggered the same feelings that might have led him to splash Jill with battery acid on a dark side street in Hollywood years ago.
Or maybe the assault had no connection with Hickle or this case. She remembered Wyatt saying, This is Hollywood, remember. Lots of random craziness. Hickle’s not the only nutcase.
Then an absurd thought occurred to her. How well did she really know Vic Wyatt?
“Oh, come on,” she said under her breath, “that’s paranoid.”
Of course it was paranoid. She was in a paranoid business. She was trained to be hypervigilant. But the fact was, somebody had just tried to kill her, less than two hours after her meeting with Wyatt—and she didn’t know Wyatt all that well.
He had bumped into her last night at the bar in Westwood. Suppose it wasn’t a coincidence. Suppose he had been following her. Stalking her…She knew all about that kind of behavior, didn’t she?
And suppose that tonight, after dinner, he had followed her to this building, and when he saw her enter the tub…
“Tried to kill me?” she asked herself aloud. “Why would he?”
She couldn’t say, but she had to admit it was at least possible. The lock on the gate was broken; anyone could have entered the spa area.
She still didn’t believe it. Wyatt had never struck her as the slightest bit unstable or hostile or obsessive.
Anyhow, there might be a way to eliminate him from suspicion.
She took the cell phone out of her purse and called Wyatt’s home number. He lived in the mid-city district near La Brea and Washington. If he’d fled this location just minutes earlier, he wouldn’t have had time to get home yet.
She waited through three rings, a small knot of worry forming in her stomach. She didn’t want to suspect Wyatt. She didn’t want the assailant to be anyone she knew and liked.
Four rings—
And the phone was answered. “Wyatt.”
“Oh.” She caught her breath. “Hi, Vic, it’s me. Hope I’m not calling too late.”
“No problem. I’m kind of a night owl, with the schedule I’m working lately. What’s up?”
She couldn’t very well tell him that she was calling to remove him from suspicion of attempted murder. But she hadn�
��t had time to think of a cover story. She improvised. “I realized I forgot to ask if there were any other women Hickle went after. You know, in addition to Jill Dahlbeck. Anything in his past, any other reports, before or since.”
“Not that I’m aware of. But I have a feeling you might know about somebody.”
“Me?”
“Why else would a security firm be taking a fresh look at him?”
“Well…no comment.”
“That’s what I figured. And if I asked who his new object of affection might be?”
“No comment.”
“You sound like a broken record. Anything else you forgot to ask?”
She almost said no, then changed her mind. “There is one thing. Any reports of drownings in the Hollywood district?”
“Drownings? You mean, like, little kids who fall in a swimming pool?”
“No, I mean adults…Any unsolved cases like that? An adult who drowned in a pool or a hot tub, that kind of thing?”
“What would that have to do with Raymond Hickle?”
“Probably nothing. Just a loose end I’m trying to tie up.”
“Well, to answer your question—no, there haven’t been any mysterious, unsolved Hollywood drownings. If there had been, I think the local news would have picked up on it, don’t you?”
“Sure. Of course they would. Sorry I asked.”
“No problem. I’m here to help. To protect and serve, that’s my motto.”
“I’ll see you, Vic.”
“Take care, Abby.”
She ended the call. There was no chance he could have made it home that fast, and besides, she had detected no hesitation or fear when she asked about local drownings. He was in the clear.
That left one other suspect, one who was considerably more obvious than Vic Wyatt.
Abby went inside the building and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Once inside her apartment, she slipped onto the fire escape, then crept close to Hickle’s bedroom window.
The window was open. From his living room she heard the babble of his TV. Kris Barwood’s voice. She checked her watch—10:40. The late local news on Channel Eight was still in progress.
She leaned over the railing of the fire escape and peered into the living room window two yards away. The Venetian blind was open, and she could see Hickle clearly, seated on the couch, bare-chested, wearing a pair of ragged shorts, watching the TV in rapt concentration. He looked as if he had not moved in nearly an hour. Quite possibly he hadn’t. When the news came on, it became the only thing in his world.
Abby retreated inside her apartment and considered the situation.
Wyatt was cleared. And she didn’t think the assailant had been Hickle either.
Then who was it?
Random craziness, she decided, once again replaying Wyatt’s comments on the subject. This was Hollywood. Plenty of nuts out there.
She had gotten careless and one of them had tried to take advantage. Maybe meant to kill her and steal her purse. When she fought back, he got scared and ran off. End of story.
The explanation didn’t entirely satisfy her. She wasn’t a big believer in coincidences. But Wyatt and Hickle were off the hook, and there was no one else to suspect.
Was there?
11
It was past midnight when Howard Barwood climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He’d been out later than expected. Kris was already home. He found her stretched on the bed in her nightgown and slippers. Her hair had fanned over the pillows, framing her face in a fringe of gold.
“Well, well,” she whispered, her voice flat, “you’re finally back. Out for another drive?”
He nodded, not looking at her. “Still breaking in the new Lexus. I took it all the way up to Santa Barbara and back.”
“Quite a trip.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t want to talk about this. He crossed to the window and peered out at the moonlit surf pounding the beach. “Look at those breakers.”
“I’m too tired to look.” Kris sighed. “You, on the other hand, don’t seem tired at all.”
“Why should I be?”
“All that driving would wear anyone out.”
“It gets me energized.” He wished he could change the subject.
She made a noncommittal sound. “You do seem a little…agitated.”
“Agitated?” He wanted to sound casual, but the word came out raw and tense.
“Yes, I’d say so. Restless, jumpy, on edge. You didn’t get in an accident, did you?”
“Of course not. Why would you even ask a question like that?”
“You strike me as kind of worked up, that’s all.”
“I’m fine. I like driving the new car. It’s a kick. Maybe it takes me a little while to come down off the adrenaline high.” He wondered if she could hear the lie in his voice.
Kris was silent for a moment. Then she whispered, “I guess anything is better than spending time here at the house—or with me.”
He turned away from the window. “What are you talking about?”
“Lately you’ve been keeping your distance.”
“That’s ridiculous. I went with you to work yesterday, if you recall. I was at the studio. I was there all night.”
“You were there. But you spent most of your time with Amanda.” Amanda Gilbert was the executive producer of the six o’clock edition of Real News. “You two were inseparable, at least until she went home at seven thirty.”
In the stretch of stillness that followed, the roar of the surf was plainly audible even through the double-pane windows.
There were many things for Howard to say, but none seemed quite right. He settled on irony. “Paranoia’s not a good look for you, Kris.”
“It’s not paranoia. I saw how you acted around her. And earlier that afternoon…”
“Yes?”
She averted her gaze. “Never mind.”
He took a step toward the bed, then stopped. Distantly it occurred to him how absurd it was for a man to hesitate about approaching his own wife in their bedroom. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s hear it. What mortal sin did I commit yesterday afternoon?”
“That woman Travis hired—she’s about Amanda’s age.” The smile that flickered on Kris’s face was one she never used in public. A sad, bitter smile. “Why is it always the young ones you can’t take your eyes off? What’s so special about youth anyway? Does a woman fall apart at forty the way a car does when it hits a hundred thousand miles? Or is it just that you always need this year’s model even when the one you’ve got is still running fine?”
“I couldn’t care less about Abby Sinclair.”
“No? You were so vocal in your concern for her safety.” Her voice slipped into a lower register. “Are you sure you won’t get hurt? Aren’t you taking an awful risk, you poor, brave thing?”
“I think her safety is a legitimate concern. Of course, I realize that in the larger picture it’s only your safety that counts. The slightest threat to you is a national emergency—”
“The slightest threat?” She sat up straight, her hair falling around her shoulders. “Is that what you think Raymond Hickle represents, a slight threat?”
He wouldn’t back down. “Under the circumstances…”
“You mean the circumstances of being stalked and harassed and terrorized night and day?”
“I mean the circumstances of being surrounded by armed bodyguards night and day.”
“Devin Corbal was surrounded by armed bodyguards when his stalker shot him.”
Howard spread his hands. “Well, if you don’t trust Travis to protect you—”
“This isn’t about Travis.”
“So what the hell is it about?”
Abruptly she let her head fall back on the pillow. “What do you think?”
Finally he took the three steps that brought him to her bedside. He stood looking down at her. “What am I supposed to do, Kris?” he asked softly. “What do you want me to do?”
&n
bsp; “What I want…” She rolled her head in his direction, swept a tangle of hair from her face. “What I want is for you to look at me the way you look at those other women. Younger women.”
“I do, all the time.” The words sounded false even as he pronounced them.
“Do you? When was the last time we…?” Weariness overtook her. “Oh, never mind.”
He knew that if he took no action now, she would hate him in the morning. She had asked him as plainly as she could, as openly as pride would allow.
“It’s been too long,” he murmured. It was the closest he could come to an apology.
She looked at him, wariness and hope mingled in her expression. “Yes.” Her tone was neutral, giving him nothing.
Now was the moment for him to kiss her. Now was his opportunity to heal the breach between them.
He couldn’t.
“It’s this craziness with Hickle,” he said dully. “Once that’s past and things are back to normal, we’ll be the way we were. We have to wait it out, that’s all.”
“Is that what we have to do?” Kris whispered.
“Just until this is all settled and we can breathe again.”
She didn’t answer.
“I think I’ll fix something to eat,” Howard said, though he wasn’t hungry. “Can I bring you anything?”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m going to sleep.”
“That’s the best thing. Rest. Put everything out of your mind.” He reached out and clumsily stroked her hair, his nearest imitation of affection. “It’ll all be behind us soon.”
She was silent.
Howard left Kris in the bedroom and went downstairs, wishing it was still possible for him to love his wife.
12
Hickle couldn’t sleep.
He rolled over and stared at the glowing dial of his bedside alarm clock. The time was 2:19. He had to get up in three hours. His shift started at 6 a.m, and he was always punctual.
The smart thing to do was just close his eyes and relax. Sleep would come, if he let it. He was sure it would.
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