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Authors: Michael Prescott
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something.”
“Business related? Don’t answer that. It’s always business related. Well, you know where to find me—but I was hoping you’d quit that line of work.”
She slung the purse over her shoulder. “You mean research?”
“No, not research.”
“What, then?”
“That’s something I’ve been trying to figure out. It keeps me up nights.”
“Don’t lose sleep over me. I’m not worth it.”
“I doubt that.”
“Night, Vic.”
“See you, Abby.”
She left the bar and emerged into the whirl of Westwood Village. Two come-ons in a half hour, a new record. Of course, the kid with fake ID had been only—well, only a kid. As for Wyatt, she didn’t know quite what to make of him. He was lonely, she guessed. Maybe she was lonely too. Lonely despite Travis. Or because of Travis. Because of the peculiar nature of their relationship, its built-in distance and wariness.
She put the issue out of her mind. It didn’t matter. Whatever she was feeling, she could handle it. She could handle anything. She was tough.
Jet lag had never been a problem for her. She dropped off to sleep at midnight and woke refreshed at seven. For breakfast she fried vegetable-protein sausages and an egg-white omelet. She avoided coffee; in her profession it didn’t pay to be jumpy. Instead she brewed herbal tea.
Before showering, Abby ran through a workout routine drawn from the
YMCA Fitness Manual
—no-nonsense exercises like sit-ups, bent-knee push-ups, hamstring stretches, and chest rotations. The full program, from warm-up to cool-down, took thirty minutes. On some days she substituted t’ai chi or shadow-boxing. There were many ways to stay fit.
Only after she was dressed in fresh clothes, with her hair toweled dry and brushed straight, did she allow herself to look at the case file. Paper-clipped to the back page was an eight-by-ten color glossy. The shot had been taken with a telephoto lens, squashing its subject against an unfocused background smear. It had probably been snapped from a moving car—a drive-by, in the strange parlance of the security business.
The subject was Hickle, of course. He had been caught on film as he emerged from a doorway, perhaps the entrance to his apartment building or the donut shop where he worked. She couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was the man himself. He had a thin, suspicious face and small eyes. He was scrawny and looked tall. His black hair was a sloppy, disarranged pile.
She tried to draw a few preliminary conclusions from the photo. Hickle seemed indifferent to personal grooming, often a sign of depression or social alienation. His skin was pale, almost pasty, suggesting he spent most of his time indoors. He wore a shapeless brown sweatshirt and faded jeans, clothes that would not attract attention; he didn’t want to stand out. His body language—head lowered, eyes narrowed, lips pursed—conveyed a cagey wariness that reminded her of a mongrel dog that had learned to fend for itself on the street.
Bringing the photo up close, she looked intently at Hickle’s face. There was something in his eyes, in the set of his mouth…
Anger. Hickle was an angry man. Life had not given him what he thought it owed him, and he was looking for someone to blame.
“Wrong,” she said aloud. “He’s not looking. He’s already found her.”
She spent the morning with the file, reading it carefully. When she was done, she returned to the first page, which listed Hickle’s address. He lived in an apartment in Hollywood, on Gainford Avenue, south of Santa Monica Boulevard. Unit 420. Fourth floor. Must be a good-sized complex. In that neighborhood the turnover rate among tenants would be high.
The
LA Times
was delivered to her door every morning when she was in town. She studied the classified ads. When she found what she was seeking, she said, “Bingo,” just like in the movies.
There were vacancies at the Gainford Avenue address. No apartment numbers
“Business related? Don’t answer that. It’s always business related. Well, you know where to find me—but I was hoping you’d quit that line of work.”
She slung the purse over her shoulder. “You mean research?”
“No, not research.”
“What, then?”
“That’s something I’ve been trying to figure out. It keeps me up nights.”
“Don’t lose sleep over me. I’m not worth it.”
“I doubt that.”
“Night, Vic.”
“See you, Abby.”
She left the bar and emerged into the whirl of Westwood Village. Two come-ons in a half hour, a new record. Of course, the kid with fake ID had been only—well, only a kid. As for Wyatt, she didn’t know quite what to make of him. He was lonely, she guessed. Maybe she was lonely too. Lonely despite Travis. Or because of Travis. Because of the peculiar nature of their relationship, its built-in distance and wariness.
She put the issue out of her mind. It didn’t matter. Whatever she was feeling, she could handle it. She could handle anything. She was tough.
Jet lag had never been a problem for her. She dropped off to sleep at midnight and woke refreshed at seven. For breakfast she fried vegetable-protein sausages and an egg-white omelet. She avoided coffee; in her profession it didn’t pay to be jumpy. Instead she brewed herbal tea.
Before showering, Abby ran through a workout routine drawn from the
YMCA Fitness Manual
—no-nonsense exercises like sit-ups, bent-knee push-ups, hamstring stretches, and chest rotations. The full program, from warm-up to cool-down, took thirty minutes. On some days she substituted t’ai chi or shadow-boxing. There were many ways to stay fit.
Only after she was dressed in fresh clothes, with her hair toweled dry and brushed straight, did she allow herself to look at the case file. Paper-clipped to the back page was an eight-by-ten color glossy. The shot had been taken with a telephoto lens, squashing its subject against an unfocused background smear. It had probably been snapped from a moving car—a drive-by, in the strange parlance of the security business.
The subject was Hickle, of course. He had been caught on film as he emerged from a doorway, perhaps the entrance to his apartment building or the donut shop where he worked. She couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was the man himself. He had a thin, suspicious face and small eyes. He was scrawny and looked tall. His black hair was a sloppy, disarranged pile.
She tried to draw a few preliminary conclusions from the photo. Hickle seemed indifferent to personal grooming, often a sign of depression or social alienation. His skin was pale, almost pasty, suggesting he spent most of his time indoors. He wore a shapeless brown sweatshirt and faded jeans, clothes that would not attract attention; he didn’t want to stand out. His body language—head lowered, eyes narrowed, lips pursed—conveyed a cagey wariness that reminded her of a mongrel dog that had learned to fend for itself on the street.
Bringing the photo up close, she looked intently at Hickle’s face. There was something in his eyes, in the set of his mouth…
Anger. Hickle was an angry man. Life had not given him what he thought it owed him, and he was looking for someone to blame.
“Wrong,” she said aloud. “He’s not looking. He’s already found her.”
She spent the morning with the file, reading it carefully. When she was done, she returned to the first page, which listed Hickle’s address. He lived in an apartment in Hollywood, on Gainford Avenue, south of Santa Monica Boulevard. Unit 420. Fourth floor. Must be a good-sized complex. In that neighborhood the turnover rate among tenants would be high.
The
LA Times
was delivered to her door every morning when she was in town. She studied the classified ads. When she found what she was seeking, she said, “Bingo,” just like in the movies.
There were vacancies at the Gainford Avenue address. No apartment numbers
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