he would see if Abby wanted to grab a cup of coffee.
That was his story, and he meant to stick to it.
The doorman nodded at him in a way that seemed disapproving. Wyatt ignored the guy. He focused on the two guards at the desk. One was young and had a shaved head. His partner was older and rumpled.
'I'm here to see Miss. Sinclair,' Wyatt said. For some reason he added!
'I don't think she's expecting me.'
The guards exchanged a glance. The older one answered, 'Miss. Sinclair isn't here.'
'Oh.' So he'd missed her. He should have figured.
'Well, maybe I can leave a message.'
'Don't know when she'll be back. She's out of town.'
'She is?'
Shrug.
'She travels a lot. Hardly ever see her.'
The younger guy spoke up.
'You're not in software, are you?'
Wyatt was baffled by the question.
'Software?'
'Her gig. Thought maybe you were in the same line.'
'I run a web commerce distribution center,' Wyatt said smoothly, stringing words together with no particular regard to their meaning.
'Abby's working with us on a project. Upgrading our server capabilities, developing some multitasking options.'
'That's cool.' The young man nodded as if he understood.
Maybe he did. Maybe everything Wyatt had said actually made sense.
'Hey, I'm always looking for freebies.
You got any beta testing you want done, I'm there.'
'Not right now, sorry. You, uh get any freebies from Abby?' 'Nah. She said it was against company policy, which is weird, because she calls herself a consultant.
What's the good of being a consultant if you gotta play by somebody else's rules?'
'I'm pretty sure Miss. Sinclair plays by her own rules,' Wyatt said quietly.
'She been out of town long?'
'Left yesterday-' His partner cut him off.
'We can't give out that information.'
You already did, Wyatt thought.
'No problem,' he said cheerfully.
'I was just wondering. Thanks for your time.' He headed for the door.
'Didn't you want to leave her a message?' the older guard asked in a mildly suspicious tone.
'I'll send her an e-mail. That's the best way to reach her. She spends most of her life online.'
He escaped into the sunlight before the guard could ask a follow-up.
Walking back to his car, Wyatt considered what he had learned. Abby wasn't home. She had been gone since yesterday. The building staff thought she was an independent consultant in the software field. They seemed to have the impression that she was on a business trip. Such trips evidently were frequent.
Except she wasn't on any trip. Wyatt had eaten dinner with her last night. She was in town, but not here, not at her home.
He thought about the old Dodge clunker she'd been driving. It couldn't be her regular car; it didn't fit into this neighborhood. Still, there were parts of town where the Dodge wouldn't look out of place. East LA, Venice, Hollywood… Hickle lived in Hollywood.
Wyatt stopped. He stood very still, putting it together.
'No,' he said aloud.
'She wouldn't. She'd have to be nuts.'
Across the street a woman tending her rosebushes cast an apprehensive gaze in his direction.
He drove into Hollywood, calling the dispatch center on his cell phone to obtain Raymond Hickle's address.
Hickle's apartment building was the Gainford Arms. Wyatt knew the place. An old brick pile four stories high, ugly and dilapidated, the walls webbed with taggers' marks. He had answered many calls at that building when he was riding patrol. The lifestyle of the rich and famous was not lived there.
Wyatt reached the Gainford Arms by five o'clock.
He pulled into the parking lot and scanned the rows of cars, looking for a white Dodge. There wasn't one.
Maybe he'd been wrong, after all. Maybe Abby wasn't mixed up in anything as reckless and crazy as he'd feared. He hoped so.
He was circling the far end of the lot when he glimpsed a flash of motion in his rearview mirror. Another vehicle had entered the parking area-a white subcompact.
Wyatt parked in the nearest available space, safely hidden in a carport's shadow. Low in his seat, he watched the car cruise past. It was a Dodge Colt, and it had a dent in its side panel, and the woman at the wheel was Abby, of course.
She guided the Colt into a carport in a corner of the lot, then walked briskly to the rear door of the Gainford Arms, checking her wristwatch.
In a hurry, it seemed.
The rear door was locked. Abby had a key. She must be a resident. No surprise.
The door swung shut behind her, and Wyatt slowly sat up in his seat. A slow anger was growing inside him. He was tempted to barge into the landlord's office, show his badge, find out which apartment she was in.
Bang on her door until she opened up, then demand to know what kind of game she was playing… He told himself to cool off. He wasn't going to do that. Abby was obviously involved in something clandestine and dangerous. If he blew her cover, he would put her at risk.
After a few moments he composed himself. Calm again, he headed over to Hollywood Station, though he was off duty for another forty-five minutes. At an empty desk he called the phone company. It didn't take him long to determine that only one apartment at the Gainford Arms had established phone service within the past week. Number 418, rented to Abby Gallagher.
Hickle lived in apartment 420. Abby was his nextdoor neighbor.
Wyatt was suddenly worn out. He sank back in his chair, rubbing his face. One of the day-watch patrol guys, a training officer named Mendoza, sauntered past.
'Rough day. Sergeant?' Mendoza asked.
'You could say that,' Wyatt said.
'I bet it's a woman.'
Wyatt had to smile.
'How'd you know?'
'Only a woman can make a man feel that goddamn bad.'
At five-fifteen Abby found Hickle in the laundry room of the Gainford Arms, unloading his clothes from the dryer.
'Hi, neighbor,' she said.
'Fancy meeting you here.'
Hickle flushed.
'It's a small world,' he managed.
She rewarded his effort at humor with a smile. Actually their meeting was no coincidence. After returning from TPS, she had rewound her surveillance videotape of Hickle's apartment and scanned it in fast motion.
The tape was time-stamped, allowing her to determine that at exactly 4:27 he had left the apartment carrying a basket of laundry. Hastily she had stuffed some of her clothes into a plastic bag and headed down to the basement. She thought it would seem more natural to run into him there than to arrange another chance
