Access to the property. [email protected] had wanted him to know this.
Hickle had replied to the message, typing one word:
Why?
He'd reread Jack's note until it was committed to memory, then deleted it from his mailbox as the sender had instructed.
Hickle hadn't slept well that night. For the next few days he'd checked his e-mail account every afternoon.
A week had passed before he received the next message.
More security details, capped by a provocative closing observation:
Kris is most vulnerable when she returns from work in her Lincoln Town Car shortly after midnight. An assailant could lie in wait in the darkness and not be seen.
Think about it.
There had been no answer to Hickle's question.
Jack's motive, it appeared, was not for him to know.
Hickle had spent his next Sunday afternoon in the brush near the Malibu Reserve, tracking down the drainage pipe. It was narrow, but he could wriggle through. Once inside, he was within sight of the Barwoods' house. Several times he had returned, snapping Polaroids of Kris as she jogged on the beach in the company of her bodyguard. He had watched the guest cottage long enough to see men enter and leave.
Agents were indeed stationed there. Everything Jack had told him had checked out.
There had been two more recent messages, different from the earlier ones. Jack was growing impatient. He goaded Hickle. The last message had been a childish taunt:
Kris laughs about you. She thinks you're a joke. She's told the TPS agents that you're no threat because you don't have the guts to take action.
Crude manipulation. Hickle hadn't fallen for it. He had come to distrust Jack. Something was going on here, something complicated and mysterious. Maybe TPS was sending the messages to grod him into committing some foolhardy arrest able offense. After the last e-mail from Jack, he had sent a one-sentence reply:
You can't make me your bitch.
He had not checked his Internet mailbox this week.
He had expected never to hear from Jack again. Instead, for the first time Jack had made contact by telephone.
The call worried him, because he didn't know what had prompted it or what it might mean.
At this hour the library would be closed. To check his e-mail, he would have to use an all-night copy store on Western Avenue. The store was a block ahead.
Could Jack have anticipated that he would go to this store? Might he be waiting there, ready to spring some deadly trap?
'Seems doubtful,' Hickle murmured, but as he eased into the right lane, he reached across to the duffel bag on the passenger seat and unzipped it, affording instant access to the shotgun.
If anybody opened fire, he would be ready. He would not go down without a fight.
Nobody shot at him. He guided the Volkswagen into a shadowy corner of the parking lot, where he could observe the store without being seen from inside.
A neon sign blazed above a glass storefront framing rows of self-service photocopy machines and computers. A few people were running off copies or tapping at keyboards. The clerk behind the-counter looked pale and drawn under the fluorescent glow.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Hickle stuffed the duffel bag on the floor of the passenger side, out of sight, then headed into the store to see what Jackbnimble had to say.
Abby had lost him. After driving for twenty minutes on Santa Monica and adjacent streets she had caught no glimpse of Hickle's car. She pulled into a gas station and parked near the air hose to collect her thoughts.
The phone call was the key. She had to know its point of origin. There was a way. Pacific Bell offered call return service. Entering a three-button code on the phone's keypad provided the customer with the number of the most recent caller. A charge of seventy-five cents for the service would appear on Hickle's next phone bill, possibly tipping him off, but she couldn't worry about that now.
To use his phone she had to get inside his apartment.
Picking the lock on his door was no good; the electric pick gun was too noisy to use in the evening when other tenants were around, and doing the job by hand would take too long. The only other means of entry was his bedroom window. She had seen him open both windows. He hadn't closed them when he left. He'd been in a hurry.
Abby pulled out of the gas station and headed back to the Gainford Arms, driving fast.
The copy store rented computer use by the hour.
Hickle paid in advance and seated himself at the machine farthest from the counter, where he was least likely to be observed.
There was little activity in the shop. The tile floor and white countertops glowed under fluorescent lights. Folk music played on overhead speakers, drowned out when the big photocopy machines started to whir and drone.
Hickle focused on the desktop computer in front of him, which brought up a browser frame when he connected to the Internet. He found Zoom Mail home page and typed Jackbquick and his password. There was one message in his Inbox. The sender was Jackbnimble. The title was one word in capitals: URGENT.
Hickle felt a prickle of dread at the back of his neck.
He opened the message. The first two lines appeared in the message window.
Your enemies are closer than you know. TPS is playing hardball.
They've hired a spy.
The hard, rhythmic chugging in Hickle's ears was the beat of his heart.
'A spy,' he whispered.
One of the clerks at the counter glanced at him.
Hickle realized he'd spoken aloud. Nervously he cleared his throat.
There was more to the message, but he would have to scroll down to see it. For a moment he did nothing, merely stared at the screen, unwilling to read further.
A kind of superstitious fear held him paralyzed. If he learned nothing more, then maybe the news would not be real. Maybe he could pretend he'd never come here. Maybe he could go back to his apartment, carry on with his daily routine, have dinner with Abby again-And then of course he knew.
His new neighbor, so friendly, always bumping into him, first in the hall, then in the laundry room.
The bottom seemed to drop out of his stomach, and he felt a wave of some indescribable feeling that was almost physical pain.
Numbly he read the rest of the message.
She moved in next door to you yesterday. Her job is to get close to men like yourself, learn their secrets, and report what she finds. She works alone, without backup.
She is a threat to you and indirectly to me also. I hope you understand the gravity of what I am telling you.
The words ran together. Hickle couldn't concentrate.
He was thinking that the story about her unfaithful fiance had been a lie to win his empathy. He was thinking that she had never regarded him as a nice guy or somebody to have dinner with.
He shut his eyes, shoulders slumping. The computer hummed. Behind the counter one of the copy machines shut off, and the background music became audible again, Joan Baez singing about the night they drove old Dixie down.
His date tonight… the questions she'd asked… the things he'd told her. What had he said, exactly?
Malibu-he'd mentioned how he liked it there. And he'd said he was going to be famous. How much could she determine from those clues?
Enough to guess his intentions? Was she reporting to TPS now, telling Kris everything she'd learned?
He looked at the clock. Quarter past nine. Abby couldn't be meeting with Kris. Kris was still at KPTI preparing for the ten o'clock newscast. She would leave Burbank at eleven-thirty, arrive home soon after midnight.
