Abby shrugged.
'Haven't you been watching the news? Howard Barwood is suspected as Hickle's accomplice.
Don't you think Howard could find my home address if he wanted to? He knows my name.
He used to be in real estate.'
Wyatt looked away, his face pained.
'I never thought of that. Which makes me feel pretty goddamned stupid.'
'You've probably had a few other things on your mind. So can I have the info?'
'Yeah, hold on, I'll get it.'
He left the office and returned with a BOLO sheet.
'Until we can nail down which vehicle he lifted; we're not releasing these details to the media. We don't want some hothead opening fire on a teenager who took one of these cars for a joyride.'
'I don't intend to open fire on anybody.' Abby copied the details from the Be on Lookout form into her notepad. The stolen vehicles were a '96 Civic, an '87 Mustang, and a '92 Impala.
'I'm sure you don't,' Wyatt said, not sounding sure at all.
'But if you see any of these cars, call me. No heroics, please. Not this time.'
'I hear you.' She flipped her pad shut and handed back the sheet.
'One other thing. Do you know if Culver City PD is watching Howard Barwood's bungalow?'
'They've put an unmarked car across the street. If Barwood shows, they'll grab him. Did you tip them off?' 'Travis did. I asked him to, if Howard fled.'
'How'd you-' Wyatt dismissed his own question.
'No, don't tell me how you knew about the bungalow.
I don't want to know. So it sounds like you anticipated he'd run.'
'It occurred to me. He's weak, I think. Like a kid who's never grown up. A crisis would shake him.
He'd panic. That's my reading of him.'
Wyatt nodded.
'It comes back to what we were talking about in that bar the other night-how there aren't too many grownups in LA. Except I don't know too many overgrown kids who try to have their wives knocked off by a stalker.'
'People are complicated,' Abby said softly, thinking of Travis and his attempted seduction of Kris.
'They can always surprise you. Even the ones you think you know best.'
It was fully dark, nearly 7:30 p.m.' when Abby reached Westwood. A block from the Wilshire Royal she turned onto a side street and cruised through the hilly residential neighborhood, looking for any of the three stolen cars. Nonresident parking was prohibited on most of the streets, and there weren't many vehicles for her to look at. None matched any entry on the list.
She Wondered if she was being paranoid about this.
Hickle might not know her home address. Even if he did, he might have higher priorities at this moment than revenge. His survival was at stake. He was a hunted animal. By now he could be across the border or holed up in a motel in the desert.
Then she shook her head, recognizing this train of thought for what it was-a dangerous rationalization.
She was tired and wanted to rest. She was trying to convince herself that it was safe to let down her guard, safe to go home and curl up on her sofa and listen to soft music. It was what she badly wanted to do, but what she wanted and what she needed were not necessarily the same thing. Intuition had saved her life on other occasions. She could not afford to ignore it now.
Her intuition insisted that Hickle had not forgotten her. He had learned where she lived. He was close.
The condominium board of the Wilshire Royal had been displeased when plans were announced to raise a sixteen-story office tower directly across the street. The building, the board members correctly prophesied, would be an eyesore. It would block the views from all the units facing Wilshire. It would reduce property values.
Their petitions and protests had been ignored. The building had gone up, a charm less monolith with dull black walls and narrow slits of windows. The Black Tower, people had inevitably called it. Then when the building was nearly completed, the developers had unexpectedly filed for bankruptcy. Work had halted.
And those residents of the Wilshire Royal with northern exposures had been left to stare at a lightless, lifeless hulk.
But tonight the Black Tower was not lifeless. There was body heat inside. There was breathing. There was the slow beat of a patient heart.
Hickle waited, caressing the hammer-forged barrel and walnut stock of his Heckler amp; Koch 770.
He had arrived at the building last night. In the trunk of the stolen Impala, he'd found a tire iron, with which he'd pried open the locked gate at the construction site. He had climbed nine flights of stairs, guided by his flashlight, lugging his duffel with the shotgun and rifle inside. On the tenth floor he had made his way along a dark hallway to the front of the tower, where bands of plate glass windows overlooked the rushing traffic on Wilshire Boulevard. Directly across the street was the Wilshire Royal. Travis had told him that Abby's apartment was number 1015, fourth from the Royal's western end. Hickle had taken up a position opposite her window. Her lights were off, the curtains shut.
But she would be home eventually.
Among the scattered tools left by the workmen were a glass cutter and a straightedge. With them, Hickle had cut a rectangular hole in the plate glass window.
Through it, when the time came, he could fire.
To pass the hours, he had tested the rifle's laser sighting system, throwing a long beam of reddish orange light along the target-acquisition line. Its glowing pinpoint was brilliant in the variable-power scope.
He could direct the beam at any spot on Abby's balcony or on the curtains behind the glass. And where the beam alighted, a bullet would be sure to follow, racing at twenty-two hundred feet per second across a distance of thirty-five yards.
Periodically he had checked the flags in the Royal's forecourt. He didn't think windage would be a serious factor at this distance, but he was prepared to adjust his aim by a few inches if a strong gust kicked up. The flags had been limp throughout the day and evening.
There was no breeze.
Most of his time was spent simply waiting. He never rested, never shut his eyes. Now and then he shifted his position, easing the strain on his muscles. He tried standing and squatting, then sitting on a rough work table he'd dragged close to the window. Reluctant to leave his post even for a minute, he had ignored hunger and thirst and the need to urinate. After a while these bodily urges had faded. Now it was eight o'clock on Saturday night, and he felt nothing. He was numb.
The only thing that still worried him was a flare-up of his nerves. He would have to hold the rifle steady, and he wondered if his body would betray him at the critical moment. He didn't think so. He had failed to kill Abby once. By a miracle he had been offered a second chance.
He did not intend to squander it.
Abby checked the area north of Wilshire. There were more parked cars here. Many, belonging to UCLA students, were older models. Several times she thought she spotted one of the wanted vehicles, but always the license plate proved her wrong.
Passing a house with dark windows and a for sale sign on the lawn, she noticed a car in the carport. The car might be a Chevy Impala; at a distance it was hard to be sure. She parked down the street and returned on foot, carrying her purse with the gun inside. At the foot of the driveway she studied the car. It was parked facing out, which meant the driver had backed into the carport, an awkward procedure. And the front license plate frame was empty. California drivers were issued two plates and usually mounted both.
She switched her attention to the house, which looked empty. She made a show of studying the for sale sign, her performance for the benefit of anyone watching from a neighboring residence. Having established her bona fides as a prospective buyer, she approached the front door.
The short, curved walkway allowed her to pass close to the bay window.
The curtains were open, and although the living room was dark, she could see well enough in the glow of the streetlights to know that the furniture was gone. Whoever was selling the place had already moved out. So why was there a car in the carport?
