'And clever.' Travis turned onto Westwood Boulevard, heading north.
'Kris asked him how he got hold of her address, and he told her. He searched the Internet for her husband's name-Howard Barwood-and found the California Coastal Commission agenda for April of 1999. They post the minutes of all their meetings on the Web. One of the topics discussed in April was a request by Howard Barwood of Malibu to attach a guest cottage to the garage. His address was reported in the application summary.'
Abby sighed. No information was private any longer.
'Was the application approved?'
'Sure was. In fact, that guest cottage has come in handy. We set up our on-site command post there.'
'How often does Hickle call?'
'Six times a day, on average.'
'Has he tried to make physical contact?'
'Repeatedly. We're lucky in one way. Kris lives in Malibu Reserve.
She moved there for additional security a few years ago, a normal precaution for someone in her position. The Reserve is a pretty tight ship.
Hickle has never gotten past the guards at the entrance.
Same story at work. KPTI is fenced and gated, and the guards have seen Hickle's photo.'
'He's attempted entry at both her home and the studio?
How many attempts in all?'
'More than two dozen.'
'Escalating frequency?'
'Yes.'
'Bad.'
At Wilshire Boulevard, Travis turned east. The wide, busy street was colonnaded on both sides by high-rise condominium buildings and a few office towers. Abby lived midway along the corridor.
'You mentioned that Kris Barwood still supports you,' Abby said as her building approached.
'How did she feel right after the Corbal incident?'
'Scared, upset. Even though she had been with TPS for years, she nearly left us. Howard was ready to tear up the contract, but Kris had the final say. I talked her out of it.'
'And now she's your biggest cheerleader. That must have been one hell of a pep talk.'
'Let's say I can be persuasive when I have to be.'
The Mercedes pulled into the curved driveway in the forecourt of Abby's condominium tower, the Wilshire Royal.
'Want to come up?' Abby asked, keeping her tone casual.
Travis hesitated.
'I'd better say no. I've got a lot on my plate today.'
'Yeah, I guess I've got my work cut out for me too.'
She was good at concealing disappointment.
They got out of the car, and Travis unloaded the carry-on bag from the trunk. He opened his briefcase and removed a thick sheaf of papers in a manila envelope.
'Your copy of the case file.'
'Bedtime reading,' Abby said. She stuffed it into her suitcase.
'Thanks for the ride, Paul. And-thanks for giving me another chance.'
'I've never blamed you, Abby. Never.'
'And if TPS goes under, will you still feel that way?'
'It's not going under. Things will turn around soon.'
'Sure. I know.'
She started to turn away, and then he took her by the shoulders and kissed her-a strong, heady kiss but too brief. When he pulled away, he was frowning.
'You know, I may have given you the wrong impression.'
She was momentarily confused. Then she realized he was talking about the case, not their relationship.
'How so?'
'I've stressed the most ominous aspects of Hickle's behavior, but there's another side to it. He's a reliable employee with no police record, no history of mental illness, no known violent tendencies. He's never issued a clear threat against Kris. I know none of these things are predictive, but when you put them all together, he starts to look less like a crazed killer and more like a harmless eccentric.'
'Maybe that's all he is.'
'I just don't want you going into this with your mind made up.'
'I won't. I have to get to know him. He'll tell me who he really is and what his intentions are. Risk assessment, that's my game. Gather the data, and analyze.'
'You make it sound almost prosaic.'
She smiled, but it was a sad smile, burdened with wisdom.
'It is-when nothing goes wrong.'
At 3:15 Hickle parked on a side street near the entrance to the Channel Eight studios. From this vantage point he had a clear view of the security gate.
In the backseat of his car lay his duffel bag. He hauled the bag into the front compartment, then unzipped it and removed a twelve-gauge shotgun, fully loaded.
He rested the gun in his lap. The long steel barrel was cool to the touch. He liked running his fingers over it, feeling its smoothness.
Sometimes he fantasized about sliding the barrel into Kris Barwood's mouth, feeding her the tube of the gun, watching her eyes above the gleam of metal. Then one pull of the trigger, and no more eyes, no more mouth, no more Kris.
Blammo.
He felt a stir of arousal in his groin. The feeling was nothing new to him. He had been passionate about Kris Barwood since the day he first saw her. Since then, she had been with him constantly, at least in his thoughts. At bedtime he would conjure her in his arms, and the smell of her hair and skin would lull him to sleep. Throughout the day, while at work or doing chores, he would invent conversations with her, magical dialogues in which he was always witty and buoyant, and she sparkled with laughter at his jokes. For many months he had been married to her.
She waited for him in his apartment. She shared dinner with him.
She looked deep into his eyes.
But in the past few weeks his fantasy had died, exposed as the delusion it had always been. He had maintained the dream as long as he could, until at last reality had broken it into pieces.
She did not love him.
She didn't want to talk to him or read his letters or accept his gifts.
He had sent her jewelry with the polite request that she wear it on the air. She never had. He had called her countless times, and on the rare occasions when he'd gotten through, she had been hostile and uncommunicative.
It was so unfair. He deserved her love. No one could have done more for her than he had. Hadn't he dedicated his life to her? Hadn't he built a shrine for her in his heart? He had spent countless hours hunting down the smallest fragments of information in magazine profiles and newspaper clippings, learning her biography, memorizing every detail of her life.
He knew that her parents had sent her to swim camp at age nine after installing a pool in the backyard of their Minneapolis home. He knew she had been the high school prom queen. She'd attended the University of Minnesota, majoring in Journalism, and after graduation she'd secured her first full-time job, an entry-level position at a radio station in Duluth. The next year she'd gotten her first break, a TV reporting job in Fort Wayne, Indiana. He had tracked down a Fort Wayne shop specializing in local memorabilia and had purchased, for thirty- five dollars, a glossy photo of Kris bearing the inscription Thanks for your support.
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