MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

She wanted to keep him talking about Malibu, but there was no way to do it without being recklessly obvious.

Instead she said blandly, "People have problems everywhere, even in nice neighborhoods."

"Ordinary people. You know that writer who said the rich are different?

He was right, except it's not just the rich. It's the killer elite.

They have it all, and the rest of us…"

The second carrot stick snapped in Hickle's hands.

"Yes?" Abby asked.

"We get the table scraps. If we're lucky."

Abby tried to defuse his anger with a shrug.

"I'll bet hardly any of these people here are rich or famous."

"Not yet. They're young. Give them time. Where will they be ten years from now?" His voice sank to a hush.

"And where will I be?"

"I don't know, Raymond," she answered, her voice as low as his.

"Where do you think?"

"I think…" Eyes downcast, he studied the table for a long moment.

Then he looked up, meeting her gaze.

"Actually, I expect to be quite famous."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. Everybody's going to know my name."

"You writing the great American novel or something?"

"Not exactly."

"So how's it going to happen?"

"It's… a secret."

"What good is a secret if you won't tell anybody?

Give me a hint."

"I can't. Really."

"Pretend I'm not just Abby, I'm Dear Abby. People tell her everything.

They tell her way more than she probably wants to know." Hickle smiled but shook his head. She wanted to press further, but instinctively she knew he wouldn't be moved.

"Well, okay," she said.

"Whatever it is, I hope it works out for you."

"Oh, it will. I'm very sure of that."

So there it was. She had the answer to one of her two remaining questions.

Did he believe he could successfully carry out an attack?

Yes. He believed.

It was a crisis, as usual.

Every day at KPTI-TV's news division was an exercise in controlled hysteria. News people were adrenaline addicts; chaos was their normal operating environment; pandemonium was simply their way of getting things done.

This evening's red alert was occasioned by the rare birth of twin African elephants at the Los Angeles Zoo.

News of the elephant calves' arrival came over the wire at 5:15 p.m. A news conference at the zoo was scheduled for six o'clock.

The sensible thing would have been to hold the elephant story until the middle of the newscast, but there was no chance of that. The elephant twins had to lead the show. They bumped a high-speed police pursuit in Pomona to second place, bumped the hospitalization of a soap opera actress to third, and bumped Channel Eight's exclusive interview with the mayor to fourth.

Political stories were never a high priority in LA.

The live remote truck arrived at the zoo only minutes before the start of the 6 p.m. newscast. There was trouble establishing a microwave link. But when the show's opening theme music faded out and Kris Barwood announced the blessed event, the live feed from the news conference streamed in, and the transition to Ed O'Hern live at the scene miraculously went with157 out a hitch. The crew even got video of the newborns taking a few wobbly steps, while "Baby Elephant Walk" played coyly in the background.

"What a mess," Amanda Gilbert said when she left the newscast's postmortem at seven-thirty.

"Why couldn't little Dumbo and Dumber get born at a more convenient time?"

Her voice was loud enough for Kris to hear on the other side of the newsroom. She caught up with Amanda as the younger woman was heading for the exit, a briefcase in one hand and a thick sheaf of papers in the other.

"I believe their names are Willy and Wally," Kris said.

"Whatever. They're cute, and they've got big ears and a certain Disneyesque appeal. Don't pester me with details."

"Anyway, you did a nice job pulling it all together."

Amanda shrugged.

"It was touch and go for a few minutes, but hey, we got what we wanted.

Smiling zoo officials, couple good bites, nice wrap-up from Ed.

Only things missing was a bunch of freckle-faced school kids toting Babar books."

Amanda Gilbert, executive producer of the six o'clock edition of KPTI's Real News, was thirty years old and talked very fast. She was high-strung and achingly thin and probably slept less than four hours a night.

Assessing her with the maximum objectivity possible, Kris could not see what attraction this scrawny, bony, peppy young thing could possibly-hold for her fifty one-year-old husband. But of course there was no real mystery about it. Howard liked them young.

It wasn't Amanda's fault. Howard behaved the same way around secretaries, flight attendants, and the women stationed at cosmetics counters in department stores. Kris had found her husband's roving eye ruefully amusing at first. Not anymore.

"Kris? You still among the living?"

"What?"

"You drifted away for a seconu."

"Sorry. Just thinking."

"Yeah, I remember when I used to have the luxury for reflective moments.

Now I hop on the ulcer express in the morning and don't get off till dark. Speaking of which, it's time for me to punch out. And time for you to review the rundown with Consuelo." Consuelo Martinez produced the ten o'clock newscast and the public affairs program that followed.

"I already did." Kris held up a loose collection of yellow script pages.

"Got my lines right here."

"Until they're changed at the last minute. Which they inevitably will be.

"Night, Kris."

She started to walk away. Kris stopped her.

"Amanda. I want to apologize for Howard. The way he was acting the other night."

"Howard? He's a sweetheart. He was fine."

"It seemed to me he was… sticking too close.

Smothering you."

"He gets a kick out of the technical stuff, that's all.

He's a big kid, asking me to explain how every button works. Okay, it can be a pain in the ass, but it's cute." "I used to feel that way,"

Kris said.

"But I think, in your case, he's interested in more than pushing buttons."

Amanda stepped closer.

"What's that mean?"

Kris wondered how much she should say. She and Amanda were not exactly friends-their personalities were too contrary for true amity-but they had worked together for two years, and two years in TV news was a time period measured on a geologic scale.

"The thing is," Kris said slowly after looking around to be sure no one was listening, "Howard's kind of unreliable."

Amanda frowned.

"How am I supposed to interpret that?"

"The obvious way."

"You're saying he goes out dancing behind your back?"

"That's what I suspect."

"It sure doesn't seem like him. He strikes me as the old-fashioned sort."

"Appearances can be deceptive. He has a wandering eye, but I don't know if it's gone beyond that. It could have."

Amanda pursed her lips, not shocked, merely intrigued.

"You mean he might be… you know… right now?"

"I can't say. It's just a suspicion."

"Based on?"

"Too many unexplained absences. Too much driving around aimlessly. He says he's breaking in his new car.

It's possible. He does love his toys. But I don't know.

And once I walked in on him while he was sending email, and he shut down the program fast, as if it was something he didn't want me to see."

"E-mail love notes?" Amanda looked dubious.

"Haven't you heard of cybersex?" Kris shrugged.

"It's a new millennium. People don't send sonnets anymore, or even regular love letters, I suppose." Except for Hickle, a voice at the back of her mind added.

Amanda shook her head.

"Have you discussed this with him? Does he know you're on to him?"

"He doesn't know anything. Courtney, our housekeeper, is my informer.