MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

"I have some correspondence for Amanda Gilbert," she said when the receptionist answered.

"May I have her exact title, please?"

"Executive Producer," she was told.

"News Division?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Thanks very much." Abby ended the call.

So Amanda was Kris's executive producer. All of a sudden Abby found her dislike of Howard Barwood rising to uncomfortably high levels. She supposed the identity of his illicit paramour shouldn't have made any difference to her assessment of him. Yet it did, because intuitively she knew that it turned him on to be balling Kris's boss, that in doing so he obtained a sense of power and control over his wife that no call girl or receptionist could have provided.

She pulled into a mini-mall and found a pay phone.

Her next call was too sensitive to entrust to a cellular transmission.

She dialed Travis's office, expecting him to be working late. He answered the phone personally; his assistant had gone home.

"The bungalow is Howard's love nest," she reported, keeping her voice low to be sure she wasn't overheard.

"He meets his girlfriend there."

"Who is she?"

"Does it matter? If not, let's leave her name out of it.

What's important is that Howard owns the bungalow, which means he owns Trendline, which almost certainly means he's tunneling assets overseas without Kris's knowledge."

"Which means he has a motive for getting Kris out of the way."

"True. Marriage has become inconvenient for him.

He seems ready for a fresh start. I doubt he's capable of arranging Kris's murder on his own, but when Hickle came along, he may have seen an opportunity."

Abby blew out a tired breath.

"You remember how concerned he was about my safety, asking if I had backup or if I was on my own? I thought he was being chivalrous or sexist, depending on how you look at it.

But maybe not. Maybe he wanted to assess my vulnerability so he could attack me."

"He may have had the opportunity. The guest cottage logs show that he left Malibu at six o'clock on Wednesday evening and didn't return until shortly after midnight-later than usual."

"I was in the hot tub around ten o'clock, ten-thirty."

"It fits. When he failed to finish you off personally, he may have decided to rat you out to Hickle and have him handle it."

"Was he out last night? The phone call reached Hickle around eight-thirty."

"Howard was out from six-thirty to eleven."

"Okay, then he might have spent the first part of the evening at the bungalow. After that, he called Hickle, using his Western Regional phone because he didn't know if Hickle's phone was tapped, and he figured it would be harder to link the cell phone to him. Speaking of which-" Travis cut in.

"We're still trying to nail down a connection between Western Regional and Trendline.

Nothing so far, but I've got two of my computer jocks burning up their high-speed modems. They're pros.

They can nose out anybody's secrets." Even mine? Abby wondered, but what she said was "How about Hickle? Any escalation in his attempts to contact Kris?"

"Just the opposite. A total shutdown. No phone calls to her home or office all day. Kris is worried."

"She should be. You'd better tighten her security."

"I will. Where are you now?"

"Heading back to Hollywood. Don't try to stop me."

"I wouldn't dare." She heard him sigh.

"Good luck, Abby. And watch yourself, all right?" "Always do," she said.

The lights in Hickle's apartment were on when she reached the Gainford Arms, and his Volkswagen was in its assigned space, at the opposite end of the parking lot from her own. She was glad he was home. At least he wasn't in Malibu, lying in ambush outside the Barwoods' house.

She rode the elevator to the fourth floor. As she was fumbling with the key to her door, Hickle emerged from his apartment next door.

"There you are," he said.

The first thing she noticed was that his right hand was positioned awkwardly behind his back, concealing something. Her mind inventoried the possibilities: shotgun, handgun, jar of battery acid.

She still hadn't unlocked her door-she was trapped in the hall, Hickle two feet away-and the.38 Smith in her purse was not instantly accessible.

Hickle was smiling, but it was a tight, false smile.

"I've been waiting for you," he said.

"Really?" She shifted her purse, placing two fingers on the clasp.

"Yeah. I've got sort of a surprise." He stepped forward, his right hand swinging into view.

She saw "what he'd been concealing, and it wasn't acid or a gun or a weapon of any kind. It was a bulky paper sack emblazoned with "Shanghai Palace." "Hope you haven't eaten yet," Hickle said.

"I ordered Chinese."

Abby kept smiling as she admitted Hickle to her apartment, and she emitted the appropriate exclamations of delight when he removed the food from the bag and filled the kitchen with its medley of aromas.

"Sweet and sour pork," he announced, "almond chicken, and-because I know you like veggie meals-broccoli with black mushrooms."

"Sounds great," she said, still smiling, smiling. But she didn't like this situation, didn't like it at all. Hickle was a profoundly antisocial man, not the type to press for close friendship with anyone.

He was too insecure, too scared of women, of people in general, to take the initiative so boldly unless he had a compelling, hidden motive.

Maybe he was planning an attack in the privacy of her apartment. Or he might have doctored the food-the veggie dish, the one he'd bought for her. Might have put poison in it, or a sedative.

One thing was certain. This was no casual get together. It was a chess move, a tactic in a deadly serious contest of strategy, and she had a sense that it was perilously close to the end game "Still warm," Hickle said, touching the sealed containers.

"I hope it wasn't presumptuous of me to order this stuff without asking you."

"Not at all."

"I just thought… well, I enjoyed our dinner last night."

"Me too."

"I guess I don't get out as often as I should."

"I don't know if dinner in my apartment exactly constitutes getting out."

"Is it a problem, eating in here? We could use my place if you want."

She thought about taking the opening he had offered, but if he had trouble in mind, he could strike as easily in his place as in hers.

"Mi casa es su casa." she said.

"Let me get the windows open, okay? It's gotten stuffy."

She raised the windows in both rooms, checking to be sure her surveillance gear was safely concealed behind the closed door of the bedroom closet, then deposited her purse on the coffee table by the sofa. She hated to be separated from her gun, but it wouldn't look natural to hold on to her purse while at home.

Anyway, it was within close reach.

"Now I'll get out some plates"-she nudged him aside to reach the cabinet-"you set'em up on the coffee table, and we'll chow down."

"Sounds like a plan." He seemed lighthearted, almost droll, which worried her because she knew it was an act.

Rummaging in the cabinet, she became aware of her deficiencies as a hostess, at least in these temporary quarters. She lacked napkins, china, glassware, and metal utensils, as well as any beverages other than bottled water.

"I'm afraid we'll have to dine picnic style," she told him.

"Styrofoam plates, plastic cups and forks, paper towels as place mats and napkins. And if you want anything to drink besides water, you'll have to grab it from your fridge. Sorry."

"Water's fine with me."

"I'll try a little of the pork and chicken if you don't mind." She spooned the meals onto the plates.

"I'm not a strict vegetarian. And why don't you take a little of the broccoli?" If he had tampered with the veggie portion, he might find a way to decline the offer.