MIchael Prescott: The Shadow hunter

Nothing but her conscience, which assailed her nightly with images of Devin Corbal sprawled on the pavement in a spreading pool of blood.

"Even so"-Howard crossed his arms and looked past Abby at Travis-"I want to go on record as saying I'm against this." "Your wife is my client," Travis said evenly.

"I know that. It's her safety at stake. Her decision.

But if it were up to me…" He didn't finish.

"Howard," Abby said, "I appreciate your concern, but this is my job.

It's what I do."

"You're a pilot fish. I remember." He looked at her, no amusement in his eyes.

"There's just one thing about those fish. Sometimes they get a little too close to the shark they're swimming with. Sometimes they get eaten."

Abby met his gaze.

"That's the downside of the metaphor."

The office was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning.

"Kris," Travis asked, "do we have your go-ahead?"

"Yes, you do," Kris said, looking at Abby as she spoke. Howard turned away, arms folded over his chest, hands gripping his biceps in a classic pose of defiance.

Abby nodded at the anchorwoman.

"Thank you." "I should be thanking you," Kris said softly.

"You're the one taking all the risks."

Then the meeting was over and the Barwoods V V were gone, Abby finally allowed herself to sit.

She slumped in an armchair in the corner of Travis's office and asked!

"How do you think it went?"

"An unqualified success," Travis said.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. You dazzled them."

Travis stood and came around his desk. He was a tall man of forty-four with jet-black hair receding from his high forehead. He wore an open-collared dress shirt under a navy jacket, belt less tan slacks, and black loafers. Every item of his ensemble was predictable; he owned a dozen navy jackets, a dozen dress shirts, a dozen pairs of tan slacks and black loafers. He wore the identical outfit every day. It was one of his quirks.

He didn't like to waste time pondering what clothes to wear.

"It's good to have you back, Abby," he said.

"I wasn't certain you'd ever want to work with me again after what happened last time. Thanks for telling them how capable I am, by the way."

"I meant it. You've been beating yourself up about Corbal for four months. Let it go."

She looked away.

"I shouldn't have let her get away from me."

"You had to call in your location."

"} should have found a way to do it while still keeping an eye on her."

Travis sat on the arm of the chair.

"A momentary lapse."

"In this business we can't afford any lapses."

"Abby, if you do this kind of work long enough, you're bound to experience a setback now and then."

"A setback? Is that what happened to Corbal?"

"Corbal was a goddamned fool. We didn't want him going into Lizard Maiden or any other club on the Strip. We told him to stay away from all his usual haunts. There was too great a chance that he would run into Sheila Rogers at one of them."

"It was my job to make sure nothing like that would happen."

"My point is, Corbal was headstrong. He wouldn't listen to us. He insisted on taking risks, and he paid for it. Even so, he would have made it out of the building if the V.I.P Room had been evacuated faster.

He had too many friends with him, and it took too long for our people to clear them all out. The friends left via the dance floor, which only cost more time because the club was so damn crowded. Then our staff officers had to get Devin out the back way-"

"Because I recommended using the rear exit."

"It was the right tactical move. And he wouldn't be any less dead if he'd gone out via the front entrance.

Sheila would have popped him on the dance floor."

"Maybe not. Maybe in all the confusion she never would have seen him.

Or maybe… maybe I could've stopped her."

"You nearly did."

"Nearly doesn't cut it."

"You did everything you could. It's not your fault."

Abby didn't answer.

"How'd you get here from LAX?" Travis asked.

She blinked, surprised by the change of subject.

"Taxicab."

"Then you'll need a ride home."

"I'll call another taxi."

"No. Let me drive you. On the way over, I can give you a more thorough briefing on the Barwood case.

There wasn't time to go into much detail this morning on the phone."

"Okay, Paul. Thanks."

They didn't speak again until they had left the TPS office suite after picking up Abby's carry-on at the reception desk. In the elevator, descending to the underground parking garage, she asked Travis, "How are things going? Business-wise, I mean."

He shrugged.

"Could be better. Another client ditched us on Friday. Same old story.

He no longer had confidence in TPS."

"Because of Devin Corbal." Because of me, she wanted to say.

"It's not so much the incident itself as the ongoing, never-ending media coverage. You'd think they'd come up with something else to talk about.

Last week the Times ran a hit piece on us-the usual second guessing and Monday morning quarterbacking. Our clients read something like that, and half of them are ready to jump ship."

"A lot of them already have," she said quietly, thinking of the empty office space, the staff cutbacks. She knew that Travis had always prided himself on keeping his operation small, his services exclusive.

There had never been more than fifty names on the TPS client list. It was a policy that had left little margin for error. Now, with clients dropping away month after month, he was faring the end of the business he had founded.

"We've suffered some losses," Travis conceded.

"But we'll ride it out. In the end, we'll come back stronger than before."

He seemed to believe it. She wished she could be so confident.

His Mercedes C43 was waiting in the garage. Travis put Abby's bag into the trunk and let her in on the passenger side. Before shutting the door, he leaned in and kissed her, a brief, hard kiss that sped up her heart rate.

He hadn't kissed her in the TPS office suite. One of their rules was that there would be no displays of intimacy in the presence of TPS employees or clients.

Travis kept one hand on the wheel, the other clasping hers, as he guided the sedan into traffic on the Avenue of the Stars.

"How does it feel to be back in town?" he asked.

"Not bad at all. Its warm here today." Her window was partially lowered, air rushing at her face.

"In the seventies. Warmer than Jersey, I'll bet."

"} had to buy an overcoat. Used it for a few days and donated it to charity. Couldn't fit in my carryon."

"What about your gun? How'd you transport that?"

"Fedexed it from Newark Airport this morning.

Same-day delivery. It should be waiting for me when I get home."

"Who were you working for in Jersey?"

"Gil Harris. He relocated there from San Diego a few months ago. Runs a security firm in Camden. A local manufacturing plant contracted him when they decided their in-house security couldn't handle an ex32 employee named Frank Harrington. The guy was making threats against the company. They wanted me to find out if he was serious."

Travis steered the Mercedes onto Santa Monica Boulevard, heading west.

"Was he?"

"Darn tootin'. I found his suicide note in the hard drive of his PC.

He was planning to ram through the factory gate and open fire with a pair of high-powered rifles modified to fire on full automatic."

"How'd you get to look in his computer?"

"Well, first I let Frank pick me up at a local bar and take me home. We had a nightcap, and I slipped a Tohypnol into his drink. It put him out cold. Then I searched the place, found the note and printed it out, and left it where the police couldn't miss it. Then I called nine-one-one and reported a prowler at Frank's address. He was still asleep when I amscrayed."