MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

"I own it," he said slowly, punctuating the admission with an insouciant shrug.

"Western Regional Resources is a corporation I established in the Netherlands Antilles. All perfectly legal. There are sound reasons-tax-liability reasons-for setting up such an entity. As I say, it's all within the bounds of the law."

Giacomo said he was sure it was.

"And in the course of setting up this offshore, uh, entity, you presumably set up a few other things? Like a bank account?"

"Yes."

"And you arranged for someone to oversee the account and handle any legal issues for the company, right?"

"A bank officer in the Antilles does that for me, yes."

"And I suppose you might have acquired, say, a residence in the Antilles for business purposes."

"No residence. I used a hotel the one time I went there."

"How about other acquisitions? A car, a phone, a club membership?"

"Nothing like that. Western Regional Resources is-well, it's a legitimate corporation-I mean, it's legal in every way, but-but it has no tangible assets, it's not a going concern, it's-"

"A dummy corporation?" Giacomo asked.

Heller was writing in his pad again.

"It could be described that way," Howard said.

"A tax haven?"

"It's all legal," he repeated for what felt like the fiftieth time.

The hell of it was, the goddamned arrangement really was legal. But he wouldn't expect these two ruffians to understand that. They could hardly relate to his problems, his priorities. If he claimed he was hiding money from the IRS, they wouldn't sympathize.

And if he admitted the truth-that he was executing an end run around California's community property laws to smooth his way through an upcoming divorce-well, they would think he had a motive for getting rid of Kris… And in fact, he did have such a motive, didn't he?

Didn't he?

"Do you have any other business entities offshore, Mr. Barwood?"

Giacomo asked. He put a slight, disdainful emphasis on the word entities.

"} don't think I'm under any obligation to discuss the details of my financial situation with you," Howard said.

Heller's pen scratched again.

"Okay, that's fine." Giacomo was still smiling. He must smile in his sleep.

"We're trying to tidy things up here, that's all. I guess you were over at KPTI the other night."

The change of subject startled Howard, but he was happy to drop the issue of his business dealings.

"That's right."

"What night was that? Tuesday, wasn't it? March twenty-second?"

"Yes. How'd you know?"

"Some people who work there mentioned that you were around. It's nice to share an evening with your wife at her place of work, isn't it?"

"Yes," Howard said warily.

"Though I understand you weren't with her the whole time. You spent a good part of the night with the producer. Miss. Gilbert-isn't that her name?"

Howard focused all his willpower on the task of holding his face expressionless.

"Amanda Gilbert," he said.

"Amanda, yeah. She a friend of yours?"

"Why would you say that? She works there, that's all. She works there-"

"Hey, hey." Giacomo held up both hands.

"Take it easy. It's just that some folks at the TV station seemed to think you and Amanda were pretty friendly with each other. Maybe a little less friendly when your wife was around."

"What are you implying?" Howard breathed, as if the question needed to be asked.

"Not implying anything, Mr. Barwood. How does Amanda feel about those offshore accounts? She like the idea?"

"I never told-" He caught himself.

"She doesn't know anything about my private affairs." Damn, affairs-the wrong word to use.

"She's Kris's business associate, that's all. We have no personal relationship-"

"Funny." That was Heller, finding his voice for the first time in a long while.

"She told us something different when we talked to her a couple of hours ago."

There was silence. The detectives stared at him.

Howard stared back, his gaze ticking from one interrogator to the other.

He had no way of knowing if they had actually talked to Amanda or were merely hoping to elicit some incriminating response. But if they hadn't interviewed Amanda yet, they soon would. And she would break. She was weak. Any woman who needed to assert her individuality by having a tattoo stamped onto her butt, for God's sake, was weak by definition.

And what had he ever found alluring about that ridiculous tattoo anyway?

"Mr. Barwood?" Giacomo ventured.

Howard looked at him, then widened his field of view to take in the table, the fluorescent light panel overhead, the bare walls, the short-nap carpet, the metal wastebasket in the corner. It was real to him finally-where he was, whom he was facing, what was happening here.

This was a sheriff's station, and these men were cops, and they thought he was mixed up in the attack on Kris. They thought he had a motive.

They thought they had the goods on him.

"Mr. Barwood," Giacomo said again, not making an inquiry.

"I have nothing more to say," Howard whispered.

"I want to consult with my attorney."

Heller closed his notepad.

"Okay." Giacomo shrugged.

"That's your right, as we informed you." He placed a hand on the tape recorder.

"We're terminating this at ten-hundred forty six He shut off the recorder. He and Heller stood up.

Howard noticed they weren't smiling anymore.

"You're in trouble, Howard," Giacomo said, not bothering to call him Mr.

Barwood any longer.

"You conspired with that psycho Hickle to ice your wife.

You know it. We know it. And we're going to prove it."

They left him alone in the room to think about that.

Although Travis hadn't had any sleep in more than twenty-four hours, he was curiously alert. An uninterrupted adrenaline rush from midnight onward had supercharged his nervous system, replenishing his energy whenever his strength began to flag. He had not felt this good in years.

Part of it was the excitement of the final round. His strategy, conceived months ago, had reached its climax.

In a day or two, everything would be settled. The game would be over.

And he could sense that it would end in his favor. Despite unanticipated setbacks, despite twists of fate that had required creative improvisation on his part" he had persevered and won.

At 11 a.m. he parked in front of the bungalow in Culver City and got out of his car. The street was deserted.

No doubt most of the residents were at work or engaged in their daily chores. Even if someone was watching from a window, he wasn't overly concerned.

It was unlikely that any of the neighbors had ever seen Howard Barwood up close, and from a distance one well-dressed, middle-aged white male looked basically like another. He could pass for the owner of the house.

And he had a key. Months earlier, when he had done his research on Howard and learned of the bungalow's existence, he had anticipated the possibility that he might require access to the house. He had thought of planting the cell phone here-the phone he'd purchased himself and registered in the name of Western Regional Resources-although as things had turned out, he had been able to place the evidence in an even more incriminating location.

In any event, wanting to be prepared, he had come here late one night when the house was empty. Working in the glow of a pencil flashlight, he had used an impressioning file and a key blank to produce a new key for the front door.

That key was in his hand now. He used it to enter the bungalow.

The house was still, the air heavy. He moved quickly down the hall to the master bedroom. Abby had told him that Howard kept a gun in his nightstand.

And yes, there it was in the sock drawer, a neat little Colt.45.