“Call me Vic,” he said reluctantly. “That’s what everyone calls me.”
“Okay, Vic.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“She’s implicated in the murder of a federal agent.”
He shook his head, rejecting the idea out of hand. “That’s not possible.”
“She claims she was acting in self-defense.”
“When is this supposed to have happened?” But he already knew.
“Last night.”
Hauser broke in again. “Have you had any contact with Miss Sinclair in the past twenty-four hours?”
Lying to FBI agents was a federal crime. “Yes.”
“When?”
“She showed up here last night. She was here when I returned from work. I was supervising the night watch.”
“What time was this?”
“About three thirty a.m.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Nothing much. She was a little ... stressed out. Wanted to bunk with me. That’s all.”
“When did she leave?”
“Sometime before I woke up.”
Hauser scowled, observing Wyatt’s unruly hair. “Looks like you just woke up now.”
“I was up earlier, about seven a.m. Abby was gone by then. I’d only gotten three hours’ sleep, so I took a nap about an hour ago.”
“Abby showed up last night at three thirty in the morning,” McCallum said, “and you didn’t ask her what it was all about?”
“I asked. She didn’t want to talk about it. She’s not real big on sharing.”
McCallum nodded. “Keeps her distance.”
“Always has.” He felt a moment of connection, of shared understanding with this woman, and fought it off. It was what she wanted him to feel.
“Look, Vic,” she said in a disarmingly low voice. “Abby killed one of our people. There may be extenuating circumstances. But we’re not going to know until we get her cooperation.”
“What are you asking for?”
“We need to determine her whereabouts.”
“So you can arrest her.”
“So we can begin to sort things out. Now—as soon as possible—before the situation gets any more out of control.”
“You mentioned the Wilshire Royal. Post some men there. She’ll show up eventually.”
“No, she won’t. She’s gone to ground.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because I’ve spoken with her on the phone. She admitted pulling the trigger. She knows we’re after her. She won’t be going home.”
Wyatt stood, unable to remain seated any longer. “Wait a minute. You’re saying she confessed to the crime?”
“She did.”
“And she knows it was a fed?”
“Yes.”
“And still she won’t give herself up?”
“That’s right.”
Wyatt turned away. He had to think about this. Think hard.
That Abby could kill a law officer was bad enough. That she could know what she’d done and still refuse to face the consequences ... it was incomprehensible.
Did he even know her? Had he ever known her?
“I couldn’t help you,” he heard himself say, “even if I wanted to. I haven’t talked to her since last night. I don’t have a clue where she is now.”
“We were thinking you’d have a way to reach her,” McCallum said.
He turned to face them. “Cell phone. Landline in her condo.”
“Those options won’t help.”
“They’re all I’ve got.”
McCallum stepped closer. “Possibly at some point she’ll contact you.”
“Why would she?”
“You’re her friend. She needs a friend right now. Or maybe you know how to contact her.”
“I already told you. I don’t.”
Hauser folded his arms. “Your cooperation would be advisable, Lieutenant Wyatt. That is, if you want to retain that rank.”
McCallum added, “We’re not trying to threaten you, Vic.”
Like hell they weren’t.
Wyatt noted how smoothly they switched from intimidation to empathy and back again. It was an act—yet they weren’t bullshitting him. He knew that. They’d lost a colleague. They were feeling the loss.
“We’re just telling you how it’s going to be. Lieutenant,” Hauser said. “Without your cooperation, we’ll have to report to your superiors. Internal Affairs will get involved.”
“We call them Professional Standards now,” Wyatt commented for no reason.
“They’ll be on the case,” Hauser went on. “They’ll want to know if you passed investigative details to Abby Sinclair. If you compromised the department, abused your authority, by cooperating with a private vigilante.”
“Abby’s not a vigilante. And I never told her anything confidential.”
“No, I suppose all you and Sinclair talked about was the weather.”
Apparently she wasn’t Miss Sinclair anymore. The bad cop was getting badder.
“Vic,” McCallum said in a softer tone, “let’s face it. It looks pretty serious for you. At the very least you’ll face disciplinary action. You could be terminated altogether. How many years have you put in at the department?”
“Fourteen,” he said quietly.
“And there could be legal action,” Hauser said. “Criminal charges. If Sinclair is found guilty of murder, you could be charged as an accessory.”
“That’s bullshit.” Bad cop was overplaying his hand.
“It’s unlikely things would go that far,” McCallum soothed. “The point is, you stand to lose a lot if you don’t give us your full cooperation.”
“I told you, I have no idea where she would go.” Wyatt met her gaze. “If you really do know Abby, then you know she’s not the type to confide in anybody. She plays it close to the vest.”
“That she does.” McCallum hesitated. “Did she tell you who her latest client is?”
They had to know already, so he answered. “Peter Faust.”
“How did you feel about her working for Faust?”
“It’s her business, not mine.”
“So you had no opinion.”
“Okay, it pissed me off, all right?”
“Took you by surprise?”
“Yeah.”
McCallum nodded. “Me, too. But maybe we shouldn’t have been surprised. Abby’s changed, don’t you think?”
“Haven’t noticed.”
“I think you have. I’ve noticed, and I don’t know her nearly as well as you do. She’s gotten more reckless. More dangerous.”
“Abby isn’t a danger to anybody—” He stopped himself.
“Tell that to Special Agent Mark Brody.”
“That’s the man she killed,” Hauser said.
“Right before she came here to console herself in your arms.” McCallum paused to let that sink in. “Vic, I want you to think about Agent Brody. He was a veteran, a Green Beret. After leaving the service, he joined the Bureau. On the Faust case he was under deep cover. He was taking big risks, dealing with a known murderer in a sting operation.”
Wyatt was trying not to let her get to him. “Now you’re going to tell me about his wife and kids.”
“Yes, I am. His wife, Patricia, is seven months pregnant with their second child. She already has a little boy. Now those kids will grow up without a father.”
He looked away. His throat was dry, “Because of Abby.”
“How would you feel if it was a cop she’d gunned down?” Hauser asked. “One of your guys?”
“It might just as well have been,” McCallum said. “You and Brody were on the same team. Whose team is Abby on?”
Wyatt shut his eyes. “Abby’s not exactly a team player.”
“No, she isn’t.”
He was silent. He didn’t know if he could stand by Abby if she’d killed someone who worked his side of the street. Killing a federal agent ... it really was no different from killing a
cop.
But he couldn’t give her up. Couldn’t betray her. Not after all their years together.
He gathered himself. “You two are good,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. “Been working together long?”
“We don’t work together,” McCallum said. “I’m from out of town.”
“Right. Denver, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You came to L.A. because of Abby?”
She nodded. “And because we lost one of our own. You know how that is. How many funerals have you attended? How many times have you had to put black tape over your badge?”
Too many times, was the answer. He tried not to think about that. “Working undercover,” he said, “you assume certain risks ...” It sounded weak even to him.
McCallum’s gaze drilled into him. “You accept the risk of being taken down by the bad guy. But Abby’s not the bad guy.”
“Or is she?” Hauser asked.
That was the big question. Abby played by her own rules—but maybe she’d lost the ability to set any rules.
“Look,” he said slowly, “what the hell do you want me to say? I don’t agree with all the choices she’s made. I didn’t like her working for a scumbag like Faust. I told her so.”
“What did she say?” McCallum asked.
“Nothing. I don’t know. We argued.”
“I’ll bet there have been a lot of arguments lately.”
She was right, of course. “There are always arguments in any, you know, relationship.”
“Is that what you have? A relationship?”
What we had, he thought. Past tense. But he wouldn’t tell them that. “Yeah,” he answered.
“Relationships are built on trust. Do you trust Abby?”
“Sure. Of course.” He said it automatically, but the truth was, he didn’t trust her, not completely, not anymore.
McCallum lowered her voice. “Do you know where she was on the night before last?”
“Not with me.”
“No, not with you. She was with Brody. He was renting a guest cottage in Los Feliz. She had dinner with him and went back to his place.” There was a pause. “She stayed the night.”
Wyatt heard the words but couldn’t process them at first. “You’re shitting me.”
“The homeowner saw Abby leave at dawn.”
An unpleasant grin spread across Hauser’s face. “What do you think she and Brody were up to all night, Lieutenant?”
Wyatt tried to come up with an answer. “For all I know, she knocked him out and searched the place. That would be her style.”
“If she searched the place,” McCallum said, “why did she go back the next night? We know she did.”
Wyatt said nothing.
“Brody was a real ladies’ man,” Hauser said. “Combat veteran, smooth talker. I knew a woman in one of our overseas posts who dated him for a while. She said he was hung like a goddamn stallion—”
This was too much. Wyatt flared up. “Go to hell.”
Hauser ignored him. “It doesn’t bother you that your girlfriend was getting some on the side? From a guy she thought was a stalker, a psycho?”
“You’re trying to push my buttons. I know how it works.”
“I think Sinclair was the one getting her button pushed, if you know what I mean. And I doubt it was the first time. Who knows how often she’s had to go all the way to avoid blowing her cover?”
Wyatt didn’t want to hear it. Of course, he’d always known that this kind of liaison was occasionally part of Abby’s job. But he’d thought it was rare, very rare.
Maybe he’d been wrong.
He blew out a shaky breath and sat on the arm of the couch. “This is a waste of time. Like I told you, I don’t know where she is or how to contact her.”
“I think you do.” Hauser was relentless. “I think you’ve known Sinclair long enough to have some way to reach her when her standard lines of communication are down.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Then we’ll have to bring this up with your superiors. It seems to me, Lieutenant”—Hauser put a sardonic emphasis on the word—“you’re giving up a hell of a lot for this woman. You might ask yourself if she deserves it, after she spent the night with Agent Brody behind your back.”
“And then killed him,” McCallum added.
“We can show you a picture if you’d like to see it.”
“I don’t need to see a picture. I’ve been to plenty of crime scenes.”
“Of course you have,” Hauser said. “Normally you’re out to catch the killer. In this case, I guess you’ve decided to protect her.”
McCallum looked sad. “I’m sorry, Vic. Abby’s my friend, too. But she needs to answer for what she’s done. I thought you’d be able to see that.”
She and Hauser moved toward the door. Then McCallum turned. “There’s one picture I think you need to see.”
“I told you, I’ve handled plenty of crime scenes.”
“This isn’t a crime scene photo.” She returned to him and slipped a picture out of a manila folder. She handed it to him.
“Jennifer Gaitlin,” he said. “I work out of Hollywood. I know about her disappearance. What ... what does she have to do with anything?” He almost didn’t want to know the answer.
“Any leads in the case?” McCallum asked.
“Not that I know of. The missing persons squad is covering it.”
“We have a lead. We think Faust took Jennifer. We think he’s kept on killing, all these years. Brody had put himself in the position to possibly get Faust to incriminate himself in an earlier crime. The Roberta Kessler case, if you remember it.”
“I remember,” he said, his voice thick.
“If the sting had worked, Faust would be in custody right now, and if he does have Jennifer—and if she’s still alive—we’d have a good shot at getting her back.” Her eyes watched him. They were kind eyes, he thought. Knowing eyes. “We’ve lost that chance now. Which means Jennifer may have lost her chance, too.”
He stared at the photo for a long minute, then handed it back without a word.
“All right, then,” McCallum said softly. “I just thought you should know.”
She returned to the door. No bluff. She and Hauser were leaving.
Wyatt looked down at the carpet. He thought about Mark Brody, the badge he’d carried, the family he’d left behind. He thought about Peter Faust, a sociopath, a killer—and still Abby had chosen to work for him. Maybe dooming this girl in the process.
For the past few years she had been more and more out of control. Now she was deceiving him. She’d been unfaithful to him—not just unfaithful in bed, but unfaithful on every level, in every way. She was a user, a manipulator ... and now a killer. A cop killer, or close enough ...
The door was closing when Wyatt raised his head.
“Wait,” he said.
35
Abby kept a storage locker in a rental facility in Tarzana, a town in the Valley named after the most famous creation of its most famous former resident, Edgar Rice Burroughs. She had never needed the locker, and she had hoped she would never need it. It was her nuclear option, her last resource when everything had gone to hell.
She needed it now.
If Tess had been more open-minded, if she’d been willing to consider another side of the story ...
But she hadn’t. There was no point in playing what-if games. Now she was left with only one course of action. She would give up her old life—her condo, her cars, her network of contacts, even her name. And she would leave L.A. for good.
She reached the storage facility and punched in a six-digit code to open the front gate. At her unit she entered her combination into the padlock, then rolled up the big metal door. Inside she had a mess of stuff that would come in handy for a person on the run.
Cash—ten grand in large and small bills.
A gun and ammo. A first-aid kit. A spare laptop.
A backup cell phone with
an instant charger that could power the phone in twenty seconds and give her two hours of talk time or eight hours of standby.
The cell phone was in the name of Angela Marcus, with the monthly bill paid automatically out of a bank account under the same name. Abby had ID in the Marcus name—Social Security card, driver’s license, credit cards, bank checks, passport. Over the years she had established a paper trail for Angela Marcus so it wouldn’t look as if the identity had been created from scratch.
Besides those items, she had stowed away the means to disguise her appearance—wig, cosmetics, grooming tools, tinted contact lenses. And a whole suitcase full of spare clothes, along with a coat for a chillier climate than L.A.
She had a definite destination in mind, someplace she had scouted and approved in advance. Of course, it had to be a city, since she was a city gal. She would rent an apartment, start over, build a new life.
In San Francisco.
It was a great town, but she had never seriously expected to end up there. She thought of all she was leaving—her books and CDs and movie collection, her artwork and her comfy overstuffed armchair, Vince and Gerry at the front desk, her favorite little bistros and places she liked to walk.
But she would come back someday. Not to reclaim her life—that was gone for good—but to exact vengeance. She would find a way to get to Hauser and make him pay for setting her up.
Anger was helpful. It pushed away fear and sorrow. It gave her energy. She was grateful to Hauser for being available to hate.
She hooked up the cell phone to its charger, mentally reviewing the next steps in her plan.
Her first priority was to get out of town—but not going north. She would take the Miata on 1-15 in the direction of Las Vegas. In Barstow she would trade it in for a used car. If the feds were able to track her that far, they would assume she was headed for Vegas. Instead she would double back to 1-5 and shoot straight up to Frisco. Once there she would ditch the used car and buy a fresh set of wheels. She had to cover her tracks thoroughly. In a little while all fifty-six resident agencies of the FBI would be alerted and looking for her. But she knew what she was doing. She could lose them all.
Having reinvented herself, she would begin her career all over again. It wouldn’t be easy without contacts or word-of-mouth referrals, but she could manage it. She could always land on her feet. Like a cat, she thought—then remembered Faust calling her a jungle cat.
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