51
The office tower was hemmed in by cyclone fencing, but the side gate had been forced open, allowing access to the grounds. Abby led Travis directly to it, explaining that she’d already reconnoitered the area and found the way in.
Travis silently admired her diligence. Except for her one blunder in the Corbal case, she really was quite good at what she did. It would be almost a shame to lose her.
But even one blunder was more than he would permit.
The lobby of the office building was two stories high, enclosed by wide windows, one of which had been smashed. Travis stepped through, kicking away wedges of glass that clung to the frame. Abby followed.
The glow of streetlights penetrated only a few feet into the building. The rest of the lobby was dark.
“Bring a flash?” Abby whispered.
“No.” He should have thought of it, but he’d had other things on his mind.
“I’ve got one.”
She rummaged in her purse and removed the mini-flash. Its beam swept the room, highlighting a quarry-tile floor, curved metal-lath walls partially finished in plaster, and a high coffered ceiling. Drop cloths, ladders, and worktables on sawhorses were distributed throughout the cavernous space.
“No Hickle,” Travis said.
Abby shrugged. “If he were down here, we would have been dead the minute we stepped inside.”
The beam found a doorless opening in an alcove, with a steel staircase visible inside. She led Travis to the stairwell and played the beam up the shaft, illuminating the concrete walls and steel landings.
“Empty,” she said, “at least as far as I can see.”
‘Then up we go.”
“Just a minute.” She shifted the flashlight to her left hand and reached for her purse. “I’m starting to feel a little naked without my thirty-eight.”
He couldn’t allow her to get the gun in her hand. He had to make his move now.
“Don’t do that, Abby,” he whispered.
His tone stopped her for a moment, which was all the time he needed to pluck the Colt from his waistband and press it into her rib cage.
Abby’s gaze ticked down, registering the gun in her side, then rose to his face.
Travis studied her expression. He expected to see shock, fear, anger. He was looking forward to it.
But she disappointed him. What he saw was only a look of sad reproach.
“So it really was you,” Abby said quietly. “I’m sorry, Paul. I was hoping I was wrong.”
52
Abby watched Travis’s eyes narrow as his mouth formed a bloodless line. “You knew?” he whispered, his voice returning in soft echoes from the corners of the stairwell.
“I suspected,” she said calmly. “I wasn’t sure. I guess I didn’t want to believe it.”
The muzzle of the gun was a hard circle of pressure against her ribs. She felt the pistol trembling slightly, perhaps with her own breath or with Travis’s pulse. She waited for whatever he would do next.
“Hold your hands up,” he said finally. She obeyed, her movements deliberately slow, like the subtle progressions of a t’ai chi exercise. “Now give me the flashlight.”
She let him take it with his left hand. He took a half step back, the gun shifting to the spot between her shoulder blades.
“All right,” Travis said, “let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Up.”
“Is there some advantage to killing me on a higher floor?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. Now get going.”
Abby climbed the stairs, guided by the flashlight and the gun in her back.
“I’m betting that gun isn’t silenced,” she said.
“True.”
“When it goes off, the report will echo through the building. Hickle will hear it. He’ll panic and run, maybe take a different stairwell.”
“And I may not be able to intercept him. Very good. You get an A plus.”
“I’m not your student anymore, Paul.”
They reached the third-floor landing and continued higher. Abby noticed that the fire doors on the landings had not yet been installed. Dark halls lay beyond the doorways. They looked like the narrow passageways of a pharaoh’s tomb, the kind of place where ghosts walked. But there were no ghosts here. Not yet.
“It’s Howard Barwood’s gun,” she said quietly, “isn’t it? You stole it from his bungalow this morning, after you left the hospital.”
“That’s right.”
“Was that before or after you planted the cell phone in the beach house?”
“Oh, I took care of that chore several weeks ago, during one of my visits to Kris to update her on the case. The phone, of course, is registered in the name of Western Regional Resources, though poor Howard never knew anything about it.”
“If you planted the phone back then, how did you use it to call Hickle on Thursday night?”
“I didn’t. I used a different phone, which I’d programmed with the identical code. It’s not hard to do. Some people make a nice living by stealing cell-phone codes.”
“What happened to this other phone?”
“It’s at the bottom of the canyon behind my house. I threw it off the deck earlier this evening. I had no further use for it.”
“Just as you have no further use for me…or Hickle.”
“You catch on so fast. It’s what I’ve always loved about you.”
They had passed the fourth-story landing.
“I guess pretty soon you’ll have everything you want,” Abby said. “I’ll be dead. Hickle will be dead. Howard will be in jail or running for his life. And if your luck really holds, you may get to marry Kris.”
Travis was behind her, and she couldn’t see his face, but from his tone of voice she knew he had registered another small shock. “You even figured out that part of it?”
“It didn’t take any major intuitive leaps. Kris told me you’ve made yourself available. She’s under the impression you haven’t been seeing anybody. I didn’t disillusion her, by the way.”
“That’s good of you, Abby. I appreciate your discretion.”
On the fifth-floor landing now. Halfway to Hickle’s firing site.
“I’m sure you do,” she said quietly. “It would ruin that part of your plan if Kris found out she’s not your one and only. She wouldn’t be so receptive to your proposal of marriage. Not that marriage is an essential ingredient in the scheme. More like icing on the cake, correct?”
“Correct.”
“You wouldn’t mind having her money, her lifestyle, her connections, and with Howard out of the picture, you’d have a pretty good shot at all that. But the main thing has always been rescuing the reputation of TPS. And with the Barwood case, you saw a way to do it. When did you first get the idea? When you did the background check on Howard?”
“That’s right. From what I learned, I could see it was obvious that he was fooling around and preparing for a divorce. That’s when it occurred to me that if Hickle was believed to have an accomplice, Howard would be the logical suspect.”
“You made your move on Kris…”
“Just to lay the groundwork for future possibilities. The icing on the cake, as you called it.” They were above the sixth-floor landing. “Then I started contacting Hickle via e-mail, feeding him information, prepping him for the attack.”
“Did you know about the incident with Jill Dahlbeck?”
“No. If I had, I might have hesitated to use Hickle. I knew he was potentially dangerous, but I didn’t realize he was that unstable, that impulsive. I wouldn’t have wanted him splashing acid on Kris.”
“Or shooting her in the head, for that matter. You couldn’t afford to let him succeed.”
“Of course not. I wanted Hickle to make his attempt—and fail. Kris had to survive unharmed, or the whole plan would be ruined. Despite everything, her safety really was my highest priority. That’s why I switched to the armored staff car and rode shotgun—to
be sure Kris was fully protected.”
“Then in the aftermath, TPS gets a media makeover. Now you and your staff are the heroes of the hour, a fact that Channel Eight will exploit to the max on their top-rated newscast—thus canceling out the Devin Corbal story, reviving your prospects, and making you the golden boy all over again.”
“Something like that. But we needed a scapegoat. If Hickle had been captured alive, he would have revealed the existence of an informant with inside information. Even if he had been killed in the attack, the police might have found evidence of the e-mail account I’d set up for him, and they would have known he was working with somebody. I couldn’t afford any suspicion falling on TPS itself, and certainly not on me personally.”
“So Howard was framed as the accomplice.”
“Why not? He was the perfect candidate—cheating on Kris, out every night with no good alibi, hiding her assets, preparing for a divorce. When they catch him, he’ll never be able to talk his way out of it. Especially when the police find Howard’s own gun in Raymond Hickle’s cold, dead hand.”
“And a bullet from that gun—in me.”
“Exactly. And one of your bullets in poor Raymond. Bang bang. You went after Hickle on your own. He shot you, and you shot him. Two corpses. End of story.”
They’d reached the seventh floor. Each flight consisted of eighteen stairs; she’d counted. Fifty-four stairs to go.
“Not quite the end,” she said. “You haven’t explained why you brought me into the case.”
“Can’t you guess? There were two reasons. The first was of a practical nature. I had to do something to set Hickle off. I’d tried goading him, pushing his buttons, but he kept hesitating. I needed a way to make him crazy—even more crazy than usual. I knew he was paranoid. If he found out the new woman in his life was a spy…”
“He’d snap.”
“So I sent you in…and set you up.”
“Nice. But you said there were two reasons. Mind if I take a stab at the second one?”
“Be my guest.”
“Devin Corbal.”
“Bingo.”
“You told me a hundred times that it wasn’t my fault.”
“I lied. That night four months ago, you fucked up. You fucked up, Abby.”
She heard the surge of raw hostility in his voice, and for a moment she was reminded of Hickle inveighing against the people he hated, the people with “the look.” They were not so different, Paul Travis and Raymond Hickle. Both knew all about hatred and little else.
“You had a job to do,” Travis was saying, “and you failed. In one moment of carelessness you jeopardized everything I’ve worked for, brought me to the edge of bankruptcy. I started in a Newark housing project, and I made it this far—and you nearly took it all away. And you expected me to forgive you? To say it’s okay, don’t worry your pretty head about it? You’re supposed to know all about people, Abby. Didn’t you know me?”
“Not as well as I’d thought,” she said quietly.
“There’s no forgiveness in matters of this kind,” Travis breathed. “That’s one lesson I learned on the street a long time ago. Nobody fucks with me. Nobody takes what I have. And if they fuck up, they pay. They pay.”
Eighth floor. Abby’s shoulders were getting sore from the strain of holding her arms above her head. Well, it wouldn’t be a problem much longer. Two flights of stairs—thirty-six steps—and it was the end of the line.
“Is that why you went after me in the hot tub?” Abby asked.
Travis made a small affirmative sound. “I hadn’t planned it. It just happened. I was watching Hickle’s building to see if you’d established residency yet. I saw you enter the spa area. And—well, it just looked so damn easy. I would push you down, and in a minute you’d be dead.”
“You weren’t worried about the consequences?”
“What consequences? Most likely it would have been ruled an accidental drowning. If it wasn’t, I could pin the blame on Howard. He was out nearly every night. He would have no alibi except the word of his mistress, hardly a credible source.”
“But I wouldn’t be around to push Hickle over the edge.”
“There were other ways to motivate him. But I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking—”
“You weren’t thinking, Paul. Not at all. You were caught up in rage, a child throwing a tantrum.”
“I almost got you,” he muttered sullenly. “If you hadn’t grabbed that damn beer bottle…” He sighed. “I couldn’t afford to let you cut me. I couldn’t leave any blood at the scene. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got you anyway. I’ve got you.” They reached the ninth-floor landing, and suddenly the gun pressed harder into her back. “Okay, this is your last stop.”
“You’ve lost count. We want the tenth floor.”
“My math is fine. You’ll die right here. I’m close enough to Hickle now. And I’d rather have the police find you one story below—like he got the drop on you while you were coming up. Now turn around slowly.”
Abby obeyed, wishing they’d climbed one story higher. She’d wanted a little more time.
“I’m impressed, Paul,” she said softly. “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to face me.”
The flashlight illuminated his features from below, casting the hollows of his eyes into harsh relief. He was smiling. “On the contrary, I’ve been looking forward to it. So do you want it in the head or in the heart? Considering our relationship, I think the heart would be more appropriate.”
“You’re not going to shoot me,” Abby said softly.
“No? What’s stopping me? Sentiment? Affection? I don’t traffic in those weaknesses. If you didn’t know that by now, you’ll have to learn it the hard way.” He studied her, a connoisseur admiring a prized acquisition, then lowered the gun to target her left breast. “In the heart, then.”
He squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
No shot, no recoil, not even the click of a misfire.
“Sorry, Paul. That gun isn’t any good.” In one smooth motion Abby lowered her hands, plucked the Smith from her purse, and aimed it at his face. “This one, on the other hand, works just fine.”
53
Hickle crouched by the window, his muscles stiff with tension, his gaze still fixed on Abby’s balcony.
She wasn’t there, and he was beginning to think she would never be there. Maybe she was spending the night someplace else. Or maybe he’d misunderstood Travis, maybe he’d been watching the wrong window all along, in which case he had failed again…
“No way,” he whispered angrily.
His voice came back at him from the far corners in a ripple of echo, and then behind that echo he became aware of other sounds.
Voices.
Faint but unmistakable, drifting through the vacant corridors to reach him where he crouched.
He was not alone.
Travis pulled the trigger again and again, willing the gun to fire.
Abby watched him, a sad smile on her lips. “Are you done, Paul?” she asked finally.
Slowly he lowered the pistol. He blinked, and for a moment he found it difficult to form words. “How’d you do it?” he whispered. “How’d you—what did you—” He couldn’t complete the thought.
“It’s simple, really.” The .38 in her hand never wavered. It was targeted at his chest. “I knew if you’d framed Howard, you’d want to use his gun tonight—a gun traceable to him. I gambled that it was the one you’d bring.”
The one he would bring. The one…
But he’d brought two guns. There was the Beretta in his shoulder holster—
Even as he thought of it, Abby shook her head in a warning. “Don’t try, Paul. I know you’re carrying a backup, but you can’t draw fast enough. You’ve seen me at the firing range. I’m quick when I have to be. And I will shoot you.”
He studied the hard set of her mouth, the coldness in her eyes. She wasn’t lying.
“Anyway,” she we
nt on as if there had been no digression, “when I found that gun in the nightstand, I had a bad feeling about it. Thanks to you, I had Howard Barwood pegged as Hickle’s accomplice. It didn’t seem like a good idea to leave him with a fully functioning deadly weapon, so before I left, I took the gun apart. The Colt 1911, you know, is one of the few models that can be detail-stripped without the use of tools. When I put it back together, I left out the firing pin.”
Travis heard everything she said but couldn’t quite make sense of it. “You didn’t disable Hickle’s guns,” he whispered.
“No, because the next time he used them for target practice, he would have discovered the tampering. But Howard’s gun wasn’t being used at all. He hadn’t even lubricated it.” Abby smiled. “At the hospital, I intended to let you know what I’d done, but that nurse interrupted us. Lucky for me, huh?”
“Lucky,” Travis echoed.
“I’ve always been a fortunate gal. Now, shall we go downstairs?”
Travis was suddenly too exhausted to move. “What for? What’s down there?”
“Nothing yet, but after I call a friend of mine at the LAPD, we’ll have some company. Go on, Paul.”
“Why don’t you just shoot me right here?”
“It’s a temptation. But I think I’d rather turn you over to our system of justice, risky as that can be in LA. I actually look forward to visiting you in prison. But don’t get your hopes up. They won’t be conjugal visits.”
A surge of helpless anger shook Travis like a fever chill. “You bitch. Fucking bitch.”
Abby frowned. “That’s not very nice. I may have to edit that part out.”
“Edit…?”
“I’ve been running the recorder in my purse ever since we entered the building. Switched it on when I was rummaging for my flashlight. I’ve got your whole confession on tape.”
On tape. She’d thought of everything.
“Get moving,” Abby ordered, but Travis still did not obey. The full reality of what she’d done, how she’d handled every detail, was finally real to him.
“You set me up.” He said it slowly, almost in righteous indignation. “You played me. Asking for my help, telling me how we couldn’t call the police, getting me to talk. You put on an act and sold it to me, sold it all the way.”
The Shadow Hunter Page 31
