The Shadow Hunter

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.

43
    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