The Shadow Hunter

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 facing 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. It’s warm here today.” Her window was partially lowered, air rushing at her face.
    “In the seventies. Warmer than Jersey, I’ll bet.”
    “I had to buy an overcoat. Used it for a few days and donated it to charity. Couldn’t fit in my carry-on.”
    “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 ex-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 Rohypnol 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 break-in at Frank’s address. He was still asleep when I amscrayed.”
    “Any close calls?”
    “The police got there a little faster than I expected. I had to get out through a rear door. Otherwise, no sweat.” She smiled. “Just another day at the office.”
    “What was the date on the suicide note?”
    “Wednesday, March twenty-third.”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “Right.”
    “You stopped him just in time.”
    “Looks that way.”
    “You saved a lot of lives, Abby.”
    “Yeah. Maybe if I save enough of them, I can make up for the one I didn’t save.” She sighed. “So what’s the story, Paul? Tell me all about Mr. Raymond Hickle.”
    “He’s thirty-four, Caucasian, never married. Lives alone, no pets, low income. Works in Zack’s Donut Shack at Pico and Fairfax.”
    “Behind the counter or in the kitchen?”
    “Little of both, but mostly behind the counter.”
    “Acceptable social skills, then.”
    “Within limits, yes. He doesn’t go around muttering to himself or flashing kids in playgrounds.”
    “Too bad. If he did, we could get him off the street.”
    “It won’t be that easy. As a matter of fact, he’s highly recommended by his previous employers—at least the ones we could track down. There have been quite a few. Those we talked to say Ray Hickle’s the best employee they ever had.”
    “Then why’d they let him go?”
    “He quit. Invariably it was his decision.”
    “Why?”
    “Because they offered him a promotion. That seems to be the trigger.”
    “What kind of promotion?”
    “To a supervisory position. The guy is afraid of responsibility, apparently.”
    Abby shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Tell me about the other jobs he’s held.”
    “Strictly entry-level positions. Car-wash attendant, movie theater ticket