The Shadow Hunter

empty.
    She checked out the car. It was indeed a Chevrolet Impala of the right age and color, and the rear license plate matched the number on the BOLO sheet. Hickle had parked here, off the street, and had removed the front plate to reduce the risk of the car’s discovery.
    The possibility that Hickle had stolen one of the other cars on the list, and that this one had been ditched by some other thief, wasn’t worth considering. She had learned not to think in terms of coincidences where her safety was concerned. The Lincoln had made its way from Sylmar to a carport within a few blocks of her home. That meant Hickle had left it here. He knew where she lived, and he had come for her.
    Abby went around to the side and rear of the house, inspecting every door and window. She found no sign of entry. Hickle must have used the house only to ditch the car. He was hiding somewhere else. In her condo, maybe, or in the condo building’s garage. Security at the Wilshire Royal was tight, but the same could be said of Malibu Reserve. Hickle had penetrated that compound. He could get inside the condominium building if he wanted to. He might have been there since early this morning, lying in ambush for more than twenty hours by now.
    It seemed just plain rude to keep him waiting any longer.

47
    Headlights.
    They splashed into the ramp that fed into the Royal’s underground garage. A small white car paused at the gate, and an arm extended out the driver’s side to feed a passcard into the slot.
    Hickle leaned close to the window. The car was a white subcompact, not new. It looked out of place in this neighborhood. He peered through the rifle’s scope and glimpsed dark hair, a pale forearm. It could be Abby. He wasn’t sure. Her car had not been parked near his at the Gainford Arms, and he’d never seen it.
    The gate lifted. The white subcompact rolled down the ramp into the garage.
    He had a funny feeling it was Abby. The car was too beat-up to belong to the typical resident of the Wilshire Royal. It could have been a maid’s car, but why would a maid be arriving for work at 8 P.M. on Saturday? And the driver’s dark hair had looked familiar.
    It had to be Abby. Just had to be.
    “She’s home,” Hickle whispered.
    Abby guided the Dodge up to the access gate to the Wilshire Royal’s underground garage. She knew there was a fair chanceHickle was lying in wait nearby, ready to open fire with the shotgun when she stopped to use her passcard. Though she could try to return fire, she would be in a vulnerable position—and her Dodge, unlike Travis’s staff car, wasn’t armored.
    She fed the passcard into the slot with her left hand, while her right hand gripped the .38 Smith. She almost wanted him to try something.
    The gate opened without incident. She steered the Dodge inside, heading down the ramp to the condominium building’s underground garage.
    The garage was the next possible location for an ambush. Hickle might have concealed himself behind one of the rein-forced-concrete pylons or in somebody’s vehicle. He might be waiting for her to emerge into the glow of the overhead fluorescent lights.
    She parked in her reserved space, then slung her purse over her shoulder, holding the Smith down at her side, and got out of the car quickly. She let a moment pass after she shut the car door, listening to its echoing thud. Slowly she came out into the open, her eyes big, her gaze ticking from shadow to shadow.
    No shadows moved. No gunshots sounded.
    She remained alert as she crossed yards of concrete to the elevator and pressed the call button. The elevator carried her to the tenth floor. She put the gun in her purse but kept her finger on the trigger.
    The elevator doors hissed open. She scanned the hallway before proceeding to her apartment. The likeliest place for Hickle to hide was her own living room. She kept her head low, away from the peephole, and cautiously tested her doorknob. Still locked—a fact that proved nothing, but if the door had been unlocked, it would have proven a great deal. She looked closely at the knob and detected no sign of tampering. In her search of Hickle’s apartment she’d found no locksmith tools or books on picking locks. She had no reason to assign him any expertise in that area.
    Nonetheless, she tensed herself for violence as she found her key and unlocked her door. She removed the Smith from her purse and held it in front of her. If one of her neighbors stepped into the hall in