The Shadow Hunter

plainclothes operation?”
    She nodded. “We’ve heard rumors this bar is selling drinks to UCLA students with fake IDs.”
    Most of the color left his face. He mumbled something and moved away, leaving his tequila behind. Abby smiled, pleased with herself, and then a voice behind her said, “I could have you arrested.”
    She turned on her bar stool. A man stood a yard away, watching her. He was in his early thirties, wide-shouldered and sandy haired, dressed casually in a dark sweater and cotton pants. “For what?” she asked.
    “Impersonating a police officer.”
    She swiveled away from him and picked up her piña colada. “Go easy on me. It’s my first offense.”
    “I’m not sure I believe that.” He took a seat next to her, resting his hands on the bar. He had blocky fingers and thick, muscular wrists.
    She sipped her drink. “Are you saying I’m a criminal?”
    “I wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions. It might have been an innocent mistake. But I don’t think so.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “You don’t look innocent. But don’t be offended. Innocence is boring.”
    “Well, at least I’m not boring. I would hate to think I was wasting your time.”
    “You never do, Abby. You never do.”
    He ordered a draft beer. For a minute they were quiet as he worked on the beer and she finished her drink.
    “So,” she said, “how’s it going, Vic?”
    “Could be worse. You?”
    “Can’t complain. Streets getting any safer?”
    “So we’re told. Couldn’t prove it by me.”
    Abby had known Vic Wyatt for roughly a year, ever since the Jonathan Bronshard case. Bronshard was a stockbroker who had put up a website with pictures of his family and a description oftheir happy home, only to become the target of threatening phone calls. He went to Paul Travis. Ordinarily Travis limited his services to celebrity clients, but he made an exception for Bronshard, whose office was down the hall from the TPS suite.
    The calls were traced to a pay phone in Hollywood, which TPS officers staked out until the next call was made. They followed the caller home and identified him as Emanuel Barth, a man who’d spent some time in prison for vandalism, breaking and entering, and related offenses. Abby interviewed the patrol sergeant who had supervised the arrest that put Barth away. The sergeant was Vic Wyatt of Hollywood Division.
    Mr. Barth, she learned, had a hang-up about upper-middle-class families. Friendless, unmarried, chronically unemployed, he took out his frustrations by blaming those who had more than he did. In 1998 he’d broken into an upscale house in Toluca Lake and trashed the place. His fingerprints, on file after a previous arrest, had led police to his shack in Hollywood. A guilty plea had reduced his jail time, and he was now out of prison.
    Wyatt had explained all this to Abby, who’d let him think she was merely a researcher under contract to TPS. The information had proven helpful as she went about the business of installing herself in Emanuel Barth’s life. Eventually she had found a way to get Barth off the street again, this time for the next three to five years. Wyatt hadn’t handled the second arrest; he knew Barth had gone back to prison on a new conviction, but he had never learned of the role Abby played in putting him there. At least she hoped he hadn’t.
    She had relied on Wyatt several times since. There was a higher concentration of wackos in Hollywood than in most other districts of LA, and as a veteran cop, he knew most of them. He might even know Hickle. She considered raising the subject but decided against it. Not tonight.
    “You’re quiet this evening,” Wyatt said.
    “Just zoning out. What brings you here, anyway?”
    “Some nights I pass the time in Westwood. Nicer ambience than Scum City.” His term for Hollywood. “How about you?”
    “I live down the street. The Wilshire Royal.”
    “Fancy digs. Those security firms must pay pretty good for research.”
    “I survive.”
    “So far,” Wyatt said gravely.
    She looked away. She had never told him what she actually did for a living, but he wasn’t dumb. He had patrolled the streets for years, and he knew people. He must have guessed some of the truth about her. She knew that if he ever learned the full truth, he might really have to arrest her—no joke.
    She steered the conversation in a less dangerous direction. “I’ll bet I know what you’re here for.”
    “Do you?”
    “You were hoping to pick up