The Shadow Hunter

simulate a different hole—an uphill putt this time.
    Howard Barwood loved games. The game room had been his inspiration, and nearly all of its contents were hispurchases—pinball machine, jukebox, virtual reality gaming system, foosball table, casino-style craps table, billiards table, and a fleet of radio-operated cars. He’d spent more than fifty thousand dollars on these and similar items, not to mention the sixty-five thousand he’d just paid for the new Lexus LS 400 sedan that he had taken on so many long, nighttime drives.
    Expensive toys for a man who’d never fully grown up. His boyishness was something she had loved about him during their courtship. She was less charmed by it now.
    “I’m on fire today,” he said, lining up the next putt. “Those chumps over at the country club had better watch out.”
    Kris tried to find a smile but couldn’t summon one. “Maybe you should join the seniors’ tour.”
    “I just might.”
    “I’ll have Courtney clear a space on the mantel for your trophy.” She headed for the stairs, then turned back, remembering why she’d tracked him down in the first place. “I’m off to work.”
    He glanced up, neglecting his game for the first time. “So soon?”
    “I have an errand to run before I go to the studio.”
    “Running errands is Courtney’s job.”
    “This is personal.” Under other circumstances she might have shared it with him, but not after last night. She had reached out to him, and he had rebuffed her. Well, he did grow tired of his toys when their novelty wore off. Even his costliest acquisitions lost their shine after a while.
    The Town Car was idling in the driveway when she walked down the garden path. Steve let her into the backseat, then got behind the wheel and shifted into drive. “I’d like to take the surface streets today,” she told him as they approached the front gates of the Reserve.
    “Ventura Freeway’s faster.”
    “No, let’s go south, through the city. We have time.”
    He nodded, asking no questions.
    Kris was silent until the Town Car reached Hollywood. Then she requested a detour. “Take me past Hickle’s apartment building.”
    She watched Steve’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They narrowed slightly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Kris.”
    “I’m sure it isn’t. Do it anyway.”
    “It’s against procedure. I could get in trouble—”
    “You won’t.”
    “Travis would have my ass.”
    “I’ll handle Travis if he ever finds out, which he won’t because neither of us is going to tell him. Just do it.”
    “Okay…but why?”
    “I honestly can’t say.”
    Steve took Santa Monica Boulevard to Gainford, Hickle’s street, and turned south. “That’s his address,” he said as the Town Car prowled slowly down the street. Kris looked at the Gainford Arms, a faded 1930s complex with glass lobby doors scratched by vandals, tiers of small windows that looked dirty, and unadorned brick walls.
    The street was lined with Indian laurel trees that had matured nicely. Otherwise it was bare of charm or beauty. She saw a tramp rolling a pushcart laden with old newspapers and other trash. He did not look out of place.
    This was Hickle’s world. She thought of Abby Sinclair living here for the next few days or weeks. Could she have gotten to know him yet? It seemed too soon. Probably it would take her a week simply to establish contact. How long before she learned anything of value? The scheme seemed hopeless, and Kris had agreed to it only out of desperation. Howard had worried about Abby’s safety, but Kris was past the point of concerning herself with other people. What motivated her was survival, purely selfish. To save herself, she would underwrite any risk.
    “Seen enough?” Steve asked as Hickle’s building retreated.
    “Plenty. Let’s get on the freeway.”
    She took a last look at the block as Steve turned the corner. The neighborhood reminded her of places she had lived in the earliest years of her career. Hickle’s neighbors would be loud and close, his plumbing would often fail, bugs would scuttle through his pantry. In the hot season of September and October, his apartment would broil, and he would lie awake in the sweltering darkness. Every day he would head off to his minimum-wage job knowing he had nothing to come home to.
    She was sure he wasn’t happy, and she felt glad about that.
    “You don’t have an appointment, Miss Sinclair.” Travis’s assistant, Rose, smiled up at