The Shadow Hunter

side street and walked past dainty one-story houses cowering in the shadow of the WilshireRoyal, then took a shortcut across the oval of manicured grass that bordered the Royal’s driveway. The sky was blue and cloudless, reflected in fourteen floors of windowpanes, and a breeze from the ocean a few miles away flapped the flags in the forecourt.
    As he approached the lobby, he found himself self-consciously brushing his hair with his fingers. He wondered if he looked okay in his civilian clothes. Then he wondered why it mattered. Come on, this was no big deal, right? He was just dropping by. He’d been in the neighborhood, and since he had some free time before work he would see if Abby wanted to grab a cup of coffee. That was his story, and he meant to stick to it.
    The doorman nodded at him in a way that seemed disapproving. Wyatt ignored the guy. He focused on the two guards at the desk. One was young and had a shaved head. His partner was older and rumpled.
    “I’m here to see Miss Sinclair,” Wyatt said. For some reason he added, “I don’t think she’s expecting me.”
    The guards exchanged a glance. The older one answered, “Miss Sinclair isn’t here.”
    “Oh.” So he’d missed her. He should have figured. “Well, maybe I can leave a message.”
    “Don’t know when she’ll be back. She’s out of town.”
    “She is?”
    Shrug. “She travels a lot. Hardly ever see her.”
    The younger guy spoke up. “You’re not in software, are you?”
    Wyatt was baffled by the question. “Software?”
    “Her gig. Thought maybe you were in the same line.”
    “I run a web commerce distribution center,” Wyatt said smoothly, stringing words together with no particular regard to their meaning. “Abby’s working with us on a project. Upgrading our server capabilities, developing some multitasking options.”
    “That’s cool.” The young man nodded as if he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe everything Wyatt had said actually madesense. “Hey, I’m always looking for freebies. You got any beta testing you want done, I’m there.”
    “Not right now, sorry. You, uh, get any freebies from Abby?”
    “Nah. She said it was against company policy. Which is weird, because she calls herself a consultant. What’s the good of being a consultant if you gotta play by somebody else’s rules?”
    “I’m pretty sure Miss Sinclair plays by her own rules,” Wyatt said quietly. “She been out of town long?”
    “Left yesterday—”
    His partner cut him off. “We can’t give out that information.”
    You already did, Wyatt thought. “No problem,” he said cheerfully. “I was just wondering. Thanks for your time.” He headed for the door.
    “Didn’t you want to leave her a message?” the older guard asked in a mildly suspicious tone.
    “I’ll send her an e-mail. That’s the best way to reach her. She spends most of her life online.”
    He escaped into the sunlight before the guard could ask a follow-up. Walking back to his car, Wyatt considered what he had learned. Abby wasn’t home. She had been gone since yesterday. The building staff thought she was an independent consultant in the software field. They seemed to have the impression that she was on a business trip. Such trips evidently were frequent.
    Except she wasn’t on any trip. Wyatt had eaten dinner with her last night. She was in town, but not here, not at her home.
    He thought about the old Dodge clunker she’d been driving. It couldn’t be her regular car; it didn’t fit into this neighborhood. Still, there were parts of town where the Dodge wouldn’t look out of place. East LA, Venice, Hollywood…
    Hickle lived in Hollywood.
    Wyatt stopped. He stood very still, putting it together. “No,” he said aloud. “She wouldn’t. She’d have to be nuts.”
    Across the street a woman tending her rosebushes cast an apprehensive gaze in his direction.
    He drove into Hollywood, calling the dispatch center on his cell phone to obtain Raymond Hickle’s address. Hickle’s apartment building was the Gainford Arms. Wyatt knew the place. An old brick pile four stories high, ugly and dilapidated, the walls webbed with taggers’ marks. He had answered many calls at that building when he was riding patrol. The lifestyle of the rich and famous was not lived there.
    Wyatt reached the Gainford Arms by five o’clock. He pulled into the parking lot and scanned the rows of cars, looking for a white Dodge. There wasn’t one. Maybe he’d been