The Shadow Hunter

police.”
    “Yes.” Travis shrugged. “See, we’ve got options, leads. Things aren’t as completely out of control as you thought.”
    She tried to brush off what he’d said with a wave of her hand. “It was a rough night, that’s all. Left a bad residue.”
    “Feeling better now?”
    “Considerably. Not that I came here to—well, I mean, I wanted to brief you on urgent developments. I wasn’t looking to be…comforted.”
    He stood and drew her close. “But you wouldn’t turn down a little comforting, would you?”
    “Guess not.” She looked down at his robe and smiled. It was her first real smile since she’d arrived. “You know, the last time we were together outside the office, I was the one in the bathrobe.”
    “I remember. Vividly.”
    “So do I.”
    He kissed her. It began as a tender kiss, and then the press of her body against his reminded him of how small she was, almost fragile despite her strength. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her deeply.
    “Guess I’d better let you get dressed,” Abby said, “or you’ll be late for work.”
    “Work can wait.”
    “Can it?”
    “Definitely.”
    He removed her clothes slowly, taking his time with each button and strap. Her body had always amazed him. Even before she had begun her training and conditioning, she’d had the supple, sinewy figure of an athlete, but without an athlete’s unnatural hardness.
    He did not take off his robe or even untie the belt. He simply swept back the flaps and entered her, his hands at her waist, lifting her as her back arched and he pushed deeper, and at the moment of release his eyes met hers in a frisson of contact.
    When it was done, he kissed her smooth neck and one earlobe that poked out coyly from her tangled hair, and in her ear he whispered, “This time I think we both knew I would fit.”
    “Never doubted it,” she breathed.
    They lay there together in the morning sunlight, silent, exhausted. A long time later, but still too soon, he said, “I really do have to get to the office.”
    “I should go too,” Abby whispered sleepily.
    “No, you rest, catch a little shut-eye. I think you could use it.”
    “Ten minutes, maybe. A catnap.”
    “Sure.”
    “Wake me when you leave.”
    “I will.”
    But he didn’t. By the time he was dressed, she lay fast asleep, and it seemed pointless to disturb her. He placed a spare key on the bureau so she could lock up when she left. Then he stooped and kissed her forehead. “Sleep tight, Abby.”
    Her lips formed a smile, and he felt sure she was dreaming of him.

22
    In early afternoon, a few hours before the start of his shift, Wyatt drove to the Hollywood Reservoir, where Detective Sam Cahill was waiting for him.
    “What’d you want to talk about, Vic?” Cahill asked after the usual manly clapping of shoulders and pumping of hands. Cahill had worked Hollywood Division before being bumped upstairs to Robbery-Homicide in Parker Center. He and Wyatt had gone fishing at Lake Arrowhead a couple of times, but since the transfer they hadn’t seen much of each other.
    “Remember the Emanuel Barth case?” Wyatt asked. It was in connection with Barth that he had first met Abby Sinclair. She had come to him, asking questions about Barth’s past.
    “Yeah, I remember.” Cahill nodded slowly. He was a big man with bushy eyebrows that met in the middle, forming a single, furry line. “It’s old news by now. Why bring it up?”
    “I wanted to know how Barth got nailed the second time—you know, the arrest you handled. I was on vacation when it happened. Never heard the details.”
    “What’s it been, a year? That was one of the last cases I worked before I moved downtown. What do you care, after all this time?”
    “Humor me.”
    Cahill shrugged. “Sure, what the hell. I got nothing better to do except fight crime.” He looked out at the reservoir, its clear water reflecting the perfect blue sky. “Say, you think the city could stock this lake with bass? Wouldn’t be a bad place to drop a fishing line.”
    “Why don’t you raise the issue with the City Council?”
    “Might just do that. Okay, Mr. Emanuel Barth. Well, he got nailed on account of outstanding detective work by yours truly, as usual.”
    “Save it for Ed O’Hern at Channel Eight. What’s the real deal?”
    “Dumb luck. We didn’t have shit on Barth, weren’t even looking at him, and then a nine-one tip comes out of the blue, telling us he’s got a stash of