The Shadow Hunter

stolen goods in his house.”
    “What kind of goods?”
    “VCRs, PCs, jewelry, handheld computers. You know how he had a prior for breaking into rich people’s homes and vandalizing their stuff? Well, after he did his time, he went back to doing breakins, only he got smart. He started wearing gloves to leave no prints, and taking the valuables instead of trashing them.”
    “What was the merchandise doing in his house? You’d think he would’ve fenced it.”
    “His MO was to accumulate a big haul, then fence it all at once. Maybe he got a better deal that way or he thought it minimized the risk, I don’t know.”
    “So who gave you the nine-one tip?”
    “Anonymous female.”
    “Any idea who?”
    “Probably Barth’s housekeeper. That’s always been my theory, anyway. She came into his house twice a week to pick up after him. I figure she stumbled across the stuff while she was cleaning and realized it was hot.”
    “Why was it just a theory? Wouldn’t she talk to you?”
    “I never found her. She must’ve amscrayed out of town after making the phone call. I’m guessing she was worried the chargesagainst Barth wouldn’t stick, and he’d come after her. They stuck, though. He’s tucked away safe and sound.”
    “Had she worked for him long?”
    “The housekeeper? Just a month, I think.”
    “What was her name?”
    “Hell, I don’t know anymore. Wait a minute, it’s coming back to me. You know, if my wife was here, she’d say an elephant never forgets. That would be in reference to a few pounds I’ve put on over the years.”
    “The name?” Wyatt prompted.
    “Connie Hammond. Fairly common name, hard to track down. We didn’t bust our asses trying to find her.”
    Wyatt nodded slowly. “Connie Hammond.”
    Cahill gave Wyatt a hard look. “You wouldn’t happen to know Miss Hammond’s whereabouts, would you, Vic?”
    “Me? No.”
    ’Cause I’d still like to chat with her, just for the record.”
    “Never met the lady.”
    “Right. Sure you haven’t. You don’t know shit. And this whole conversation, dragging me out here on a Friday afternoon to this friggin’ mud hole—it’s all just an exercise in intellectual curiosity on your part.”
    Wyatt met his gaze. “Exactly, Sam. That’s what it is.”
    They talked a little more, about fishing and Cahill’s wife and a homicide in the Valley that was taking up most of the detective’s time. Then Cahill was on his way, and Wyatt was left alone, looking at the water.
    The reservoir was a peaceful spot, a haven for joggers and power walkers and people who wanted someplace tranquil to visit on their lunch break. He came here fairly often to escape the grit and gridlock of the city, and to think. He had a lot to think about right now.
    Abby had interviewed him about Emanuel Barth just a month before Barth went back to jail. Wyatt had always assumed it wasno coincidence. At the time he’d thought that in the course of her research, she had uncovered some incriminating fact that she’d passed along to the police. He had never inquired about it. He hadn’t wanted to know too much.
    Later, as she involved herself in other cases, he began to suspect that she was doing more than research. Vaguely he’d imagined that she tailed a suspect or observed him from a distance. Surveillance work, maybe a few discreet payoffs to informers. Now he knew there was more to it than that.
    A jogger chuffed past him, red-faced and sweaty. Somewhere a bird lifted off the reservoir in a clatter of wings. Wyatt watched it fly away into the deep azure of the sky, and briefly he wished he could follow.
    Cahill’s reading of the Barth case had made sense, with no more loose ends than any other criminal case in the real world. The housekeeper, Connie, had ratted on her employer and fled for her own safety.
    It was logical but dead wrong. There never had been any Connie. There had been only Abby, whose DMV records, as Wyatt recalled, listed her middle name as Constance.
    She had obtained work as Barth’s housekeeper, probably a day or two after talking with Wyatt. Twice a week she had shown up, dusting and vacuuming, perhaps searching a different corner of Barth’s house each time, until finally she had found the stolen items. The 911 call had followed. And Connie Hammond, who had never existed, had disappeared.
    Abby hadn’t merely studied Barth from a distance. She’d made herself part of his life. And now she was doing the same thing with Raymond