The Shadow Hunter

complement her outfit, she selected a pair of earrings and a pearl necklace—costume baubles, large and ridiculously ostentatious. Small items of jewelry were distracting on camera; outsized items photographed better. With the jewelry stowed in a plastic bag for later use, she headed out of the office, then paused in the doorway. “How many calls?” she asked.
    “Got a stack of message slips, but nothing urgent—”
    “No, I mean voicemails…from him.”
    “Oh. Actually, none.”
    “No calls?”
    “Not today.” Ellen shrugged. “Maybe he’s losing interest.”
    “I should live so long.”
    Kris proceeded to the makeup room down the hall. It was strange that Hickle hadn’t called. Ordinarily, by this time of day he would have left a couple of messages on her voicemail and one or two others with the switchboard. She should have been relieved by his silence. Instead she found it unsettling.
    Julia, her makeup artist, and Edward, her hairstylist, were waiting by the barber’s chair with impatient expressions. Edward went first. On Mondays he gave her a complete styling. For the rest of the week, a touch-up was all that was required. He did the job quickly, trimming and fluffing and spraying. “Done,” he pronounced. “Though, you know, with a shorter ’do—”
    “I’m not cutting my hair short.”
    “All I’m pointing out, Kris dear, is that after a certain age, long hair becomes unfashionable.”
    “I haven’t reached that age.” She picked up his scissors and clicked them menacingly. “Tell me that I have, and I’ll cut
you
shorter—and I don’t mean your hair.”
    Edward quailed. “I entirely see your point.” He departed in haste.
    Then it was makeup time. Kris sat patiently, reviewing script changes, as Julia applied a thick coat of Shiseido foundation to every exposed inch of her skin, even the insides of her ears. The blush followed. It seemed that the reworking of her face became more elaborate every month. Soon she would do the news from behind an inch-thick mask of cosmetics, looking as stylized as a geisha. No one would recognize her. She could change her name, move to another city, continue doing the news—and Hickle would never find her.
    She tried to smile at this fantasy, but there was nothing funny about Hickle. He hadn’t called her at work. Strange…
    “Julia.”
    “Mmm hmmm.”
    “Bring the phone over here, would you? I need to make a call.”
    Julia obeyed, sulking; like any artist, she resented interruptions. Kris called her home number. When the machine answered, she asked one of the TPS agents to pick up.
    “This is Pfeiffer,” one of them said.
    “Hi, it’s me. I wanted to know what the tally is. You know, his phone calls to the house.”
    “It’s zero, ma’am.”
    “Zero?”
    “He hasn’t made a peep.”
    “He hasn’t called my work number either. Does that strike you as peculiar?”
    “You can never tell with these guys. Tomorrow he could call twenty times.”
    “I suppose you’re right. Okay, thank you.” She switched off. Julia asked what that was all about. “My stalker seems to have varied his routine,” Kris said.
    “Is that bad?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    Julia applied the last cosmetic touches. “You know, I used to think it would be cool to be famous,” she said. “Now I have to wonder.”
    “It has its ups and downs.”
    Even after her makeup was complete and Julia was gone, Kris remained seated in the chair, thinking about Hickle and his unnatural silence.
    “Kris.” The floor manager was at the door. “Ten minutes.”
    “Thanks.” She hadn’t realized airtime was so near.
    She almost left the room, then changed her mind. She picked up the phone and called Travis.
    Her fear might be groundless, but it didn’t feel that way.

25
    Abby passed an hour watching the bungalow in silence. After six o’clock the sky began to darken. By six thirty a sunset flamed over the rooftops. She thought about leaving. She should get back to Hollywood and see if Hickle was home, but as long as Kris was at KPTI, there was no immediate danger. She decided to wait a little longer.
    To use her time more productively she fished her microrecorder out of her purse and dictated notes. She reported her visit to Travis’s house, tactfully leaving out the steamy stuff but including everything else, then her unlawful entry to the bungalow and what she’d learned. If she died, she would at least leave an up-to-date record of her activities.
    In