The Shadow hunter

She had a gun in her purse, and she was ready.

"I hate men," Sheila Rogers said, gulping her daiquiri.

"Know what I mean?"

The dark-haired woman nodded.

"I know."

"They're pigs, is what they are. They use you and throw you away."

"Sure."

"Like, there was this guy I told you about. What we had was really special, and then all of a sudden it's over, and he won't even talk to me."

"That's rough. Really" The dark-haired woman had a name, which she had mentioned earlier when they'd met at the Roxbury, a club down the Strip, but Sheila had already forgotten it. She was no damn good with names.

She wondered why the woman was hanging with her, anyway. They'd been club crawling all night, moving from the Rox to the Viper Room, then to Babylon and the Teaszer, and finally to Lizard Maiden at the west end of Sunset Strip. Along the way, Sheila had imbibed a variety of liquid refreshments, settling on daiquiris as her drink of choice. The alcohol had fuzzed up her brain, and she was vaguely aware that she was talking too much. She couldn't seem to stop.

"He was a really great guy," she was saying aimlessly as she leaned on the mahogany bar.

"I mean, he was a pig-he turned out to be a pig-but when we were together, it was like magic, you know? Like we were meant for each other."

"Yes."

"Like goddamn destiny. That's what it was. What I thought it was."

Sheila shook her head slowly.

"I guess I said all this stuff already, huh? Back at the Viper Room or somewhere?"

"It's okay. You can tell me again. Sometimes it helps to talk things out."

"What are you. Mother Teresa?"

"Just a friend."

"Well, shit, I sure can use one of those. Lately… I've been kind of messed up."

"How?"

"Over him. He-I don't know, I can't get him out of my mind. It's been two goddamn months. You'd think I'd forget the son of a bitch by now.

You'd think…"

"Maybe you don't want to forget."

"No. I don't." Sheila leaned closer to the dark-haired woman on the bar stool beside her.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure."

Sheila wanted to whisper, but she couldn't, of course. Lizard Maiden, known to aficionados as the Liz, was not a place for subdued conversation. It was one of the raunchiest clubs on the Strip, a den of flashing lights and thunderous music from the live band, where the dance floor was always packed with swaying, spastic bodies, and along the bar and at the tables lining the walls, patrons leaned close together and shouted to be heard.

"The thing is," Sheila said, "I'm running around from club to club because I figure if I go to enough places like this, I'll run into him."

"He comes here?"

"Sometimes. Usually on a Friday night, or a Saturday."

Tonight was Friday.

"I mean, he hangs at all the clubs, so I never know when I might see him. He's a club crawler. I met him down the Strip at the House of Blues." Sheila chuckled wistfully.

"Appropriate, right?"

"Even if you do run into him, how will that help?"

Sheila looked away.

"It just will, that's all." She shifted her purse in her lap and felt the weight of the pistol inside.

"Maybe if you meet someone else, you'll forget about him. There are other guys out there."

"Not like this one. He wasn't just anybody. He's famous.

You've heard of him. Everybody's heard of him."

"So who is he?"

Sheila hesitated, reluctant to reveal much more. She studied her companion. The woman was a few years older than Sheila herself, maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight, of medium height, slender and self-possessed.

Framed by a fall of dark brown hair in a pageboy cut, her face looked pale and angular, her cheekbones high and strong. Her cool hazel eyes betrayed no hint of judgment or reproach.

"Devin Corbal," Sheila said finally "That's who."

"The actor?"

"I told you he's famous. He's been in, like, six movies. Six. And he's only twenty-three."

"And you went out with him?"

"For two whole weeks." Sheila frowned.

"It was great. Me and Devin were, like, soul mates. For two weeks anyway."

She swallowed the rest of her daiquiri.

"Two weeks," she said again.

The dark-haired woman dismounted her bar stool.

"Save my seat for me, okay? I need to use the can."

Sheila nodded, lost in memories of Devin. She barely even noticed as the woman walked away into the surging crowd on the dance floor.

"Need a refill?"

She glanced up and saw the bartender, a guy she knew by sight, though she'd forgotten his name.

"What the hell."

The bartender poured another daiquiri.

"Who's your friend?"

"Nobody"

"Ain't seen her in here before."

"She's just somebody I've been dubbin' with."

"I remember when you and Dev went clubbing." He handed her the drink.

"Get over him yet?" "What's it to you?" Sheila asked sourly.

"Oh, nothing," the bartender said.

"He's here tonight, that's all."

Sheila looked up slowly.

"He's here? Devin's here?"

He shrugged.

"Just thought you'd like to know."

Lizard Maiden offered a unisex rest room in an alcove near the entrance.

The dark-haired woman went past the door, then past a row of pay phones, and stopped at the end of the alcove outside what might have been a supply closet.

No one was around. She reached into her purse, removed a cell phone, and speed-dialed the first number in the phone's memory. The music was not so deafening here, and she could speak in a tone of voice that was almost normal.

"Paul, this is Abby," she said when the call was answered.

"You still at Babylon?" Paul Travis asked.

"No, we've moved on. We've been bouncing from club to club all night.

She's starting to open up finally."

"Talking about the client?"

"Yeah. She's angry, and she could mean business.

She keeps touching her purse in a way that makes me think she's got more than mascara inside."

"If she's carrying, you better watch yourself."

Abby smiled.

"I always do. Look, I have to get back to her. I'll update you at the next opportunity. Right now we're at a place on the Strip called Lizard Maiden."

"Lizard Maiden?"

"They call it the Liz. Its just west of Bar One-"

"I know where it is. Its where he is."

For a moment Abby couldn't process what Travis had said.

"What?"

"The client. He's there. At Lizard Maiden. He showed up a half hour ago. He's in the V.I.P Room, god damn it."

"Bodyguards with him?"

"Two."

"Get them on the phone and tell them we're Code Red. If there's a way to get him out of the club without being seen, have them do it. But don't let them move him into the main room, or Sheila may spot him. Got it?"

"I got it."

"I'll stay close to her. Even if she sees the client, she won't try anything."

"Make sure of it, Abby. Make damn sure."

The call ended. Abby stuffed the phone back into her purse, next to the snub-nosed Smith.38 she carried when on the job.

Naturally Corbal was here. He had to be here, and not in some other club in another part of town.

"Of all the gin joints in all the world," she muttered, leaving the alcove.

Still, it was no big problem. A complication, sure, but as long as she kept Sheila within arm's reach, nothing would happen. Sheila Rogers was twenty-two, anorexic ally thin, and highly intoxicated-no match for Abby in any kind of fight. If Sheila made a move for the gun in her purse, Abby could drop her simply by closing off the blood flow in the carotid arteries of the neck. She had done that sort of thing before, in similar circumstances.

She skirted the dance floor and approached the bar, and that was when she began to be afraid.

Sheila wasn't there. The stool she had been using was unoccupied.

This was bad.

Abby stood at the bar and signaled to the bartender.

He bared his teeth in a predatory smile when he saw her.

"Hey, sweet thing."

She ignored this.

"Where's the woman I was sitting with?"

"Sheila?" His smile became a smirk.

"I think she went to visit a friend."

Abby's heart sped up.

"What friend?"

He leaned close.

"Listen, forget about her. She's a loser anyway. You don't need to hang with her. I just wanted to get rid of her, so maybe you and me could get to know each other."

"So you told her Devin Corbal is here?"

"How'd you know-"

"Never mind. Where's the V.I.P Room?"

"Sorry, you can't go in there. Celebs only. You know, I get off in a couple hours-" Abby reached out and grabbed his right wrist, applying painful pressure to the scaphoid bone below the ball of his thumb.

"Where is it?" she hissed.

The bartender paled.

"Around back," he said through gritted teeth.

"That way." He jerked his head to the left.

She released his wrist. He rubbed it, gasping.

"Jesus, lady, what the fuck's up with you?"

Abby barely heard him. She was already pushing through the crowded dance floor, praying she was not too late.

Sheila's pulse was roaring in her ears, and her eyes didn't seem to want to blink anymore, and there was a hot, crawling queasiness in her gut.

She knew what she had to do. She had rehearsed it, fantasized it, but in her fantasies she had never been shaking with fear, and her stomach hadn't bubbled like this, and the music hadn't been so loud, the dancing crowd so close and hot.

She had the gun. She was ready. She had to be ready.

He would be in the V.I.P Room. It was where he always went when he was here. He had taken her to that room one night. She remembered it well-a small ‹oom in the rear of the Liz, curtained off. A room without windows. A room that would offer no place for him to run or hide.

As she left the dance floor, she reached into her purse and withdrew a Llama.45, fully loaded, the safety off.

The V.I.P Room was just ahead, unmarked, screened off by a curtained doorway.

She would enter that room and shoot Devin Corbal right in his lying heart. Teach him a lesson for treating her like some whore. Show him she hadn't been kidding around when she warned him he'd be sorry.

Briefly she wished she had time for a hit of coke. She carried an insulin needle in her purse and a small bag of the white powder. She could duck into the rest room, mix the coke with water, draw it into the syringe, and then inject herself in the crook of her arm… But she knew that if she took the time to do that, she would lose her nerve.

She had to kill Devin now, before she thought about it too much. It was now or never.

"Now or never," she muttered to herself, boosting her courage.

Go for it.

Sheila took a breath, then pushed through the curtains into the V.I.P Room, the gun leading her.

The room was empty.

Unfinished drinks were scattered around the tables.

Snack foods, still warm, lay on platters. Two chairs had been kicked back from the tables at awkward angles, as if whoever had been in here had departed in haste.

"They cleared him out," Sheila whispered, piecing it together.

"He was in here and… they cleared him out."

But he hadn't gone out via the dance floor to the front entrance. She would have seen him.

The back way, then.

She left the V.I.P Room and looked down the hall. At its far end was a dim, flickering exit sign.

Of course.

She ran down the hall, the din of dance music diminishing behind her, and pushed open a metal door.

She found herself at the top of a short flight of wooden steps descending into an alley. Her gaze took in the high brick walls, the sloping shoulders of the Hollywood Hills rising to the north, the haze of neon glare and smog that hid the stars, and, ten yards away, moving fast-Devin Corbal.

In the light from a billboard overhead she saw Devin clearly. He was tall and lean, dressed in an open collared shirt and faded jeans, and he was being hustled out of the alley by two grim-faced men in dark suits who must be his bodyguards.

They hadn't looked back. Hadn't noticed her on the stairs.

From this vantage point she could see Devin's broad back, a perfect target.

Her gun came up. Finger on the trigger.

One of the bodyguards saw her, too late.

Sheila fired once-twice-and then something hit her hard from behind, driving her forward, down the stairs in a tangle of flailing limbs.

She had an impression of dark hair and furious hazel eyes, and then there was an elbow coming up fast to slam the base of her jaw, and she went limp and felt nothing at all.

Abby clawed Sheila's gun out of her slack fingers and batted it away, then pinned her to the pavement at the bottom of the stairs. She held her down until she was certain that Sheila had blacked out from the blow to her jaw.

Then she looked at Devin Corbal. He lay motionless on the ground. One of his bodyguards performed frantic CPR while the other yelled into a cell phone; "Get the car back here now, right now'."

"We need an RATHE first bodyguard shouted. Rescue ambulance.

"It'll take too long, we can drive him to the ER ourselves."

Into the phone again: "Where the hell is the car?"

But the car wouldn't help. An ambulance wouldn't help, nor would an emergency room. Nothing would help. Abby knew that.

She saw the lake of maroon blood that seeped from between Devin's shoulder blades. She saw his eyes, open, staring.

Sheila had fired twice. One shot had gone wild, but the other, by skill or luck, had hit Devin Corbal squarely in the back and killed him instantly.

The bodyguard performing CPR finally reached the same conclusion. He stood slowly, shaking his head.

"We lost him," the man said.

"God damn it, we lost him."

No, Abby thought. You didn't lose him.

I did..

Hickle watched her as she ran.

Her hair fascinated him. It was long and golden, blown in wild trammels by the sea breeze. It trailed behind her, a comet's tail, a wake of blond fire.

She was crossing directly in front of him now. Instinctively he withdrew a few inches deeper into the overhanging foliage that screened him from view.

She pounded past, plumes of sand bursting under her bare feet. Her long legs pumped, and her slim belly swelled with intakes of air. Even from a distance of twenty yards he could see the glaze of perspiration on her suntanned skin. She glowed.

Months earlier, when he had first seen her, he had wondered if her radiance was a trick of the camera lens. Now that he had observed her in person many times, he knew it was real. She actually did glow, as angels did. She was an ethereal being, tethered lightly to this world.

Soon he would cut the tether, and then she would not be part of the world at all.

He could have done it now, today, if he'd brought the shotgun with him.

But there was no hurry. He could kill her at any time.

Besides, he enjoyed watching her.

She continued down the beach, followed by her bodyguard. The bodyguard always accompanied her when she went jogging, and never once had he even glanced into the narrow gap between two beachfront houses, where a trellis of bougainvillea cast a shadow dark enough to conceal a crouching man.

"You shouldn't trust your life to him, Kris," Hickle whispered.

"You're not nearly as safe as you think."

There was sun and sea spray and blue sky. There was the momentum of her body, the rhythm of her feet on the sand. There was her breathing, her heart rate.

This was all. Nothing more. Only the moment. One moment detached from the rest of her life, one moment when she did not have to think about threats and security measures, the bodyguard jogging a few paces behind her, the command post in the guest cottage at her house… Damn.

Kris Barwood slowed her pace. The thoughts were back. The mood was broken.

Her daily exercise routine, a four-mile run along the strip of semiprivate beach that bordered Malibu Reserve, had been her one respite from the constant stress of vigilance and fear. The beach had always felt safe to her. It was a special place. People played here with their dogs and flew kites in the salty wind. On one side was the Pacific, studded with wave-battered rocks, and on the other side stood rows of immaculate homes, some boasting the extravagance of swimming pools only steps from the high tide mark. The houses were narrow but deep, extending well back from the strand. Though ridiculously close together, they afforded a curious sense of privacy, and loud parties were rare. Most of the owners worked long hours in intensely competitive fields. They came home to relax, as she used to do-but now there was no relaxation for her anywhere.

"Kris? You okay?" That was Steve Drury, her bodyguard, a pleasant young man with a swimmer's build and a sun-streaked crewcut. When they jogged together, he wore shorts, a T-shirt, and a zippered belly pouch that contained a 9mm Beretta.

She realized she had stopped running entirely.

"Fine," she said.

"Don't have my usual energy."

"You'll make up for it tomorrow. We'll do two extra miles. Deal?"

She found a smile.

"Deal."

They crossed the sand to her house, a three-story modernistic box with wide windows that let in the magical Malibu light. She left Steve at the outdoor shower and entered through the door at the upper deck to avoid disturbing her husband in the game room, where he spent an unhealthy amount of time playing with his expensive toys-pinball machines, model railroads, radio-operated cars, and his favorite, an electronic putting green. Lately, Howard seemed fonder of these acquisitions than he was of her.

The master bedroom was on the third floor, at the rear of the house, with a view of the sea and the curving coastline. Kris stripped, running the shower hot.

Under the steaming spray she shampooed and rinsed her long blond hair.

Edward, her hairstylist, had repeatedly suggested that she was reaching the stage of life when it was better to wear her hair short. She had finally told him to quit it. She liked her hair long. Anyway, forty wasn't old. And she could pass for thirty-five in most circumstances.

Direct sunlight showed the creases at the corners of her eyes, the gathering tightness around her mouth, the hint of a sag in her cheeks, but while on the air she was lit by diffusion-filtered lights and masked by a layer of makeup that got thicker each year.

She hated to worry about her looks. It was shallow and stupid, and she had other assets, after all. She could shoot tape and record sound, handle every piece of equipment in an editing booth, write copy, extemporize fluently in the coverage of a breaking story. Few of those skills, however, were required in her present position. For better or worse, she had become a celebrity.

Draped in a robe, she dried and brushed her hair in front of the big mirror over the bathroom's marble countertop. The face that looked back at her was strong and Nordic-Kris Andersen had been her maiden name.

Her eyes were blue-gray and had the peculiar quality of seeming larger and more intense than ordinary eyes. She had white, perfectly even teeth, and her mouth could execute an impressive variety of smiles, one of many tricks that made her interesting to watch. She knew that if she ever stopped being interesting, she would not be watched for long.

Of course there was one viewer whose attention she would gladly do without-She froze, the hairbrush motionless in her hand.

From the bedroom had come a sound. A rustle of movement, barely audible. It might be Steve or Courtney, the housekeeper, but irrationally she was certain it was him.

She heard it again-a whisper of motion, the soft scrape of fabric on fabric.

She turned from the mirror. The hairbrush was her only weapon.

Absurdly she raised it like a club, then stepped out of the bathroom, her gaze darting, and there he was by the windows, silhouetted against the vertical blind… "Kris? You okay?"

All the tension leaked out of her, because it was Howard's voice.

She dropped the hairbrush. It thumped on the floor.

"Damn," she breathed.

"Don't do that to me."

"Do what?"

She shook her head, dismissing his question.

"I thought you were him," she said simply.

Her husband crossed the room to take her hand in his.

"Come on, that's crazy."

"I heard someone out here. I thought it might be-well, it could have been…"

"No, it couldn't. Not a chance."

From a strictly rational standpoint Howard was probably correct. But how could she explain to him that rationality played little part in her fears and nightmares, the false alarms and spasms of panic that made her glance over her shoulder at every stray noise and flicker of shadow?

"You're right," she said, feeling empty.

"Guess I'm a little overwrought."

He stooped and retrieved her hairbrush, placing it gently in her grasp as if she were a child.

"Don't worry about it. Don't worry about anything."

"Good advice. Hard to follow."

He showed her a warm smile that lit up his square, tanned face. After retiring last year at fifty, he had taken to hanging around the house and eating too much. A belt of flab hung around his waist, and his neck had grown thick and loose.

"You're no good at taking orders," Howard said.

"Me, I'm great at it.

Travis told me not to worry, and I haven't."

"Your faith is touching."

"Isn't it, though?" His smile faded.

"Speaking of Travis, we'll be late for that meeting if we don't leave soon."

"Give me another minute to get dressed."

"Right. See how well I take orders? I'm a natural."

He moved toward the hall.

She stopped him.

"While you're waiting, could you check the cottage for me?"

"Is that necessary?"

"I want to know if he's called."

"Let's assume he has. How does it help you to find out?"

"I have to know. If you won't check, I will."

"If you worry about it all the time, it defeats the whole purpose of having Travis's people around."

"Their purpose isn't to keep me happy. Their purpose is to keep me alive."

"You're getting worked up again."

His patronizing tone infuriated her.

"I have a right to get worked up. It's me he's after. Or is that another thing I'm supposed to not think about?" She turned away, suddenly exhausted.

"Check the cottage, all right? I have to get changed."

She returned to the bathroom and finished brushing her hair, performing the task with more vigor than necessary. When she emerged, the bedroom was empty. Howard had gone.

She changed into a pantsuit. At the studio she would put on whatever outfit the clothing coordinator had selected, usually something in blue to bring out her eyes.

Before leaving the bedroom, she went to the windows for another look at the beach. The tide was going out. Seagulls bobbed and weaved on chancy currents of air. She wished she could sit and watch the birds and not deal with this meeting Travis had called or with anything else, ever.

Her life had been easier when she was a twenty-two-year-old radio reporter in Duluth, Minnesota.

True, there had been no money for rent or food, but she had been too busy to care. Maybe she should have stayed in Duluth, married the junior manager at the radio station. Sometimes she wished she didn't have this hard-edged ambition inside her, driving her to high-profile assignments, more money, more pressure.

But there had always been part of her that felt she would die without fame and recognition and strangers turning their heads. Now she had all of that, and because of it-because of one particular stranger whose head she'd turned-she might die anyway.

Life was a tangle. Her life, at least. Maybe everybody's.

Downstairs she found Courtney dusting the autographed golf balls in Howard's display cabinet.

"They're waiting in the Lincoln," Courtney said.

"Mr. Drury and Mr. Barwood."

Kris glanced at her watch. She was running late.

Having Steve bring the car out of the garage to idle in the driveway was Howard's way of telling her so.

A garden path, bordered by rosebushes, white oleander, and bird-of-paradise, led from the main house to the guest cottage attached to the garage. A gray Lincoln Town Car, the Carrier model, idled in the driveway, Steve Drury at the wheel. The car was her own, but the pleasure of driving it was one more thing Hickle had taken from her.

Steve got out and opened the rear door for her. He had changed into slacks, a button-down shirt, and a suit jacket that concealed his Beretta. She slipped into the backseat, next to Howard, while Steve slid behind the wheel and adjusted the volume on the Alpine audio system. He was playing a CD of Mozart's Magic Flute, her favorite. It soothed her.

The Lincoln pulled out of the driveway and headed down a narrow lane colonnaded with tall eucalyptus trees. At the gate, guards waved the Town Carthrough, and the sedan accelerated onto Pacific Coast Highway, rushing over the bridge that straddled Malibu Creek. In the lagoon fed by the estuary, a few shore birds lifted themselves into the afternoon sun.

"Did you check?" she asked Howard tonelessly.

He acknowledged her only with a half turn in her direction.

"I checked. Nothing serious to report."

"Meaning?"

"He called a couple of times this morning. Not since then. It's been a quiet afternoon. Maybe he's losing interest."

"Sure. Maybe."

But she knew Raymond Hickle would never lose interest in her as long as she was alive.

Hickle sat on the roadside, a hat covering his face, and watched the Town Car pull out of the Malibu Reserve gate. He took a good look at it when it turned onto the coast highway. The car was close; he could see his own reflection in the polished panels of the passenger doors.

In the lightly tinted rear window there was the vague outline of a silhouetted figure.

There was no chance that Kris or her driver would spot him. Sitting cross-legged on the curb, the hat pulled low, he was just one of the many faceless derelicts who wandered through Malibu and other towns along the California coast. He could watch Kris come and go, and no one would be the wiser.

His gaze followed the car as it disappeared down the road. He kept staring after it even when it was long gone. Then he got up and retraced his steps to his own car, a Volkswagen Rabbit parked on a side street a mile from Malibu Reserve.

He had no intention of trying to catch up with Kris.

Her driver was a security officer trained to spot a pursuing vehicle and take evasive action.

Even so, he expected to arrive at the studio gate well before she did.

She had left earlier than usual, and the route she'd taken-southbound on Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward West LA-was not the most direct way to Burbank.

He figured she had an appointment to keep. It would occupy her for a half hour or longer. By the time she reached the studio, he would be positioned near the entrance to the parking lot.

In his car, he had his duffel bag. And in the duffel, he had the shotgun. He imagined holding it now, feeling its sleekness, its smoothness, pumping the action and then the trigger, and the satisfying recoil as the spray of lethal shot fanned wide.

"Blammo," Hickle said. He was smiling.

Abby Sinclair was late and walking fast as she came out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor of the Century City high-rise where Travis Protective Services housed its office suite. She had fixed her hair as best she could in the elevator, but in T-shirt, jeans, and Nikes, she wasn't exactly dressed for a business meeting.

At the end of the hall she paused before the double doors emblazoned with the TPS logo. The doors were mirrored, and she was able to ascertain that she looked okay, despite her ensemble. Her reflection stared back at her with cool hazel eyes that revealed little of what she felt inside. Lately, it was just as well that no one knew what she was feeling.

She entered the reception area, passing through a metal detector, then handed a carry-on bag to the security officer at the front desk.

"Came straight from the airport. Keep this nice and safe for me, okay?"

The guy frowned at her.

"I didn't know you were still working for Travis."

"I've been away for a while. Now I'm back in the saddle."

His frown didn't waver.

"Well, ain't that great news."

She wasn't surprised at his hostility or at the cool stares that greeted her as she hurried through the maze of corridors. Only a few people at TPS knew exactly what role she had played in the Devin Corbal disaster, but throughout the firm it was common knowledge that she had been involved somehow, and that her involvement had cost Corbal his life.

She walked past conference rooms, workspaces partitioned into cubicles, and private or semiprivate offices.

Roughly half the offices, she noted guiltily, were empty now. TPS was thinning out its staff, making massive cutbacks to stop the hemorrhage of money.

Only the most essential employees had been retained, performing the services that were the backbone of the company-threat assessment, personal protection, and investigation. Before long, maybe they would be gone as well, and this office suite would be occupied by insurance salespeople or stockbrokers. She didn't want to think about that.

She reached Travis's corner office and nodded at his assistant. Rose, receiving a squinty glare in return.

"You're late," Rose said, her tone implying that this was the least of Abby's sins.

"Just buzz me in."

"Hold on." Rose took her time activating the intercom.

"Mr. Travis? Miss. Sinclair is here."

Over the cheap speaker, Abby heard Travis's tinny voice grant her admittance.

"Yes, sir." Rose looked at her.

"You can go in."

"Thanks a lot."

Abby crossed the anteroom to Travis's door. She was turning the knob when Rose said, "This client's important to us. You might try keeping her alive."

Various rejoinders ran through Abby's mind. She swallowed them all.

Sometimes the best thing to say was nothing at all.

She entered Travis's office and found him in conference with a blond woman instantly recognizable as Kris Barwood and a somewhat older, heavyset man who had to be her husband.

"Better late than never," Travis said as he rose from behind his desk.

Et to, Paul? she thought, but all she said was "My plane was delayed."

Her gaze widened to include everyone in the room.

"Sorry to keep you all waiting."

Introductions were made. Howard Barwood had a firm handshake of long duration. Kris, no surprise, looked exactly the same in person as she did on TV.

Having met a number of celebrities over the past two years, Abby had learned that the beautiful ones really were beautiful. The notion that the camera performed some alchemical transformation of ordinary folks into superstars was a sop to the envious multitudes.

"You just flew in from out of town?" Howard asked.

"Yes-which explains my less than professional attire.

I only brought casual clothes with me on the trip."

"} hope we didn't interrupt your vacation."

"No, I was working another case, actually. Got done last night."

"I thought TPS only handled LA clients."

"This wasn't a TPS case. I haven't worked with TPS"-since Devin Corbal, she nearly said, but caught herself-"in a few months. I'm an independent consultant.

I work with a variety of firms all across the country. Paul left a message on my answering machine yesterday. I got back to him first thing this morning, and he told me a little about the situation you find yourselves in."

"Situation." Kris Barwood leaned forward in her chair, balancing her hands lightly on her knees, a pose she must have learned while doing on-camera interviews.

"That's one way of putting it."

"I know it feels like a crisis," Abby said, "but it's nothing we can't handle."

Howard snorted.

"Tell that to Devin Corbal."

For a startled moment Abby wondered how they had found out about her involvement in that case.

Then she realized Howard had been looking at Travis when he said it.

She and Travis were rescued from any response when Kris cut in smoothly,

"When you arrived, Paul was just about to explain what it is you're going to do for me."

"I have kind of an unusual job, Mrs. Barwood."

"Call me Kris." The anchorwoman flashed a smile that ought to have looked artificial but didn't.

"Okay, Kris. I'm Abby" Howard Barwood spoke up again.

"How old are you, Abby, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Twenty-eight."

His eyelids lifted in skeptical appraisal.

"Isn't that a little young to be a licensed psychologist?"

"I'm not a licensed psychologist."

"Travis here"-Barwood cocked a thumb in the direction of the desk-"called you a psychological consultant."

"That's one way of describing the work I do. I call myself a dynamic interpersonal risk evaluator. But there's a simpler way of putting it.

I'm a pilot fish."

Kris and her husband exchanged a bemused glance.

"A pilot fish," Abby repeated. She tossed her purse on a chair but remained standing.

"You know those little fish that swim in the wake of a shark? They gather scraps. So do I. Only, the sharks I swim with are people like Raymond Hickle, and the scraps I gather are scraps of information."

She crossed behind Travis's desk to stand before the wide windows, the panoramic backdrop.

"See, when it comes to assessing the threat, personal protection services have to rely on background information and profiling.

It would be better to get to know the real man. It can't be done from a distance. It has to be up close and personal." "How close?" Kris asked.

"How personal?"

"If all goes well, I'm going to be Hickle's best friend."

There was a beat of silence, and Kris said, "This man may not have any friends."

"But he wants one. Everybody does. Do you know what people look for in a friend? Someone to talk to.

Someone who'll listen." Abby smiled.

"I'm a good listener."

"You mean you're going to analyze him without his even knowing it?"

"Not analyze him in a psychological sense. Instead, I need to assess him from a security standpoint. Gauge his intentions, his timetable.

And keep an eye on him so if he does decide to act, I'll be there to head him off at the pass."

"And you think you can do all that?"

"I've done it before, many times." And only failed once, she added silently with another twinge of guilt.

Howard straightened in his chair.

"Let me get this straight. You're talking about some kind of undercover thing?"

"You can call it that."

"So you meet him, give a phony name, get to be friends. Then it's you and him alone together?"

"Right."

"But you've got armed men stationed outside, radio communication with them in case he turns crazy or sniffs you out?"

"No, it's just me. I carry a cell phone and a gun."

"Just you? Why, for God's sake?"

Travis fielded the question.

"Because you're suggesting we attempt virtually round-the-clock surveillance of Raymond Hickle, and that sort of operation almost never works."

"When the police carry out an undercover operation," Kris said, "they have a backup team listening on a radio." "Yes," Travis said, "for a twenty-minute drug buy.

We're talking about installing Abby in Hickle's life for days or weeks.

It's not the same. Surveillance requires more than one or two officers sitting in a car outside somebody's home. In a residential neighborhood, that car and its occupants will draw attention within hours.

Someone will call the police, there'll be a commotion, and our subject will see it or hear about it."

"Usually men like Hickle are paranoid to begin with," Abby added.

"It doesn't take much to push them over the edge."

Howard shook his head.

"So don't have them sit in a car. Have them watch Hickle from the building across the street." "The risk of detection is still too high,"

Travis said.

"A successful stakeout is extremely difficult to pull off over any extended period of time. Somebody will see the binoculars in the window or intercept a radio transmission or wonder about the food deliveries to a vacant apartment or hear something through the wall.

Neighbors talk, word gets around, and before you know it, the surveillance team's cover has been blown."

"And if their cover is blown," Abby said, "so is mine."

"There's another factor," Travis said.

"You're assuming Hickle stays put. Suppose he and Abby go out together.

We'd have to follow. That's not a job that can be done with a single vehicle or even two or three. To keep Hickle in sight at all times without being spotted ourselves, we need a minimum of a half dozen cars rotating in and out of the pursuit, sometimes hanging back in traffic, sometimes moving ahead to intercept him at points where we expect him to go."

"And if he takes me to someplace crowded, like Third Street Promenade on a Saturday night," Abby said, "then TPS would need twenty agents to cover every exit and byway. Hickle could lose the pursuit without even trying, and I wouldn't even know I was unprotected. Besides, in most cases, if things get ugly, it all happens so fast that a backup detail across the street wouldn't reach me in time anyway."

"So things do sometimes… get ugly?" Kris asked, sounding more curious than concerned.

Abby flashed on a gunshot in an alley, a voice saying, We lost him.

"Now and then," she said evenly, hoping her expression betrayed no emotion.

"It comes with the territory."

Howard shook his head.

"How exactly do you expect to protect yourself against a psychopath like Hickle?"

"I'm trained in self-defense. If a subject turns violent I know how to respond."

"Abby can take care of herself," Travis said.

"She's one of the most competent people I've ever worked with."

This surprised her. She glanced at Travis with a small, secret nod of appreciation.

"Well," Howard said, "she'd better be." He fixed Abby with a stare.

"How many cases have you handled?"

"More than twenty over the past two years."

"I would think you'd want to quit while you're ahead."

"You mean while I'm alive?" She smiled.

Kris was studying her.

"How about the Devin Corbal case? Were you in on that one?"

Abby had anticipated this question and was ready with a response.

"No, I was in San Francisco at the time, protecting a radio shock jock who'd made too many enemies."

She hated to lie to a client, but if she told the truth, she would be off the Barwood case, and most likely Travis would lose Kris as a client. And she knew that this was a loss he could not afford.

Anyway, no one would be able to prove she'd lied.

She had escaped from the vicinity of Lizard Maiden before the police could secure the scene. The TPS bodyguards had said nothing about her.

Sheila Rogers, now in custody awaiting trial, had received a concussion during the tumble down the alley stairs and remembered nothing of Abby's assault. The bartender recalled that Sheila had been sitting with a nameless woman friend, but he had not reported his encounter with her, no doubt because he didn't want to admit that he had tipped off Sheila to Devin's whereabouts.

In short, there was nothing to link Abby to the case.

Nothing but her conscience, which assailed her nightly with images of Devin Corbal sprawled on the pavement in a spreading pool of blood.

"Even so"-Howard crossed his arms and looked past Abby at Travis-"I want to go on record as saying I'm against this." "Your wife is my client," Travis said evenly.

"I know that. It's her safety at stake. Her decision.

But if it were up to me…" He didn't finish.

"Howard," Abby said, "I appreciate your concern, but this is my job.

It's what I do."

"You're a pilot fish. I remember." He looked at her, no amusement in his eyes.

"There's just one thing about those fish. Sometimes they get a little too close to the shark they're swimming with. Sometimes they get eaten."

Abby met his gaze.

"That's the downside of the metaphor."

The office was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning.

"Kris," Travis asked, "do we have your go-ahead?"

"Yes, you do," Kris said, looking at Abby as she spoke. Howard turned away, arms folded over his chest, hands gripping his biceps in a classic pose of defiance.

Abby nodded at the anchorwoman.

"Thank you." "I should be thanking you," Kris said softly.

"You're the one taking all the risks."

Then the meeting was over and the Barwoods V V were gone, Abby finally allowed herself to sit.

She slumped in an armchair in the corner of Travis's office and asked!

"How do you think it went?"

"An unqualified success," Travis said.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. You dazzled them."

Travis stood and came around his desk. He was a tall man of forty-four with jet-black hair receding from his high forehead. He wore an open-collared dress shirt under a navy jacket, belt less tan slacks, and black loafers. Every item of his ensemble was predictable; he owned a dozen navy jackets, a dozen dress shirts, a dozen pairs of tan slacks and black loafers. He wore the identical outfit every day. It was one of his quirks.

He didn't like to waste time pondering what clothes to wear.

"It's good to have you back, Abby," he said.

"I wasn't certain you'd ever want to work with me again after what happened last time. Thanks for telling them how capable I am, by the way."

"I meant it. You've been beating yourself up about Corbal for four months. Let it go."

She looked away.

"I shouldn't have let her get away from me."

"You had to call in your location."

"} should have found a way to do it while still keeping an eye on her."

Travis sat on the arm of the chair.

"A momentary lapse."

"In this business we can't afford any lapses."

"Abby, if you do this kind of work long enough, you're bound to experience a setback now and then."

"A setback? Is that what happened to Corbal?"

"Corbal was a goddamned fool. We didn't want him going into Lizard Maiden or any other club on the Strip. We told him to stay away from all his usual haunts. There was too great a chance that he would run into Sheila Rogers at one of them."

"It was my job to make sure nothing like that would happen."

"My point is, Corbal was headstrong. He wouldn't listen to us. He insisted on taking risks, and he paid for it. Even so, he would have made it out of the building if the V.I.P Room had been evacuated faster.

He had too many friends with him, and it took too long for our people to clear them all out. The friends left via the dance floor, which only cost more time because the club was so damn crowded. Then our staff officers had to get Devin out the back way-"

"Because I recommended using the rear exit."

"It was the right tactical move. And he wouldn't be any less dead if he'd gone out via the front entrance.

Sheila would have popped him on the dance floor."

"Maybe not. Maybe in all the confusion she never would have seen him.

Or maybe… maybe I could've stopped her."

"You nearly did."

"Nearly doesn't cut it."

"You did everything you could. It's not your fault."

Abby didn't answer.

"How'd you get here from LAX?" Travis asked.

She blinked, surprised by the change of subject.

"Taxicab."

"Then you'll need a ride home."

"I'll call another taxi."

"No. Let me drive you. On the way over, I can give you a more thorough briefing on the Barwood case.

There wasn't time to go into much detail this morning on the phone."

"Okay, Paul. Thanks."

They didn't speak again until they had left the TPS office suite after picking up Abby's carry-on at the reception desk. In the elevator, descending to the underground parking garage, she asked Travis, "How are things going? Business-wise, I mean."

He shrugged.

"Could be better. Another client ditched us on Friday. Same old story.

He no longer had confidence in TPS."

"Because of Devin Corbal." Because of me, she wanted to say.

"It's not so much the incident itself as the ongoing, never-ending media coverage. You'd think they'd come up with something else to talk about.

Last week the Times ran a hit piece on us-the usual second guessing and Monday morning quarterbacking. Our clients read something like that, and half of them are ready to jump ship."

"A lot of them already have," she said quietly, thinking of the empty office space, the staff cutbacks. She knew that Travis had always prided himself on keeping his operation small, his services exclusive.

There had never been more than fifty names on the TPS client list. It was a policy that had left little margin for error. Now, with clients dropping away month after month, he was faring the end of the business he had founded.

"We've suffered some losses," Travis conceded.

"But we'll ride it out. In the end, we'll come back stronger than before."

He seemed to believe it. She wished she could be so confident.

His Mercedes C43 was waiting in the garage. Travis put Abby's bag into the trunk and let her in on the passenger side. Before shutting the door, he leaned in and kissed her, a brief, hard kiss that sped up her heart rate.

He hadn't kissed her in the TPS office suite. One of their rules was that there would be no displays of intimacy in the presence of TPS employees or clients.

Travis kept one hand on the wheel, the other clasping hers, as he guided the sedan into traffic on the Avenue of the Stars.

"How does it feel to be back in town?" he asked.

"Not bad at all. Its warm here today." Her window was partially lowered, air rushing at her face.

"In the seventies. Warmer than Jersey, I'll bet."

"} had to buy an overcoat. Used it for a few days and donated it to charity. Couldn't fit in my carryon."

"What about your gun? How'd you transport that?"

"Fedexed it from Newark Airport this morning.

Same-day delivery. It should be waiting for me when I get home."

"Who were you working for in Jersey?"

"Gil Harris. He relocated there from San Diego a few months ago. Runs a security firm in Camden. A local manufacturing plant contracted him when they decided their in-house security couldn't handle an ex32 employee named Frank Harrington. The guy was making threats against the company. They wanted me to find out if he was serious."

Travis steered the Mercedes onto Santa Monica Boulevard, heading west.

"Was he?"

"Darn tootin'. I found his suicide note in the hard drive of his PC.

He was planning to ram through the factory gate and open fire with a pair of high-powered rifles modified to fire on full automatic."

"How'd you get to look in his computer?"

"Well, first I let Frank pick me up at a local bar and take me home. We had a nightcap, and I slipped a Tohypnol into his drink. It put him out cold. Then I searched the place, found the note and printed it out, and left it where the police couldn't miss it. Then I called nine-one-one and reported a prowler at Frank's address. He was still asleep when I amscrayed."

"Any close calls?"

"The police got there a little faster than I expected. I had to get out through a rear door. Otherwise, no sweat." She smiled.

"Just another day at the office."

"What was the date on the suicide note?"

"Wednesday, March twenty-third."

"Tomorrow."

"Right."

"You stopped him just in time."

"Looks that way"

"You saved a lot of lives, Abby."

"Yeah. Maybe if I save enough of them, I can make up for the one I didn't save." She sighed.

"So what's the story, Paul? Tell me all about Mr. Raymond Hickle."

"He's thirty-four, Caucasian, never married. Lives alone, no pets, low income. Works in Zack's Donut Shack at Pico and Fairfax."

"Behind the counter or in the kitchen?"

"Little of both, but mostly behind the counter."

"Acceptable social skills, then."

"Within limits, yes. He doesn't go around muttering to himself or flashing kids in playgrounds."

"Too bad. If he did, we could get him off the street."

"It won't be that easy. As a matter of fact, he's highly recommended by his previous employers-at least the ones we could track down. There have been quite a few. Those we talked to say Ray Hickle's the best employee they ever had."

"Then wh/d they let him go?"

"He quit. Invariably it was his decision."

"Why?"

"Because they offered him a promotion. That seems to be the trigger."

"What kind of promotion?"

"To a supervisory position. The guy is afraid of responsibility, apparently."

Abby shook her head.

"No, I don't think so. Tell me about the other jobs he's held."

"Strictly entry-level positions. Car-wash attendant, movie theater ticket taker, dishwasher at a coffee shop, clerk in a photo store, janitor in an office high-rise."

"Common denominator-not much thinking required.

You learn the basics, then go through the motions.

If you're elevated to supervisor, you have to start thinking."

"I don't believe this guy's dumb."

"Didn't say he was. I'm saying he wants to leave his mind free to think about something other than his job.

Something like Kris Barwood, la's number-one news anchor… and Hickle's one true love."

"And the one client TPS absolutely cannot afford to lose."

"Really? Why?"

"Because right now she's the only media person we've got on our side.

Channel Eight hasn't joined the feeding frenzy. She won't let them.

She keeps saying the firm has gotten a bum rap. She's said it publicly.

If she ditches us, we're cooked."

Abby caught on.

"On the other hand/ if TPS resolves the situation without incident, and Channel Eight plays it up big…"

"It would go a long way toward rebuilding our client list. Yes." He frowned, as if embarrassed to have been drawn out on this subject.

"So give me more details, get me up to speed."

"Hickle started sending Kris personal letters about five months ago.

Our screening process intercepted them. At first they raised no alarm.

They were fan letters, nothing special."

"Signed?"

"Yes. He's always signed his name. Even included a snapshot of himself, like something you'd submit to a dating service. He's never tried to hide who he is."

"Which doesn't make him any less dangerous." Abby knew that people who stalked celebrities rarely concerned themselves with anonymity. On the contrary, they wanted their famous target to know exactly who they were.

And if the time came for a violent attack, they wanted the whole world to know.

"He kept requesting a photo," Travis said, "so we allowed KPTI to send him a color glossy of Kris with a fake autograph, but no inscription.

We didn't want to encourage him with anything he might interpret as a personal response."

"Okay." All standard, so far.

"Unfortunately, he didn't go away, as we hoped. Instead, he started writing longer, more in-depth letters, the kind of thing you would send to an intimate friend. They got pretty intense. He sent gifts too."

"What sort of gifts?"

"Jewelry, mostly. Cheap costume stuff. Once he gave her some scented candles because he'd read that she practices aroma therapy "What's his history? Any violence?"

"No."

"Ever institutionalized?"

"No."

"Arrests? Police encounters?"

"Can't rule out a run-in with the law, but there's no record of any formal charges against him."

Abby nodded. Early in life, stalkers learned how to hate, but unlike common criminals, they learned self restraint also. They held their hatred in check. Few of the dangerous ones, the ones with the mind-set of an assassin, got in trouble with the police. They were too cold and careful for that. They bided their time.

"He stopped writing three weeks ago," Travis said, "but he still calls her."

"He's got her number…" She'd meant it to be a question, but she wasn't really surprised.

Travis nodded.

"Home and business, even though they're unlisted. At first we weren't screening her calls, so he actually got through to her. She made the mistake of trying to talk to him. Of course this only aggravated the situation."

"Sure. Contact is what he wants."

"I explained that to her. And I had her install a second unlisted line at home and screen all calls that came in over the first line with an answering machine, but it didn't work. Somehow he guessed she had a new line and got that number too."

"Persistent little creep."

"And clever." Travis turned onto Westwood Boulevard, heading north.

"Kris asked him how he got hold of her address, and he told her. He searched the Internet for her husband's name-Howard Barwood-and found the California Coastal Commission agenda for April of 1999. They post the minutes of all their meetings on the Web. One of the topics discussed in April was a request by Howard Barwood of Malibu to attach a guest cottage to the garage. His address was reported in the application summary."

Abby sighed. No information was private any longer.

"Was the application approved?"

"Sure was. In fact, that guest cottage has come in handy. We set up our on-site command post there."

"How often does Hickle call?"

"Six times a day, on average."

"Has he tried to make physical contact?"

"Repeatedly. We're lucky in one way. Kris lives in Malibu Reserve.

She moved there for additional security a few years ago, a normal precaution for someone in her position. The Reserve is a pretty tight ship.

Hickle has never gotten past the guards at the entrance.

Same story at work. KPTI is fenced and gated, and the guards have seen Hickle's photo."

"He's attempted entry at both her home and the studio?

How many attempts in all?"

"More than two dozen."

"Escalating frequency?"

"Yes."

"Bad."

At Wilshire Boulevard, Travis turned east. The wide, busy street was colonnaded on both sides by high-rise condominium buildings and a few office towers. Abby lived midway along the corridor.

"You mentioned that Kris Barwood still supports you," Abby said as her building approached.

"How did she feel right after the Corbal incident?"

"Scared, upset. Even though she had been with TPS for years, she nearly left us. Howard was ready to tear up the contract, but Kris had the final say. I talked her out of it."

"And now she's your biggest cheerleader. That must have been one hell of a pep talk."

"Let's say I can be persuasive when I have to be."

The Mercedes pulled into the curved driveway in the forecourt of Abby's condominium tower, the Wilshire Royal.

"Want to come up?" Abby asked, keeping her tone casual.

Travis hesitated.

"I'd better say no. I've got a lot on my plate today."

"Yeah, I guess I've got my work cut out for me too."

She was good at concealing disappointment.

They got out of the car, and Travis unloaded the carry-on bag from the trunk. He opened his briefcase and removed a thick sheaf of papers in a manila envelope.

"Your copy of the case file."

"Bedtime reading," Abby said. She stuffed it into her suitcase.

"Thanks for the ride, Paul. And-thanks for giving me another chance."

"I've never blamed you, Abby. Never."

"And if TPS goes under, will you still feel that way?"

"It's not going under. Things will turn around soon."

"Sure. I know."

She started to turn away, and then he took her by the shoulders and kissed her-a strong, heady kiss but too brief. When he pulled away, he was frowning.

"You know, I may have given you the wrong impression."

She was momentarily confused. Then she realized he was talking about the case, not their relationship.

"How so?"

"I've stressed the most ominous aspects of Hickle's behavior, but there's another side to it. He's a reliable employee with no police record, no history of mental illness, no known violent tendencies. He's never issued a clear threat against Kris. I know none of these things are predictive, but when you put them all together, he starts to look less like a crazed killer and more like a harmless eccentric."

"Maybe that's all he is."

"I just don't want you going into this with your mind made up."

"I won't. I have to get to know him. He'll tell me who he really is and what his intentions are. Risk assessment, that's my game. Gather the data, and analyze."

"You make it sound almost prosaic."

She smiled, but it was a sad smile, burdened with wisdom.

"It is-when nothing goes wrong."

At 3:15 Hickle parked on a side street near the entrance to the Channel Eight studios. From this vantage point he had a clear view of the security gate.

In the backseat of his car lay his duffel bag. He hauled the bag into the front compartment, then unzipped it and removed a twelve-gauge shotgun, fully loaded.

He rested the gun in his lap. The long steel barrel was cool to the touch. He liked running his fingers over it, feeling its smoothness.

Sometimes he fantasized about sliding the barrel into Kris Barwood's mouth, feeding her the tube of the gun, watching her eyes above the gleam of metal. Then one pull of the trigger, and no more eyes, no more mouth, no more Kris.

Blammo.

He felt a stir of arousal in his groin. The feeling was nothing new to him. He had been passionate about Kris Barwood since the day he first saw her. Since then, she had been with him constantly, at least in his thoughts. At bedtime he would conjure her in his arms, and the smell of her hair and skin would lull him to sleep. Throughout the day, while at work or doing chores, he would invent conversations with her, magical dialogues in which he was always witty and buoyant, and she sparkled with laughter at his jokes. For many months he had been married to her.

She waited for him in his apartment. She shared dinner with him.

She looked deep into his eyes.

But in the past few weeks his fantasy had died, exposed as the delusion it had always been. He had maintained the dream as long as he could, until at last reality had broken it into pieces.

She did not love him.

She didn't want to talk to him or read his letters or accept his gifts.

He had sent her jewelry with the polite request that she wear it on the air. She never had. He had called her countless times, and on the rare occasions when he'd gotten through, she had been hostile and uncommunicative.

It was so unfair. He deserved her love. No one could have done more for her than he had. Hadn't he dedicated his life to her? Hadn't he built a shrine for her in his heart? He had spent countless hours hunting down the smallest fragments of information in magazine profiles and newspaper clippings, learning her biography, memorizing every detail of her life.

He knew that her parents had sent her to swim camp at age nine after installing a pool in the backyard of their Minneapolis home. He knew she had been the high school prom queen. She'd attended the University of Minnesota, majoring in Journalism, and after graduation she'd secured her first full-time job, an entry-level position at a radio station in Duluth. The next year she'd gotten her first break, a TV reporting job in Fort Wayne, Indiana. He had tracked down a Fort Wayne shop specializing in local memorabilia and had purchased, for thirty-five dollars, a glossy photo of Kris bearing the inscription Thanks for your support.

Keep watching!

He knew that from Fort Wayne, which ranked 102 among the 210 television markets in the United States, she had gone to Columbia, South Carolina, the number eighty-seven market, and from there to Albuquerque, number fifty-two, and then on to Cincinnati, number thirty. In 1987 she had come to LA. Soon afterward KPTI had started to win accolades and viewers.

He knew-everybody knew-that Kris was the reason.

There was nobody else worth watching on Channel Eight or on any of the other channels, for that matter.

There was only Kris. As KPTI racked up Golden Mike Awards and higher ratings, her salary rose. Her first million-dollar contract-1992. Two million for three years-1997. And now her new deal, the richest yet, the richest in the history of LA news broadcasting.

"The Six Million Dollar Woman," the Los Angeles Times had called her in the headline of a feature story.

He had devoted every minute, hour, day, week, month of his life to Kris Barwood, nee Kris Andersen, born Kristina Ingrid Andersen at Meeker County Memorial Hospital in Litchfield, Minnesota-yes, he even knew the hospital, which was recorded on the copy of her birth certificate he had obtained through the mail for a nominal fee.

She liked skiing (Redbook, July 1999) and pasta (Los Angeles Magazine, March 1998) and chocolate (extemporaneous on-air remarks, 6:00 News, December 21, 1997 broadcast). She had attended the premiere of Toy Story and had enjoyed the movie (Entertainment Weekly, November