The Shadow hunter

INSURANCE, MEDICAL RECORDS, MOTOR VEHICLES, REAL PROPERTY, TAXES,

Abby sat on the bed beside him, looking over his shoulder. She sighed.

"There aren't any secrets anymore, are there?"

"Not many. It takes some effort to uncover all this, of course. A surname scan delivers the basic info: driver's license, vehicle registration, voter registration, and real estate holdings. The Lexis-Nexis property database supplies previous or secondary residences.

We check employment history with an executive name search.

Most of our information comes from the subject's credit history. It tells us where he travels, what he does for entertainment, where he likes to shop. Then there are insurance policies, medical records, phone bills, property tax filings, financial statements…"

"All technically off-limits to snoops and hackers."

"But accessible to those in the know." He opened the ASSETS folder.

"When I first investigated Howard, the Barwoods' net worth was twenty-four million dollars.

That was in 1994. Recently we took another look. This is the figure now."

Abby leaned close to the screen.

"Twenty million," she said.

"So either they've made some lousy investments or there's something funny going on."

"It's something funny." Travis scrolled through pages of spreadsheets, highlighting figures in the Date Sold column.

"Howard has begun liquidating his assets."

"If the assets are held jointly, wouldn't he need Kris's approval?"

"Most of these accounts were set up so as not to require a co-signatory.

It makes it more convenient for either asset holder to write a check."

"And also more convenient for one asset holder to move funds around without the other's knowledge.

Where did the profits from the asset sales go?"

"Into a local bank account set up in Howard's name."

"His name alone. No Kris?"

"No Kris."

The bed creaked as Abby tucked her legs under her in a swami pose.

"I'm beginning to see where this is going.

The money didn't stay in that bank account, did it?"

"No, it didn't." Travis found Howard Barwood's statements in the BANK ACCOUNTS folder. Cash withdrawals had been made at irregular intervals.

"Cashier's checks," he explained.

"Fifty or a hundred grand at a pop. After that, the money trail runs cold."

"You have no idea where all that cash is going?"

"Yes and no."

"I thought you might say something like that."

"Did you? Why?"

"Because you still haven't explained how dummy corporations fit into all this."

"Good point. I haven't. There is another factor." He opened the REAL PROPERTY folder.

"When we ran a property search on Howard Barwood, we found a house in Culver City." An address came up on the screen.

"At first glance there's nothing odd about that.

Howard owns a number of properties, small and large.

But recently he sold this house, taking a loss. The buyer was something called Trendline Investments.

They're incorporated in the Netherlands Antilles, if that means anything to you."

"A haven for offshore banking. Airtight secrecy laws."

"Very good. Now look at Howard's credit card statements."

Travis opened the CREDIT HISTORY folder.

"They include the purchase of round-trip airline tickets to Willemstad.

It's the capital city of the Netherlands Antilles."

"So let me take a shot in the dark. Trendline Investments is a dummy corporation. Howard set it up. He sold the Culver City house to himself."

"} think so. Can't prove it, but his trip to the Antilles is strong circumstantial evidence. He stayed for two nights, enough time for him to execute all the paperwork required to establish a shell corporation with its own bank account."

"When?"

Travis scrolled down to the hotel charge, dated November 22, 1999.

"Late last year. Shortly before the transfer of the deed to the Culver City house, and shortly before the other assets started to mysteriously disappear."

"And Kris doesn't know?"

"There's no evidence that she does. Of course, financial records can tell us only so much."

"Seems like they're already telling us quite a lot."

Abby thought for a moment.

"Was the Culver City house deeded to Howard alone?"

"Yes."

"So even when he owned it openly, Kris may not have known the house existed?"

"Right."

"I see." She rubbed her forehead wearily.

"You get it, don't you?"

"You don't have to hit me over the head with a two by-four. When a guy owns a residence his wife doesn't know about and goes to considerable lengths to keep it a secret, there's usually only one reason. Howard is cheating on his wife. He uses the house for the occasional secret rendezvous. He intends to get a divorce.

He's going to say good-bye to Kris."

Travis nodded.

"But California is a community property state…"

Abby untucked her legs and got off the bed.

"Which means the Barwoods' assets will be divided down the middle. And that's a problem for Howard, because while his wife is extremely well off, he's worth much more than she is. He doesn't want to surrender half his wealth. To shield as much of it as he can, he's secretly transferring their assets overseas, hiding them under the umbrella of a shell company incorporated in a jurisdiction with extremely tight banking secrecy laws.

That way, when the assets are divided, there'll be less to divide."

"All of which is perfectly legal," Travis said, "as long as he paid his U.S. taxes. There's no law against moving money overseas, even if the intent is to shield it from a claimant in a lawsuit or a divorce." He ejected the CD.

Abby shook her head.

"You haven't told Kris?"

"Not a word. I'm fairly sure Howard's stealing her blind, but how can I say anything without revealing the background checks we've carried out?"

"Under the circumstances I hardly think she'd blame you for it."

"She would if it turns out I'm wrong. Most of this is supposition, remember. We don't know for sure that Howard owns Trendline or that he's conducting these transactions Without Kris's knowledge. Possibly the two of them planned the asset diversion together. It could be some complicated tax shelter, only borderline legal. If it is, and I start asking about it…"

"You say good-bye to another client."

"Right. The one I can least afford to lose." Travis slipped the CD back into its plastic sleeve.

"Besides, our job is to safeguard Kris's life, not her finances."

"It's her life I'm worried about," Abby said slowly.

"If Howard is fooling around and wants a divorce, and if he's so desperate to keep his hands on his money-"

"Then he might have a motive to get rid of his wife in a more expeditious fashion."

"By providing inside information to the psycho who's stalking her. You think he would do that? Sell out Kris to her would-be assassin to get her out of the way?"

"It's cold, I grant you. But la's not exactly a town known for its warmth and humanity."

"And if all this is true, then Howard might be my mystery assailant from the other night. He knew I was on the case. He might've been afraid I'd find out too much. If he was watching Hickle's building and saw me in the hot tub-"

"He could have decided it was a golden opportunity to get rid of you."

Abby frowned.

"I knew I didn't like the guy. Is there any way we can discreetly find out if he's alibied for that night?"

"Sure. The security officers stationed at the guest cottage keep a log of all comings and goings. I can find out if Howard was out that night.

Odds are, he was."

"What makes you say that?"

"He goes out nearly every night. Breaking in his new car, he claims."

"Or visiting his house in Culver City and whoever he's seeing there.

And on the way home, maybe stopping at Hickle's apartment building to do a little mischief.

It's all possible, but we have to nail it down."

Travis nodded.

"We will. If Howard has set up one dummy corporation, there could be more, and one of them might be Western Regional Resources-in which case. Western Regional is probably incorporated in the Netherlands Antilles like Trendline. It might even be connected with Trendline. A shell within a shell, that kind of thing. I'll have my staff get on it right away."

"If they can establish a connection between Howard and Western Regional, we'll have to tell Kris."

"I know."

"And the 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. 1% 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 fraction of a seconds 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.

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. Vie?" 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 Earth case?" Wyatt asked.

It was in connection with Earth that he had first met Abby Sinclair, She had come to him, asking questions about Earth'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 Earth 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 stolen goods in his house."

"What kind of goods?"

"VCRS, PCS, jewelry, portable 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 break-ins, 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 charges against 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.

Vie?"

"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 was no 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 Earth'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 Earth'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 Earth from a distance.

She'd made herself part of his life. And now she was doing the same thing with Raymond Hickle, a guy who had a penchant for becoming obsessed with beautiful women, a guy who might have tried to splash acid in Jill Dahlbeck's face.

Wyatt wondered how often Abby had tried her skill at this kind of contest. It was amazing she was still alive. She must be damn good or damn lucky. Maybe both. Eut everyone made mistakes, and nobody's luck held forever.

Wyatt let out a slow breath. So what was he going to do about her? He didn't know. Maybe the best option was to walk away, leave her alone.

She had told him she didn't want his help. I can take care of myself, she'd said.

Eut suppose she got in over her head. Would she admit it? Or would she plow onward, too stubborn and proud to back down?

He was pretty sure he knew the answer.

Abby woke in a bed that was not her own. She came alert instantly and knew where she was-Travis's bedroom. And she knew it was late, well past noon, and that Travis had let her sleep when he left for work.

She looked at the clock on the nightstand. The time was 3:47. She'd slept nearly all day. She ought to have felt guilty about it, but she knew she had needed the downtime. A body could run on adrenaline for only so long.

Hunger had awakened her. It urged her out of bed now. She went into the kitchen and raided Travis's fridge, finding a gourmet frozen pasta meal, which she microwaved and then ate out of the container while standing up. According to the package, the meal was only two hundred calories-not enough, but it would hold her.

When she was through, she returned to the bedroom, where she retrieved the spare house key Travis had left on the bureau. Then she took a long look at the TV that was really a safe. When Travis had punched in seven digits on the remote control, she'd been watching.

She knew the code.

Feeling vaguely disloyal, she picked up the remote and pressed the necessary buttons. The safe's false front swung open. She looked inside. The CDS were arranged alphabetically. She flipped through them until she found the one she wanted. When she lifted it out, the disk flashed, catching the light. The label read