He claimed to work in a restaurant in Beverly Hills. Maybe he wanted to impress me. He's not a skilled liar, has a tendency to blurt things out. His defenses should be easy to penetrate.
"After talking with him, I visited his next-door neighbor on the other side. Hickle's apartment is a mirror image of mine; we share the bedroom wall. His other neighbor, in number four-two-two, shares the living room wall with him. She's an elderly lady named Alice Finley, and she was happy to give me the cup of flour I asked for. Mrs. Finley likes to gossip. She informed me that Hickle never has friends over to visit and almost never goes out at night. He's usually quiet, but at times she hears him shouting, and once or twice she's heard loud banging on the shared wall, like he was pounding with his fist. Her conclusion was that, quote unquote, he's not quite right in the head.
"Bottom line: Hickle is socially isolated, probably paranoid, and deeply angry. He suppresses his most antisocial responses when dealing with others but can be violently enraged when alone. He's a borderline personality, possibly schizo typal but sufficiently well organized to hold down a job and pay the rent."
These notes were only partly for her benefit. In the event of her death, she wanted to leave a record that would allow the police to reconstruct what had happened.
She was not entirely sure she could count on Travis to tell them what they needed to know. In her line of work, it was invariably necessary to break the law now and then, as Travis well knew. Faced with a police investigation, he would have to protect himself, quite possibly by denying all knowledge of her activities.
A grim thought, but not unrealistic.
She switched off the recorder, then used her cell phone to call Hollywood Station, asking for Sergeant Wyatt.
"Vie's not on duty tonight," she was told.
"You can reach him at home."
She knew his home number. He answered on the third ring.
"Wyatt."
"Hey, Vie. Guess who."
He made a sound like a chuckle.
"Took you nearly twenty-four hours to call. I was starting to think you didn't need me after all."
"I need you. I'm a very needy person. There's a guy in Hollywood we have to talk about, but not over the phone."
"You had dinner?"
"Not yet."
"There's a place on Melrose that's not bad." He gave her the address.
"Half hour?"
"I'll be there. Thanks, Vie."
"Don't thank me yet. I may not be able to help you this time."
"You're always able to help."
"But I may not want to. It only encourages you, and I'm not sure I should do that." He hung up without a goodbye.
Most people Vie Wyatt could figure out. A decade spent riding patrol in Hollywood Division had taught him everything he needed to know about human nature, and although his promotion to sergeant confined him to a desk more often than he liked, he still saw a greater variety of people, night after night, than the average working professional would encounter in a lifetime.
He was sufficiently jaded to think he had seen it all. At least, he used to be-until he met Abby.
"Hope I didn't keep you waiting," she said as she slipped into the Leatherette bench opposite him.
He checked his watch.
"You're right on time."
"Am I? That's a first."
She was wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a vinyl zippered jacket bearing the LA Dodgers logo. It was not an outfit that ought to have flattered her, but Wyatt found himself taking note of the smooth fall of her hair, the shapely stem of her neck. She was twenty-eight, four years younger than he was, a fact he had learned by the simple expedient of looking up her DMV records shortly after they'd met.
He knew she never noticed him in that way. To Abby he was nothing but a resource. He had no chance with her at all.
"What looks good here?" she asked, reaching for a menu.
"I'm opting for the Matterhorn. Half-pound burger with Swiss cheese and pickles."
Her nose wrinkled.
"You're clogging your arteries just by talking about it."
"You might prefer the Garden of Veggie Delights."
She surveyed the menu.
"Sounds like the least damaging of the possible choices."
"It's funny, you being so concerned about health hazards." He leaned forward, studying her.
"Something gives me the feeling you aren't so cautious when it comes to other hazards in your life."
"Me? I'm the original shrinking violet. I always play it safe." She was smiling.
He found that smile infuriating. He didn't know why he had agreed to meet her. Their meetings were always the same. She pumped him for info, then went off and broke the law in some obscure way he couldn't quite figure out-surveillance or undercover work or… something. She used him. At the same time she mocked him with her sweet smile and her evasions.
She was polite about it, good company, very charming, but he couldn't trust her to level with him, ever.
After the waitress took their orders, Wyatt folded his hands and asked!
"Who's the guy you want to ask me about this time?"
"His name is Raymond Hickle. He lives on Gainford. I'll give you his address. I don't think he has a record, but maybe you could ask around, see if any patrol guys have had run-ins with him or…" She trailed off, seeing his face.
"You know something about him already, don't you?"
"Yeah."
"So give."
He didn't respond right away, and when he did, it was with a question.
"How did you get mixed up with Hickle?"
"It's a case. I can't go into details."
"This is dangerous, Abby."
"I'm just doing some background research-"
"Shut up. Quit telling me that bullshit. It's getting on my nerves."
She was silent, chastened for the first time in their relationship.
"I've met Hickle," Wyatt said after a moment.
"Back when I was riding patrol, I went to his apartment twice, some low-rent place on La Brea."
"The La Brea Palms," Abby said.
"South of Hollywood Boulevard. He lived there from 1989 to 1993."
"Sounds like you've done some checking on him already."
"Not me. The firm I'm consulting to. Employment history, residential addresses, things like that. But they didn't find anything about a criminal case."
"There was no case. Hickle was never charged. He doesn't have a rap sheet. It never got that far."
"How far did it get?" "Like I said, I went to his apartment twice. Me and my partner, together. We were sent over there for a little intimidation session with Hickle. First time it didn't take, so we went back for an instant replay a couple weeks later. It still didn't take, but it did get Hickle evicted. The landlord didn't like having a tenant who was in trouble with the police."
"Why was it necessary to confront him at all?"
"Because he was harassing a woman who lived in the building. He was stalking her."
"What woman?"
"Her name was Jill Dahlbeck. She was in her early twenties, and she'd moved to LA from Wisconsin, planning, naturally, to be a movie star."
"An actress," Abby said.
Wyatt thought he heard a special emphasis in her voice but couldn't decipher its meaning.
"She got a few small roles in TV shows, infomercials, and she did a lot of Equity-waiver theater work. Typical story. She was a nice kid.
That was her problem. She was too nice."
"How so?"
"She made the mistake of smiling at Hickle, treating him like a human being. He misinterpreted it, or over-interpreted. Whatever. He decided she was meant for him. She had zero interest in the guy. I mean, they say men are from Mars, women are from Venus? Well, Hickle's from Pluto, and I don't mean the Disney version."
Abby nodded, unsmiling. In the darkness outside the coffee shop a kid sauntered by, rocking on his heels, shouldering a boom box that cranked out an obscene rap number. Abby waited until the noise had receded before asking, "What form did the harassment take?"