Or maybe the assault had no connection with Hickle or this case. She remembered Wyatt saying, This is Hollywood, remember. Lots of random craziness. Hickle's not the only nutcase.
Then an absurd thought occurred to her. How well did she really know Vie Wyatt?
"Oh, come on," she said under her breath, "that's paranoid."
Of course it was paranoid. She was in a paranoid business. She was trained to be hyper vigilant But the fact was, somebody had just tried to kill her, less than two hours after her meeting with Wyatt-and she didn't know Wyatt all that well.
He had bumped into her last night at the bar in Westwood. Suppose it wasn't a coincidence. Suppose he had been following her. Stalking her She knew all about that kind of behavior, didn't she?
And suppose that tonight, after dinner, he had followed her to this building, and when he saw her enter the tub… "Tried to kill me?" she asked herself aloud.
"Why would he?"
She couldn't say, but she had to admit it was at least possible. The lock on the gate was broken; anyone could have entered the spa area.
She still didn't believe it. Wyatt had never struck her as the slightest bit unstable or hostile or obsessive.
Anyhow, there might be a way to eliminate him from suspicion.
She took the cell phone out of her purse and called Wyatt's home number.
He lived in the mid-city district near La Brea and Washington.
If he'd fled this location just minutes earlier, he wouldn't have had time to get home yet.
She waited through three rings, a small knot of worry forming in her stomach. She didn't want to suspect Wyatt. She didn't want the assailant to be anyone she knew and liked.
Four rings-And the phone was answered.
"Wyatt."
"Oh." She caught her breath.
"Hi, Vie, it's me. Hope I'm not calling too late."
"No problem. I'm kind of a night owl, with the schedule I'm working lately. What's up?"
She couldn't very well tell him that she was calling to remove him from suspicion of attempted murder.
But she hadn't had time to think of a cover story. She improvised.
"I realized I forgot to ask if there were any other women Hickle went after. You know, in addition to Jill Dahlbeck. Anything in his past, any other reports, before or since."
"Not that I'm aware of. But I have a feeling you might know about somebody."
"Me?"
"Why else would a security firm be taking a fresh look at him?"
"Well… no comment." "That's what I figured. And if I asked who his new object of affection might be?"
"No comment."
"You sound like a broken record. Anything else you forgot to ask?"
She almost said no, then changed her mind.
"There is one thing. Any reports of drownings in the Hollywood district?"
"Drownings? You mean, like, little kids who fall in a swimming pool?"
"No, I mean adults… Any unsolved cases like that?
An adult who drowned in a pool or a hot tub, that kind of thing?"
"What would that have to do with Raymond Hickle?"
"Probably nothing. Just a loose end I'm trying to tie up."
"Well, to answer your question-no, there haven't been any mysterious, unsolved Hollywood drownings. If there had been, I think the local news would have picked up on it, don't you?"
"Sure. Of course they would. Sorry I asked."
"No problem. I'm here to help. To protect and serve, that's my motto."
"I'll see you. Vie."
"Take care, Abby."
She ended the call. There was no chance he could have made it home that fast, and besides, she had detected no hesitation or fear when she asked about local drownings. He was in the clear.
That left one other suspect, one who was considerably more obvious than Vie Wyatt.
Abby went inside the building and rode the elevator to the fourth floor.
Once inside her apartment, she slipped onto the fire escape, then crept close to Hickle's bedroom window.
The window was open. From his living room she heard the babble of his TV. Kris Barwood's voice. She checked her watch-10:40. The late local news on Channel Eight was still in progress.
She leaned over the railing of the fire escape and peered into the living room window two yards away.
The Venetian blind was open, and she could see Hickle clearly, seated on the couch, bare-chested, wearing a pair of ragged shorts, watching the TV in rapt concentration.
He looked as if he had not moved in nearly an hour. Quite possibly he hadn't. When the news came on, it became the only thing in his world.
Abby retreated inside her apartment and considered the situation.
Wyatt was cleared. And she didn't think the assailant had been Hickle either.
Then who was it?
Random craziness, she decided, once again replaying Wyatt's comments on the subject. This was Hollywood.
Plenty of nuts out there.
She had gotten careless and one of them had tried to take advantage.
Maybe meant to kill her and steal her purse. When she fought back, he got scared and ran off. End of story.
The explanation didn't entirely satisfy her. She wasn't a big believer in coincidences. But Wyatt and Hickle were off the hook, and there was no one else to suspect.
Was there?
It was past midnight when Howard Barwood climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He'd been out later than expected. Kris was already home. He found her stretched on the bed in her nightgown and slippers.
Her hair had fanned over the pillows, framing her face in a fringe of gold.
"Well, well," she whispered, her voice flat, "you're finally back. Out for another drive?"
He nodded, not looking at her.
"Still breaking in the new Lexus. I took it all the way up to Santa Barbara and back."
"Quite a trip."
"Uh-huh." He didn't want to talk about this. He crossed to the window and peered out at the moonlit surf pounding the beach.
"Look at those breakers."
"I'm too tired to look." Kris sighed.
"You, on the other hand, don't seem tired at all."
"Why should I be?"
"All that driving would wear anyone out."
"It gets me energized." He wished he could change the subject.
She made a noncommittal sound.
"You do seem a little… agitated."
"Agitated?" He wanted to sound casual, but the word came out raw and tense.
"Yes, I'd say so. Restless, jumpy, on edge. You didn't get in an accident, did you?"
"Of course not. Why would you even ask a question like that?"
"You strike me as kind of worked up, that's all."
"I'm fine. I like driving the new car. It's a kick.
Maybe it takes me a little while to come down off the adrenaline high."
He wondered if she could hear the lie in his voice.
Kris was silent for a moment. Then she whispered, "I guess anything is better than spending time here at the house-or with me."
He turned away from the window.
"What are you talking about?"
"Lately you've been keeping your distance."
"That's ridiculous. I went with you to work yesterday, if you recall.
I was at the studio. I was there all night."
"You were there. But you spent most of your time with Amanda." Amanda Gilbert was the executive producer of the six o'clock edition of Real News.
"You two were inseparable, at least until she went home at seven-thirty."
In the stretch of stillness that followed, the roar of the surf was plainly audible even through the double pane windows.
There were many things for Howard to say, but none seemed quite right.
He settled on irony.
"Paranoia's not a good look for you, Kris,."
"It's not paranoia. I saw how you acted around her.
And earlier that afternoon…"
"Yes?"
She averted her gaze.
"Never mind."
He took a step toward the bed, then stopped. Distantly it occurred to him how absurd it was for a man to hesitate about approaching his own wife in their bedroom.