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.