Dangerous Games (25 page)

The doorbell buzzed. She opened the door and let Wyatt in. He was dressed in a T-shirt and nylon windbreaker, which he shrugged off, revealing his big biceps—not as big as Kolb’s, but tighter and better toned. There was, she supposed, a slight resemblance between the two men. Wyatt, with his sandy hair and wide shoulders, could have been a younger version of Kolb. But he wasn’t younger. He just hadn’t spent a year in a maximum-security prison. That made the difference.

“Hey, Vic.”

“Abby.” His eyes passed over her and almost through her, as if she weren’t quite there.

“You want anything to drink?” she asked a little uncertainly.

“You know what I want.”

That was more like it. She’d gotten all frazzled over nothing. Funny how she could read stalkers and serial killers so much better than her own boyfriend.

He took her on the couch, fast and hard, not even undressing, simply opening his pants and guiding himself inside her. Sometimes there were preliminaries, but today he was in a feverish rush, as if driven less by desire than by pure need. She liked the feeling. There was something honest and uncomplicated about need. And she wasn’t big on complications of any kind in her personal life.

“Damn, Abby,” he whispered as he tunneled into her and she squeezed her thighs around his hips.

He released himself, and she held tight through the shuddering wave of his climax and hers.

They lay on the sofa, breathing hard. “Think you’ll wanna go again?” she asked Wyatt after a long silence.

He didn’t answer at first. “Abby, we need to talk.”

“Isn’t that the sort of thing a gentleman says
before
he beds the lady?”

“Well…yes. Sorry. I meant to…but, you know…”

She fingered his groin. “Something came up?”

“That’s about right.”

“Are you breaking up with me, Vic? And if so, does this mean I can’t use you as a source anymore?”

He sat up, fastening his pants. “See, that’s just it. That’s what we need to talk about.”

“I don’t follow.”

He stared across the room. “Abby, does this mean anything to you?”

“It means a lot,” she said automatically.

“Does it? Because I have the impression…Let me put it this way. There was this bar I used to go to. They had a mechanical bull. You could ride it for a buck. One gal rode it every night. Once, when she was drunk, she told me it got her off. The damn bull gave her an orgasm every time.”

“In the long run, the purchase of a vibrator would’ve been more economical,” Abby observed.

Wyatt looked at her. “I get the feeling I’m like that bull to you. I’m just a way for you to get off.”

“I believe the getting-off is mutual.”

“But I want it to be more than that.”

“Marriage, children, bungalow in the Valley, PTA meetings, Eagle Scouts? I’m not a den mother, Vic. You know that.”

“I’m not talking about being married with children. I’m talking about being close.” His face was pained. “Do you love me, Abby?”

A dozen glib remarks occurred to her, but now was not the time. “I care about you,” she said slowly.

“That’s not love.”

“I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

“That’s not love, either.”

“Vic, you know me. I’m the cautious type. I need my—”

“Space. I got that. Elbow room, distance, freedom.”

“I’ve always been that way.”

“But you haven’t always been…”

“Been what?”

“I should go.”

“What is this, a cliffhanger? Am I supposed to tune in next week for the exciting conclusion? I haven’t always been…what?”

He sighed. “Hard. You’ve turned hard, Abby.”

“If you mean tough, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“I mean hard. Hard like a shell. Like a wall. Like keeping people out. Out of your life, out of your thoughts, your feelings.”

“But not out of my pants. That’s something, anyway.”

He turned away. “I figured you would joke about it.”

“Sorry. Defense mechanism. I haven’t changed, Vic.”

“Yes, you have. Maybe you don’t see it, but I do. It started after the Kris Barwood case. And it’s gotten worse. You used to be an idealist.”

“I still am.”

“You’re cynical.”

“Am not. Delightfully irreverent, yes. But not cynical.”

“I’m afraid there’s a fine line between the two, and you’ve crossed it. You used to have a soft side. It’s what I loved about you.”

She noted the past tense. “Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve just gotten better at hiding my softer side.”

“Or maybe it’s so well hidden, even you can’t find it.”

“Vic, I can’t afford to be soft. In my line of work—”

“Then quit your line of work.”

“So I can be a barefoot hausfrau cooking you dinner?”

“There are lots of things you could do that aren’t dangerous, aren’t crazy, and don’t require shutting down your emotions just to get through the day.”

“I’m sure there are. But those other jobs aren’t
me
. What I do is who I am.”

“You’re losing who you are.”

“Don’t give me that psychobabble crap. I’m the one with the psych degree. I can outanalyze you without breaking a sweat.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, Abby.”

“I say you’ve been watching too much Dr. Phil. Isn’t it the woman who’s supposed to complain that her partner isn’t opening up? Traditionally the man doesn’t give a damn about this touchy-feely stuff.”

Wyatt shrugged. “Apparently I’m a sensitive guy.”

“Hell.” Abby puffed up her cheeks with a big inhalation, then blew out the breath. “Does this mean we’re not going to see each other anymore?”

“I’m not exactly sure what it means. I ought to just break it off, but…”

“But the sex is so darn hot?”

Wyatt grimaced. “What kind of person does that make me?”

“A normal person. A good person. A better person than me, probably. At least you care about this emotional-intimacy thing.”

“You don’t?”

“I just don’t think it’s what I need in my life right now.”

“There’s such a thing as having too much space, Abby. Too much distance.”

“Look, I may not have the perfect attitude, but at least it keeps me alive.” That sounded defensive. “Staying alive,” she added lamely, “that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Living is the point.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, geez. You
have
been watching Dr. Phil.”

He got up. “I’ll be in touch.”

“This didn’t go so well, huh?”

“Pretty much the way I anticipated.”

She stood to face him. “You think I don’t trust you, and that’s why I won’t open up. But you’re wrong. It’s not about my trusting you. It’s about…well, I guess it’s about my trusting
me
.”

“When do you think you’ll start trusting yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“And until you do, you’re going to keep me at arm’s length?”

“Don’t take it personally. I keep the whole world at arm’s length.”

“I noticed.” He started to go.

“I intend to keep inviting you over.”

“I don’t intend to accept those invitations. But…I probably will.”

“Face it. I’m irresistible.”

He kissed her. “I’ve always thought so.”

Wyatt walked away down the hall, and Abby closed her door and looked around at her empty living room.

Hard, he’d said. She had grown hard.

It might be true. Probably was. He knew her better than anyone. Knew her better than she knew herself, in some ways.

Still, she was damned if she would give up her work. In the end, it was only the work that mattered. That was what Wyatt didn’t understand. Feelings, commitments, relationships—all of that was secondary. Those were things that would come and go, unpredictable as the weather. No one could count on any of it.

But the work—the work was something she could count on, always. It was the work that kept her going. It was the work she lived for.

Everything else in her life was negotiable, expendable—except the work.

22

Last year, when he was still a cop, Kolb had run Abby Hollister’s name and license plate number through the DMV, obtaining a West Hollywood address. He’d thought about going there and arranging to run into her by accident, maybe taking their relationship to the next level. Events had intervened—he’d been arrested. Thinking about it later, he’d figured it was just bad timing. Now he wondered.

He hadn’t forgotten her address. 6548 West Lilac Street, apartment 22.

She could have moved during the past year. Not being a cop anymore, he couldn’t check for updated information. But she might still be living there. It was worth a shot.

He cruised past the place on Lilac Street, an undistinguished three-story building from the 1950s, with palm trees bending in front of a glassed-in lobby. There would be a courtyard with a swimming pool, silent on weekdays and noisy with radios and splashing children on weekends. He had been in many such places when he was riding patrol.

He parked a block away and walked to the lobby door. It was locked, a security measure he easily circumvented by buzzing various units on the intercom until somebody answered, then identifying himself as United Parcel. The trusting tenant buzzed him in.

Mailboxes in the lobby were labeled with the residents’ names. Number 22 was listed as belonging to Hollister, A. So she was still here.

There were no elevators, only outdoor staircases rising to the second and third levels. Apartment 22 was on the second floor, its door opening onto the exterior hallway above the courtyard. Kolb was unhappy about the outside door. Someone could be watching him from one of the other units. If he broke in, he would have to do it fast.

He rapped on the door. If she answered, he wasn’t sure what he would say. He supposed the truth would have to do, or part of the truth, at least. He would say he’d looked her up on the DMV database last year and remembered her address. Then he would give her some song and dance about why he’d come to see her in the middle of the day, and why he’d expected her to be home when she should have been at work.

Anyway, his explanations wouldn’t be necessary. Nobody came to the door. He glanced through a gap in the curtains. The apartment was dark.

The door was flimsy and old, and he was pretty sure he could force it open with a kick to the side of the lock. But that would make noise, and if anyone heard it, the police would be called.

Unfortunately, he was no good at picking locks. This wasn’t a skill taught at the police academy, nor one he’d picked up in Chino. He tested the window and found it was made of thin Plexiglas. With a pocketknife, he sliced out a triangular pane and let it drop inward, then reached through the gap and unlocked the door. The operation made no noise and took less than a minute.

He entered the apartment and shut the door. Probably he should’ve brought gloves to prevent leaving fingerprints, but it didn’t matter. Break-ins were so common in Los Angeles, nobody bothered to dust for prints unless major valuables were stolen. He didn’t plan to steal anything. He just wanted to look around.

At first sight, the apartment was perfectly ordinary. He made a quick circuit of the living room, kitchenette, bathroom, and bedroom. The place was tidy enough, but with a few items strewn here and there, the sort of things that might be left lying around by a busy person—a magazine, a half-finished crossword puzzle, a book left open on a night table. Abby had the usual appliances—an old stove and a humming refrigerator, a microwave oven with an unpronounceable brand name, a thirteen-inch TV on a cheap stand, a boom box near a modest collection of CDs. There were clothes in her bedroom closet and silverware, plates, and pots and pans in her kitchen cabinets.

He began to wonder if he’d been unduly suspicious. Maybe Abby Hollister was who she said she was, after all. And he’d taken a considerable risk coming here. If he was caught inside her apartment, all his plans for the evening would be scotched. He would end up in a holding cell facing charges that would send him back to prison for parole violation. All because he’d gotten a bug up his ass about some woman he hardly knew, a stranger who didn’t mean anything.

He decided he’d better get the hell out. He was retracing his steps through the living room when he glanced at the magazine tossed on the sofa. Something about it seemed wrong. He moved closer and took a better look. It was
People
, and the cover showed two celebrities whose recent marriage had already ended in divorce. But on the cover the stars were smiling over a caption that read,
Love At Last
.

He picked up the magazine and studied it in the trickle of light through the filmy curtains. The date was September of last year. He put it down and looked at the end tables flanking the sofa. For the first time he noticed a patina of dust on their surfaces. The apartment hadn’t been cleaned in some time. He went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. It seemed well stocked, but when he opened the carton of milk and sniffed, he discovered water inside—which was just as well, since the milk’s expiration period had ended around the time that the
People
cover story had been new.

Water in the milk carton. Out-of-date magazine on the sofa. Dust everywhere, even coating the kitchen counters.

Abby didn’t live here. Nobody did. This apartment was a sham, a shell. It was a dummy address, like the dummy corporations his partner had set up when establishing the overseas bank accounts. It could pass inspection if somebody came to visit, assuming the visitor didn’t look too closely, but it wasn’t meant to be used.

Now that he thought about it, the apartment was remarkable for what it did not contain. No computer equipment, even though most people of Abby’s age were on the Internet nowadays. No live plants, only a couple of silk fakes. Nothing in the wastebaskets or the kitchen trash can.

He checked the phone and heard a dial tone. That made sense. She would have to keep the phone hooked up so she could give out this number.

He didn’t expect to find anything that would point him toward her real identity. The place was obviously meant just for show. She would have files, records, but not here. He made a cursory inspection of the drawers and other hiding places, but found nothing.