The Shadow Hunter by Michael Prescott Page A

you’ve been lucky.”
    “Well, let’s hope my luck holds.
    “Night, Vie. Thanks for everything.”
    He watched her walk away. His car, an ancient Camaro with a rebuilt engine, was waiting for him around the corner, but he didn’t go it to yet. He lingered in the shadow of the coffee shop’s awning, screened from the glare of the neon sign. Abby’s footsteps faded with distance, and then there was the faint pop of a car door opening and a louder thump as it closed. A motor revved.
    She’d made it safely to her vehicle. It looked as if she really could take care of herself, not that he’d had any doubts.
    Something made him wait a minute longer in the dark. He heard her car pull away from the curb. Headlights flared into view, and a white subcompact shot past. He glimpsed Abby at the wheel, illuminated by the dashboard glow. She was driving a Dodge Colt, square and boxy, far from new. It had a dent in one side panel. The motor sounded peppy enough, but the Colt had seen some serious use. It must have racked up a hundred thousand miles.
    His Camaro wasn’t any newer, but it had been kept in perfect condition.
    It was a classic. There was nothing classic about Abby’s rattletrap set of wheels.
    Strange. Last night she’d told him she lived in the Wilshire Royal.
    Luxury building, where the parking garage was lined with Porsches. If Abby could afford that lifestyle, why was she driving a junkyard clunker?
    He shook his head slowly, walking away. Something didn’t fit, or if it did, he couldn’t see it.
    Or maybe he didn’t want to see.
    Abby parked in her assigned space under a carport at the Gainford Arms. When she killed the ignition, the little hatchback shuddered all over like a big wet dog.
    The car, a Dodge Colt that she had bought from a used car dealer for two thousand dollars, was used strictly for undercover work. At home she kept her real car, a snazzy little Miata that let her negotiate the twists and curves of Mulholland Drive with the wind in her hair.
    Whenever she took that drive, she imagined herself back in the foothills south of Phoenix, riding one of her father’s Appaloosas on the high, steep trails.
    But she couldn’t drive the Miata in this neighborhood without calling attention to herself, so the Dodge was her vehicle of choice at the moment. She locked it up and crossed the parking lot.
    Music and laughter drew her attention. She followed the noise to the far corner of the lot, where she found a small concrete platform enclosed by an iron fence. The platform was the setting for an outdoor Jacuzzi, bubbling busily. A few young people were hanging out in the tub, drinking beer out of long necked bottles, while a portable radio played a Shania Twain song.
    The landlord had mentioned the spa area, the apartment building’s only luxury feature. She hadn’t quite believed him, though in retrospect there was no reason for doubt; this was LA, after all, where swimming pools and hot tubs were not unknown in even the least desirable neighborhoods.
    The water looked inviting, but she had no desire to join the crowd. She was turning to go when one of the partygoers noticed her.
    “Hey, you got a bathing suit?” he called out.
    She smiled.
    “I’m not in the mood, thanks.”
    “We can put you in the mood,” another guy yelled.
    He was drunk.
    “Somehow I doubt that. Have fun. And try not to pass out in there, okay?”
    She walked away. Behind her, the two men pled their case and, when that tactic failed, switched to wolf whistles and sexually suggestive grunts. Subtlety evidently was not their preferred method of romantic conquest.
    She rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Outside Hickle’s door she paused to listen, pressing her ear against the wood. She heard the TV in his living room.
    The time was nine o’clock, too early for the news.
    Maybe he kept the TV on just for the illusion of companionship it provided.
    She unlocked her apartment and entered, deflating a little when she