attractive?” Abby asked, lifting her fork.
“Very.”
“Blond? Blue eyes? Nordic?”
“What hat did you pull that rabbit out of?”
“It was an educated guess. So if this all happened when Hickle moved out of the La Brea complex, it must have been 1993. He was twenty-seven.”
“That sounds right.”
“I’m surprised you remember the case in that much detail after all this time.”
“Well…there was one thing that happened. Jill was attacked.”
Abby looked at him. It occurred to him that she had beautiful eyes. They were calm and clear and the same shade of golden brown he had seen once on a trip to Nebraska, when the westering sun caught the wheat fields in a burnished haze.
“Attacked how?” Abby asked slowly.
“She was taking a class at some little hole-in-the-wall actors’ studio near Hollywood and Vine. The place has closed down since then. Anyway, one night when she was walking to her car, somebody jumped out from behind a hedge and splashed her with battery acid.”
“In the face?”
“That might have been the idea, but she spun away in time, and the stuff only got her coat. Her skin wasn’t burned at all. The assailant fled. She never got a look at him. The street was dark, and it all happened in a second.”
“But she thought it was Hickle.”
“Obviously. And we did too. We went over to his new address and rousted him. Thing is, he had something close to an alibi. He was a stockboy in a supermarket, and he’d worked pretty late that night. Plenty of people saw him. He left only a few minutes before the attack took place. He might have had time to get there and lie in wait for Jill, but the time frame was tight.”
“Search his apartment?”
“Yeah, he gave permission, but there was no acid, nothing that would tie him to the crime.”
“Still, it had to be him.”
“I don’t know, Abby. This is Hollywood, remember. Lots of random craziness. Hickle’s not the only nutcase. Anyway, Jill was rattled. That’s why she left LA. She was gone the next day.”
“Wise move,” Abby said. “And she’s still okay?”
“Far as I know.”
“And Hickle was never charged.”
Wyatt shrugged. “No way the DA could file with what we had. Nobody could prove a thing. Even so, whether Hickle did it or not, he
could
have done it. You know what I’m saying? He’s capable of it. He’s sick enough.”
She was silent.
“Abby.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “If you’re mixed up in any way with this son of a bitch, you’re taking a hell of a risk.”
“What makes you think I’m mixed up with him? I’m doing—”
“Research. I know. Just be careful, whatever you’re up to.”
“I always am, Vic. Don’t worry about me.”
Wyatt picked up the check. Abby wanted to split the tab, but for reasons of masculine pride he insisted on paying. Outside, heoffered to walk her to her car, but she said it wasn’t necessary. “You sure?” he asked. “Lots of bad guys out there.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I got that impression. But you know, there’s a reason why patrol cops work in pairs. Sometimes you need a person to cover your back.”
“I haven’t needed one so far.”
“Maybe you’ve been lucky.”
“Well, let’s hope my luck holds. ’Night, Vic. 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 to it 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
“Very.”
“Blond? Blue eyes? Nordic?”
“What hat did you pull that rabbit out of?”
“It was an educated guess. So if this all happened when Hickle moved out of the La Brea complex, it must have been 1993. He was twenty-seven.”
“That sounds right.”
“I’m surprised you remember the case in that much detail after all this time.”
“Well…there was one thing that happened. Jill was attacked.”
Abby looked at him. It occurred to him that she had beautiful eyes. They were calm and clear and the same shade of golden brown he had seen once on a trip to Nebraska, when the westering sun caught the wheat fields in a burnished haze.
“Attacked how?” Abby asked slowly.
“She was taking a class at some little hole-in-the-wall actors’ studio near Hollywood and Vine. The place has closed down since then. Anyway, one night when she was walking to her car, somebody jumped out from behind a hedge and splashed her with battery acid.”
“In the face?”
“That might have been the idea, but she spun away in time, and the stuff only got her coat. Her skin wasn’t burned at all. The assailant fled. She never got a look at him. The street was dark, and it all happened in a second.”
“But she thought it was Hickle.”
“Obviously. And we did too. We went over to his new address and rousted him. Thing is, he had something close to an alibi. He was a stockboy in a supermarket, and he’d worked pretty late that night. Plenty of people saw him. He left only a few minutes before the attack took place. He might have had time to get there and lie in wait for Jill, but the time frame was tight.”
“Search his apartment?”
“Yeah, he gave permission, but there was no acid, nothing that would tie him to the crime.”
“Still, it had to be him.”
“I don’t know, Abby. This is Hollywood, remember. Lots of random craziness. Hickle’s not the only nutcase. Anyway, Jill was rattled. That’s why she left LA. She was gone the next day.”
“Wise move,” Abby said. “And she’s still okay?”
“Far as I know.”
“And Hickle was never charged.”
Wyatt shrugged. “No way the DA could file with what we had. Nobody could prove a thing. Even so, whether Hickle did it or not, he
could
have done it. You know what I’m saying? He’s capable of it. He’s sick enough.”
She was silent.
“Abby.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “If you’re mixed up in any way with this son of a bitch, you’re taking a hell of a risk.”
“What makes you think I’m mixed up with him? I’m doing—”
“Research. I know. Just be careful, whatever you’re up to.”
“I always am, Vic. Don’t worry about me.”
Wyatt picked up the check. Abby wanted to split the tab, but for reasons of masculine pride he insisted on paying. Outside, heoffered to walk her to her car, but she said it wasn’t necessary. “You sure?” he asked. “Lots of bad guys out there.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I got that impression. But you know, there’s a reason why patrol cops work in pairs. Sometimes you need a person to cover your back.”
“I haven’t needed one so far.”
“Maybe you’ve been lucky.”
“Well, let’s hope my luck holds. ’Night, Vic. 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 to it 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
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