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in the backyard of their Minneapolis home. He knew she had been the high school prom queen. She’d attended the University of Minnesota, majoring in Journalism, and after graduation she’d secured her first full-time job, an entrylevel position at a radio station in Duluth. The next year she’d gotten her first break, a TV reporting job in Fort Wayne, Indiana. He had tracked down a Fort Wayne shop specializing in local memorabilia and had purchased, for thirty-five dollars, a glossy photo of Kris bearing the inscription Thanks for your support.
    Keep watching!
    He knew that from Fort Wayne, which ranked 102 among the 210 television markets in the United States, she had gone to Columbia, South Carolina, the number eighty-seven market, and from there to Albuquerque, number fifty-two, and then on to Cincinnati, number thirty. In 1987 she had come to LA. Soon afterward KPTI had started to win accolades and viewers.
    He knew—everybody knew—that Kris was the reason.
    There was nobody else worth watching on Channel Eight or on any of the other channels, for that matter.
    There was only Kris. As KPTI racked up Golden Mike Awards and higher ratings, her salary rose. Her first million-dollar contract—1992. Two million for three years—1997. And now her new deal, the richest yet, the richest in the history of LA news broadcasting.
    “The Six Million Dollar Woman,” the Los Angeles Times had called her in the headline of a feature story.
    He had devoted every minute, hour, day, week, month of his life to Kris Barwood, nee Kris Andersen, born Kristina Ingrid Andersen at Meeker County Memorial Hospital in Litchfield, Minnesota—yes, he even knew the hospital, which was recorded on the copy of her birth certificate he had obtained through the mail for a nominal fee.
    She liked skiing (Redbook, July 1999) and pasta (Los Angeles Magazine, March 1998) and chocolate (extemporaneous on-air remarks, 6:00 News, December 21, 1997 broadcast). She had attended the premiere of Toy Story and had enjoyed the movie (Entertainment Weekly, November
    25,1995).
     
    He had committed himself to her. He had given his life to Kris Barwood. For a long time he had sustained his hopes that somehow they would be together. Yes, of course she had a husband, Howard Barwood, whom she’d met at a Brentwood fund-raising event for cerebral palsy.
    Howard Barwood, who had made more than twenty million dollars in Westside real estate by buying old houses on choice lots, tearing them down, and putting up mansions worth three times the original price. All these details had been revealed in an interview with Mr. Barwood in the April 1996 issue of Success magazine.
    But Howard Barwood was not the man for her. He was merely an accident in her life. Hickle was her destiny.
    She should have been able to see this. He had explained it often enough in letters and phone messages.
    But she refused to be reasonable, refused to treat him with any courtesy or decency whatsoever. She had rebuffed him. She had been rude. She-Wait.
    Down the street came a long gray car. A Lincoln Town Car? Yes.
    Kris’s car.
    It eased forward to the studio gate and stopped, engine idling.
    Hickle lifted the gun. His finger fondled the trigger.
    Could he kill her at this distance? He wasn’t sure.
    The spray of shot would fan out wide. It would certainly shatter the side windows, but he couldn’t be sure of hitting her. She would take cover, and the driver would squeal into reverse and spirit her away… The gate lifted. The car pulled through. Hickle watched it go.
    He’d never had any intention of shooting her. Not here. When the time came, as soon it would, he would choose the right place for the ambush.
    He would make no mistakes.
    The Lincoln cruised to the far end of the parking lot, finding Kris Barwood’s reserved space near the rear door of Studio A. Hickle reached into the duffel bag and produced a pair of binoculars. He watched the car through the lenses. The driver got out first.