Treasure Hunt wh-2

by John Lescroart

  “Espresso would be good,” Hunt said. “I was a little surprised to find you still working at this time of night.”

  Turner nodded with a self-deprecating air. “A man who loves what he does never works a day in his life.”

  “That’s a good way to look at it,” Hunt said.

  “Have a seat,” Turner said, “and let me get this coffee going.” He put two demitasse cups under a double-spigot on the high-tech machine and pressed a button. In thirty seconds, he placed one of the cups in front of Hunt and took a seat with the other one across the table from him. “Now,” he said, holding his cup up in a toasting fashion, his face suddenly sober. “To Dominic.”

  Hunt raised his own cup, nodded, and sipped.

  “A terrible thing,” Turner said. “Terrible.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “He was my closest friend.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Turner lifted his shoulders. “So when you mentioned what you wanted to talk about, naturally I thought it would be worthwhile to meet with you as soon as possible. I’ve been racking my brain to come up with some way to try to not only honor Dominic’s legacy and memory, but actually to help bring some closure to this horrible situation. When you mentioned a reward, it struck me as a singularly right gesture.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. We thought it might be helpful to get more of the community involved if we could.”

  “Of course. That may be the only way out of this, from what I’ve gathered from the police. If somebody saw or heard something. It’s a sad but unfortunately true fact that some people just don’t trust the police.”

  Hunt nodded. “I’ve run into that.”

  “So you know.”

  “You’ve talked to them, then? The cops?”

  “Just trying to gather some sense of what happened, which no one seems to have much of an idea of. Knowing Dominic as I did, I have to think it must have been some random mugging or robbery attempt or something. No one who knew him could have harmed a hair on his head.” He sat back. “But regardless, finding the perpetrator has got to get some real priority now in the short term. More than it seems the police are giving it.”

  Hunt replied with some care. “I don’t think it’s that they’re not giving it a high priority so much as that it takes them time to generate and follow up any leads. And that’s where we thought we might be able to help.”

  “That’s exactly what I was hoping too. Because the longer this whole thing festers, the more it can infect the entire community.” He paused. “I’m talking about the nonprofit community here.”

  Hunt put down his cup.

  Turner went on. “A man with Dominic’s profile, there are going to be the inevitable rumors about what really happened, and why, and who’s covering what up. And I think it’s critical that these rumors don’t gain currency, and that the wild speculations of people who may even sincerely be trying to help be somewhat controlled.”

  “That’s how we were thinking to go, sir. If the reward gets large enough and does prompt a lot of calls, a good number of them are probably going to range from unlikely to ridiculous. Our idea is to identify those and save the cops time so they can concentrate on the valid leads.”

  “Of course. Sure. Of course. But I’m also talking about-if we’re going to be working together here, you and I-I’m talking about keeping some kind of control over the flow of information that the public gets to see as well.” Perhaps realizing how that sounded, Turner held up a palm. “I’m not saying we hide anything, of course, that’s not what I mean at all. But you have to remember that there are any number of people in this city who see our work as wasteful or nonproductive or even unnecessary, and they’d like nothing more than to have ammunition to tear us down.”

  Hunt sat back. “Are you saying they’ll find this ammunition around Mr. Como?”

  “No. I strongly, strongly doubt that. Dominic devoted his whole life to the cause of easing poverty and helping the downtrodden. But even so, there are people who would smear him. And that’s what I’m hoping you’ll be able to exert some control over. How does that sound to you?”

  Hunt felt that his own control over the precise parameters of his involvement, if any, with this man, had shifted to some degree. He wasn’t at all certain that he could promise Turner what he seemed to be describing, or whether in fact it was even a reasonable approach. He just didn’t know. The man was powerful and persuasive and clearly was going to have his own agenda, but Hunt didn’t think that there would necessarily be a conflict he couldn’t finesse. So after a moment, he nodded. “Doable,” he said. “It sounds doable.”

  Turner clapped his hands. “Good. I really think this is an excellent idea, Mr. Hunt. Excellent. So how, specifically, were you planning to proceed?”

  Over the next couple of minutes, Hunt gave him chapter and verse on Mickey’s idea of contacting many of the city’s nonprofit organizations and soliciting them for inclusion in the reward fund. Turner nodded in agreement throughout, at the end volunteering to help with the solicitations-he knew all these people-in any way he could. In fact, what made the most sense, he told Hunt, was that there be a central command; that Turner himself could act as the escrow holder of the funds, after which he would administer the reward and, in consultation with law enforcement, decide on the reward recipients, if any.

  He would be the liaison between Hunt and the various organizations in Hunt’s efforts to keep the contributors informed. He would also be happy to consult with Hunt when there was a question of whether or not information should come out. “And finally,” he rolled along, “I think we have to talk about your compensation for all of your efforts on this.”

  “I was thinking of me and my two associates billing at our regular hourly rate. I can get you our fee schedule first thing next week.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  “Great, but there is one other small thing. This whole concept really won’t work unless we get a guarantee of a certain flexibility on the part of city government.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, if the police or the district attorney decide to seize any- and everything we may get over the phone by search warrant as it comes in, then we’re not going to get any calls.”

  Turner pondered that for a brief moment. “I could make a couple of calls and be of assistance in that respect. Meanwhile, I could have a contract drawn up in the next couple of days, but if you’d like to get started as soon as you can, we can be old-fashioned gentlemen and seal the deal with a handshake right now. How does that sound?”

  Again, Hunt wasn’t completely sure how it sounded, but what Turner was suggesting was certainly not unethical and it would put Hunt, Mickey, and Tamara to work at full pay immediately. And it wasn’t unusual for a job to morph slightly or even greatly as its execution played out. He was sure he could stay on top of what were clearly Mr. Turner’s priorities.

  So, stifling his minimal scruples, he stood up and reached out his hand across the table. “That sounds like a deal to me,” he said.

  7

  Wyatt Hunt hadn’t been to Devin Juhle’s home out on Taraval Street in a very long time. In the first years after Hunt had opened his office as a private investigator, he had nearly lived with Devin and Connie and their three children-Eric, Brendan, and Alexa. He and Juhle had been baseball teammates in high school, and they had still played games together, often including the children, whenever he came over-Ping-Pong, basketball, foosball, catch.

  That was before California v. Gorman. It was also before the scandal involving Hunt’s former associate that had knocked the bottom out of his business and essentially destroyed his credibility with the Police Department and most of the criminal law community.

  Hunt wasn’t kidding himself-this thing with Juhle wasn’t simply a bridge to mend. It was a chasm to breach.

  Now, at nine-thirty on a Sunday morning that had blown in blustery and cold-the three days of San Francis
co’s summer weather having exhausted their allotted run-Hunt parked his Mini Cooper on the street in front of Juhle’s small stand-alone two-story home, made sure he was packing presents for the kids, and sat for a moment gathering the courage to go and face the music, the near-tragic opera, that he’d helped to compose.

  Finally, unable to stall any longer, he opened his car door and walked across the lawn and up the four steps to the front door and rang the bell. The chimes rang within and he heard running footsteps and the door flew open.

  For a horrible second, Hunt thought that Brendan, the middle one, age eleven or so, didn’t even recognize him. He’d grown about four inches and had put on fifteen pounds. But the face suddenly broke a smile as he said, “Uncle Wyatt!” and the boy actually threw his arms around him. Then, calling back into the house, “It’s Uncle Wyatt.”

  More footsteps from down the hallway that led to the kitchen in the back of the house, and here was Connie in green sweats, formidable and attractive as ever, drying her hands on a dish towel, her expression welcoming and warm, with just a trace of concern around the eyes.

  “Well, look at who’s here!”

  He stepped into the house and they hugged, bussed each other on the cheeks. After which Connie held him out at arm’s length. “It’s so good to see you, Wyatt. So good.” And then, her face clouding over, “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.” He looked around her and saw Alexa hanging back in the hallway, her body language quizzical and reserved. Hunt gave her a tiny wave and a “Hey, sweetie,” but she only nodded and Hunt realized that it wasn’t only Devin he was going to have to win over again.

  Connie was going on. “Devin’s off with Eric at soccer. Can you believe Sunday morning at seven o’clock? Is that obscene or what? But they ought to be back in a half hour or so, if you’ve got time to hang around for a while. Was he expecting you?”

  “Unlikely. I wasn’t sure I was expecting myself until I woke up.” Hunt took a beat. Then, “You think he’ll talk to me?”

  She made a face and broke a half-smile that told him she wasn’t too certain of that, but the actual words she said were, “Stranger things have happened. Meanwhile, how does a cup of coffee sound?”

  “Like a fanfare of trumpets.”

  Amused, Connie shook her head. “I remember what I’ve missed about you.”

  They were catching each other up on their respective lives over the past months, the talk flowing as it always did with Connie, Hunt halfway through his second cup at the kitchen table, when they heard a noise and Connie said, “That’s the garage door.”

  They fell then into a sudden and tense silence, waiting.

  The garage connected to the kitchen. Eric was the first one through the door. Unlike his younger brother, he was about the same physical size as the last time Hunt had seen him, but his face had broken out with acne and his voice had a different pitch when, tentative yet polite, he nodded and said, “Hi, Uncle Wyatt.”

  “Hey, big guy. Good to see you.”

  “You too.” He advanced and reached out his hand, which Hunt, standing, shook. He chose to take it as a good sign that they still called him “uncle,” perhaps still considered him Juhle’s brother on some level.

  Devin evidently wasn’t in any hurry to get in the house. He would have known Hunt was inside from the distinctive car parked out front. The connecting door closed shut behind Eric and they heard some sounds from the garage-Devin closing his driver’s side door, throwing the duffel bag where it belonged.

  Hunt found his breath snagged in his throat.

  Juhle opened the door and stood for a second in the doorway, holding it open. Nodding first at his wife, then briefly at Hunt, he turned and closed it with an exaggerated gentleness. Turning back around, he leaned up against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, nodding again, his face a mask. “Hey, Wyatt,” he said with no inflection whatever. “What can I do for you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Juhle said. “That’s police work.”

  The two of them sat at either end of a sagging beige sofa in the downstairs family room, a converted half-basement where Juhle had his Ping-Pong/pool table set up, along with a dartboard and a foosball game area. A television rested on the middle shelf of a built-in bookcase mostly devoted otherwise to sports trophies for the kids, and Connie’s washer and dryer reinforced the place’s basic functional nature. Juhle’s house wasn’t big, and the family and their activities filled it all up, every spare inch.

  “It’s police work,” Hunt countered, “that won’t do any good. You won’t get the calls we’re going to get and if you did, you’ll spend all your time screening out the nuts.”

  Juhle shrugged, shook his head dismissing the idea. “How many good tips you think you’re going to get? Two? Three? Not even that. End of story.”

  “No, it isn’t. Not if we get the reward set up and it gets big, and it will.”

  “What’s big?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a hundred grand, maybe more. Mick’s shooting for the moon, and he’s a charmer.” Hunt came forward on the couch. “So we’re not talking any couple of calls a day here. It’s not impossible the reward might go to half a mil, and if that happens, the flakes come out of the woodwork. You know this and I know it, and you’re going to spend half to all of your time either chewing your cud on nothing or running down ridiculous leads trying to identify one good one.”

  Another shrug. “That’s what we do, Wyatt. Run down leads. It’s police work.”

  Wyatt sat back, let out a breath. “This is getting a little circular, don’t you think? You got any of these leads?”

  Juhle paused, then spit out, “We got squat.”

  “That was my guess,” Hunt said. “You know, time was this would have been a slam dunk for both of us, Dev. Win-win.”

  Juhle glanced down the length of the couch. “Time was a lot of other things too.”

  “You want to talk about some of ’em?”

  “Talk’s cheap, Wyatt. And bullshit walks.”

  “This isn’t bullshit. This is something I can legitimately do to help your investigation. We are going ahead and contacting potential reward sources-”

  “And who are these sources?”

  “People connected to Como. Who want to see his killer get caught.”

  “None of them more than I do.”

  “Granted. But we can generate leads you can’t. Calls from folks who would never call the cops. Most of what we get will be crap, sure, but if we even get one good tip you couldn’t get, you’re better off.” Hunt sat back, spoke matter-of-factly. “This is a free gift to you, Dev. Call it an apology if you want. Sometimes the jobs we do, we’re on different sides. It doesn’t have to be personal.”

  This brought a cold smile. “And of course it’s going to put money in your pocket for what you just admitted to me was mostly going to be crap. For this I’m supposed to say thank you? You fuck with my career, my livelihood, and my family, and you tell me it’s not personal?”

  “It didn’t happen that way, Dev. You could look at it that Gina and I saved you from being the cop who sent the wrong guy to prison. And then, P.S., she hands you the real guy, the actual killer. And you get the credit for that arrest. How’s that hurt your career? You want to tell me that?”

  No answer.

  “Your feelings?” Hunt went on. “Okay. After what happened on the stand, okay. Sorry. But your career? Your livelihood? Your family? I don’t think so.”

  Up one flight on the main floor, the television laid down white noise. Tires squealed and a car’s horn sounded from outside on the street.

  Juhle’s jaw was set, the corners of his mouth drawn down. He stared in the direction of the bookcase wall across from him, then pulled himself upright on the couch and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

  Hunt lowered his voice. “This is a done deal, Dev. I’m telling you as a courtesy. This is happening. But whatever you think of it, we will help you an
y way we can.” Without a cease-fire, much less a peace treaty, in hand, Hunt got up. “Tell Connie and the kids it was nice seeing them.”

  Now that Hunt was on board with him, Mickey had all the excuse he needed to see Alicia Thorpe again.

  They met at Bay Beans West, a coffee shop on Haight Street about midway between their two residences, got their brews, and realized it might be hours before they could find a place to sit inside. So they decided to walk instead, down to Lincoln and then due west into the teeth of the wind, out toward the beach.

  For the first couple of blocks, they made small talk about the changing weather, Starbucks versus Bay Beans, how the La Cuisine classes were going for both Mickey and Ian, how everybody their age seemed to be doing one job for money, then all these other things that they seemed to like better for free-Alicia volunteering at the Sunset Youth Project, Mickey and Ian learning to cook.

  “So what’s your day job?” Mickey asked her. “When you’re not volunteering?”

  “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “If it’s work that pays you, it’s not embarrassing. As my grandfather used to say, ‘There is no work, if done in the proper spirit, to which honor cannot accrue.’ ”

  A small contralto laugh. “That’s good. Does that apply to being the hostess at Morton’s?”

  “Every job in the world, according to Jim. But especially hostess at Morton’s,” Mickey said. “Perhaps the most honorable of the service jobs.”

  “Well, thank you. I’ll start trying to look at it that way. Instead of as six hours of mind-numbing tedium.”

  “There you go.” They walked on in silence for a while, and then Mickey said, “Ian told me about your parents.”

  She cast a quick glance over at him. “Yeah.”

  “Did he tell you that pretty much the same thing happened to me?”

  She stopped and faced him. “Your father shot your mother and then himself?”