The Hunt Club

by John Lescroart

"Does it?"

  "Well, in case it was, let me just say I shall make a police report later this morning, and the next time our paths should happen to cross, I will apply for—and I assure you I will get—a restraining order issued against you."

  "Thanks for the warning."

  "If I were you, I'd take it to heart and move on with my life. We're not in the same league, Mr. Hunt. I thought you'd have realized that by now." Nodding, he said, "Have a nice day," before he closed the door.

  * * *

  I got Devin Juhle on his pager, and he called me back about a half hour later. The rain had been coming and going in fits and starts all morning, but now the random spot of blue had begun appearing through the cloud cover, which I chose to interpret as a sign of better things to come. At the big home down the street, not a creature was stirring. If I hadn't seen with my own eyes the evidence that Mayhew was suffering about as much back pain as I was, his apparent lack of activity might have discouraged me. Instead, encouraged by the certainty that his workers' comp claim was in fact bogus, I spent the time working the logistics of how best to expose him. I thought I had a decent idea.

  By this time, Devin knew every nuance of my history with Mayhew. When I told him in general terms what I was doing, he perked right up, game for a little extracurricular activity on my behalf if there was even a small element of payback involved. I assured him that his involvement wouldn't take long, and my plan was so beautiful it might make him cry.

  In another good omen for the home team, Devin and his partner Shane Manning weren't exactly swamped with critical homicide investigatory work at the moment. February tended to be a slow month for murder, and they were only working two cases. Beyond that, both of them were supposed to be witnesses in court that morning. Because of that they'd left the day open, but the trial had been continued for some reason, and now they faced a long afternoon with no scheduled witness interviews and no other work of burning importance. It was either come out and have some fun or sit around all day in homicide and catch up on writing reports.

  Tough call.

  I gave Juhle the phone number and cautioned him to make sure the call he made about Mayhew's flat tire came from a pay phone where it couldn't be traced back to anyone. "Wow, good idea, Wyatt," he said with his patented heavy irony. "I never would have thought of that." But in spite of the sarcasm, he and his partner were in. So I now had a makeshift staff of three, including myself, and two-thirds of it were trained police inspectors. I dubbed us all the Hunt Club. It didn't exactly make me light-headed with confidence, but the odds looked good.

  What flat tire? you might ask.

  The one I gave him as I hunched out of sight of the house behind his car, unscrewing the valve cap on the back right tire, then releasing the air in a satisfying hiss until the wheel had settled all the way down onto its rim. I admit that this could be seen as puerile, immature vandalism, very much beneath the mature adult I had become. But I took consolation knowing that it was, in fact, kid stuff, advertised by Mayhew himself, and I thought this gave the act a kind of elegant symmetry.

  Nevertheless, my nerves were raw as I jogged back to my own car to wait. Juhle was going to make the call when he got near enough, and given all the variables with his schedule and with traffic, that might take an hour or more. Fortunately, he and Manning must have been chomping at the bit to hit the streets, and it wasn't more than twenty minutes before Dev called on my cell phone and told me he'd made the call. I should be ready.

  Checking my video camera one last time, I got out of my car and went around to the passenger side, where Mayhew wouldn't see me even if he looked. I rested the camera on the car's hood to steady it and hunkered down as out of sight as I could make myself behind the vehicle. Of course, there was still a chance that Mayhew would simply call AAA or that the charming Mrs. Mayhew might come down to survey the damage and maybe even fix the tire herself. But I knew that Mayhew was already up and dressed and probably going stir-crazy in the house. He would also want to confront me if he got out fast enough and had the chance.

  It might not happen. I realized that Mayhew might be cautious enough about the scam he was running that he'd keep the profile as at least a semi-invalid. But I also knew something about his arrogance and guessed that he believed that his connections and his social status would protect him from too much scrutiny. If there was any investigation going on about his workers' comp claim, he'd hear about it long before it got close enough to touch him, and he'd get back on his guard.

  Besides, I had a slick backup idea involving my own suicide if this one didn't draw him out. But as it turned out, I wasn't going to need it today.

  Sometimes luck does smile on the good.

  As I zoomed in on videotape, Wilson came out onto his porch and, with his face set in a scowl, peered perfunctorily up and down the street. No doubt after getting Juhle's anonymous call, he thought it was me who'd flattened his tire in a fit of pique and then lit out. Certainly I wouldn't be so foolish as to wait around and take credit for the nuisance. Apparently satisfied, shaking his head in anger, he started down his front steps with a firm tread. He didn't put a hand to his sore back. He didn't reach for the metal banister that ran along the steps.

  Down in the street, he circled the car. When he saw the flat, he swore violently—audible back even where I was filming—and turned a quick and, I thought, rather athletic full circle one more time, checking for a perpetrator. Swearing again, he stood still for a while, hands on his hips. I thought I might have captured enough on video already, with him walking easily down his twelve front steps, but more would be better.

  I waited.

  He did not disappoint. Opening the trunk, he leaned over (without bending his knees, I noticed) and rummaged a moment, then lifted out an apparently heavy bag of golf clubs, setting it down on the pavement. Another duck into the trunk produced the jack, and in under a minute, he had the thing in place, pumping with the tire iron, lifting the car.

  I looked behind me at the corner and saw Juhle and Manning standing there, looking like a couple of guys taking a walk. We waved but stayed in place for another couple of minutes, watching as Mayhew undid the lug nuts. When he was just about finished, I stood up with the video camera and advanced, recording the whole way, getting to within about ten feet of him just as he pulled the tire from the wheel and stood up with it in his arms.

  I kept the camera on him. I believe I may have been smiling. He half-turned, holding the tire, stepping toward the back of the car. Seeing me, he came to a shocked and abrupt stop.

  "Yo, Wilson," I said. "How's the back?"

  His eyes grew large and frightened as I lowered the camera and, pointing a finger gun at him, pulled the trigger. "Gotcha," I said.

  That brought the bonus. Mayhew whirled halfway around, dropped the tire, and reached down for the tire iron that he'd used to lever up the jack. With an animal cry, he lunged at me as I danced away, capturing the Kodak moments as he continued to advance, swinging the iron as he came at me. If his back was hurting him, he didn't show much sign of it. But he was getting close now as I ducked and swirled away from another swing.

  And then from behind me, Juhle's welcome voice: "Hold it right there! Police! Drop the weapon!"

  The cavalry pulled up on foot and kept coming. Now nearly frothing at the mouth, Mayhew whirled on Juhle and Manning as they got him by the arms and tried to restrain him. He continued to resist them. The tire iron clanged to the street.

  I caught it all on videotape. The steps, the golf clubs, pumping the jack, lifting the tire up, swinging at me with the tire iron, and—my personal favorite—the resisting of his arrest. This last guaranteed that the fraudulent back claim would now go all the way to the DA. Without resisting arrest, the DA might otherwise find himself tempted, coerced, or outright bought into forgetting about the fraud. With the assault on working homicide inspectors, he would then have to charge it all. Even Mayhew's connections would not be able to put a lid on the story once it came out t
hat he had attacked two cops who just happened to be passing by and, witnessing an attack with a deadly weapon in progress, had charged in to restore order.

  * * *

  "Dismas Hardy," Amy said, "this is Wyatt Hunt."

  We shook hands. Hardy was probably in his mid-fifties. He certainly looked good for the role of managing partner of one of the city's top law firms. He wore a gray suit with the thinnest of maroon pinstripes. Maroon silk tie, monogrammed silk shirt. High-end all the way, but he came across as one of the good guys. Plus, he'd had the good sense to hire Amy.

  "Ms. Wu tells me you've made the firm some money this morning. We appreciate it."

  "It was my pleasure. In fact, I can't remember when I've had more fun."

  Amy spoke up. "As I mentioned to you when I first brought it up, Diz, Wyatt had a bit of history with Mr. Mayhew. I thought he'd be motivated."

  "Still," Hardy said, "one day. That's impressive. Nobody does this stuff in one day." He nodded appreciatively. "I'm glad Amy thought of you."

  "Me, too."

  Hardy rested a haunch on the corner of his large cherry desk. "So now the question, Wyatt," he said, "is what can we do for you?"

  I'd of course considered the payment issue, but it didn't rule my thoughts. Now I found myself saying, "Maybe this is one of those times when the work is its own reward."

  Hardy grinned over at Amy. "This guy's too much," he said. Then, back to me, "Are you for real?"

  I shrugged. "Sometimes it's not the money."

  "In my experience, that's not as often as you'd think. Can I ask you a personal question? How long have you been out of a job?"

  I shot a quick glance at Amy. She'd obviously had a somewhat substantive talk with Hardy before she'd invited me to look at Mayhew's case. "A few months, but I saved while I worked, and money's not a huge issue for me right now. I've kind of been trying to figure out what I wanted to do next."

  "Well, if I'd just done what you did this morning, I'd be tempted to take it as some kind of sign. You ever think about becoming a private investigator?"

  I laughed. "Not even once."

  "Okay, but you deliver results like today, and within six months, you wouldn't be able to keep up with the work from this firm alone. I promise you."

  Shaking my head, I still found the idea mostly amusing. "I don't have any idea how I'd even go about it."

  "What's to know? You get a license, hang up a shingle, open your doors for business." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that."

  This is now

  5 /

  U.S. Federal Judge George Palmer met Staci Rosalier when she took his drink order one day at MoMo's, a San Francisco restaurant across the street from SBC Park, where the Giants play baseball. It was a warm September lunchtime, and Judge Palmer, known on sight to half the clientele and most of the regular staff, was sitting alone outside, awaiting the arrival of his appointment.

  Staci was in her first week there at the waitress job. When she took the great man's order—Hendrick's gin on the rocks—they exchanged the usual lighthearted, mildly flirtatious banter. In spite of the age difference, it struck neither of them as incongruous. Staci was an experienced and sophisticated waitress, used to dealing with the well-heeled and successful.

  And for a man at any age, Palmer's physique was admirable, his face captivating, his smile genuine. He was also personable, witty, confident, well dressed. He exuded the power of his position. The job God wants, so the saying goes, is U.S. federal judge.

  As the crowd began to arrive, Staci fell into a rhythm with the work, and Palmer pretty much left her consciousness. She was after all serving half of the sixteen tables on one side of the outer patio, waiting on, among others, one superior court judge, the mayor's chief assistant, a gaggle of high-powered attorneys, a table of four of the 49ers, a city supervisor.

  MoMo's was a happening place and had what they called a big yoo-hoo factor.

  Over the next month or so, Judge Palmer came in nearly every workday, always choosing a table in Staci's section, arriving early enough, often enough that they got time to extend their repartee. His tips began at a generous twenty percent and grew to reflect the pleasure he took in her company. He learned that she was single, without a steady boyfriend, that she lived alone in a rented studio apartment just north of Market above Castro. She went to school part-time at SFCC and hoped to finish at junior college and go to Berkeley in the next couple of years, but the mission now was simply to make a living, which wasn't that easy on tips, in spite of the judge's largesse—not everyone was as generous as he was. She confided to him that she was thinking about taking another waitress job at another place on her days off here. But then she might have to quit school altogether and didn't want to do that. You didn't have a future if you didn't finish school.

  She in turn found out, not only from him, that the judge had been married to Jeannette for nearly forty years. He lived in a big house in Pacific Heights on Clay Street. He had three grown children. He worked at the federal courthouse and worked on appeals to the Ninth Circuit. "Fun stuff," he told her. He also was an avid fly fisherman and something of a wine nut, as she'd already guessed from what he usually ordered to drink after his gin on the rocks for lunch.

  After a while, they began to see each other outside of MoMo's, at quiet places down the coast where the judge would not be recognized. One day, he had come in much later than usual, close to one thirty, timing it so he was getting up to leave at around three, as she was finishing her shift. They walked together down the Embarcadero for a hundred yards or so, making easy conversation as they usually did at the restaurant. He asked her if she'd like to go over and walk by the water, where it was more private. He told her he had a present for her, which he so hoped she'd accept.

  It was a solitaire one-carat diamond necklace on a platinum-and-gold braided chain.

  6 /

  Although he was now considered an official hero, Inspector Devin Juhle was coming off a very bad time. Six months ago, he and his partner Shane Manning were on their way to talk to a witness in one of their investigations at two in the afternoon, when they'd picked up an emergency call from dispatch—a report that somebody was shooting up a homeless encampment under the Cesar Chavez Street freeway overpass. As it happened, they were six blocks away and were the first cops on the scene.

  Manning was driving, and no sooner than he had pulled their unmarked city-issue Plymouth into the no-man's-land beneath the overpass, a man stepped out from behind a concrete pillar about sixty feet away and leveled a shotgun at the car.

  "Down! Down!" Juhle had screamed as Manning was jamming into park, slamming on the brakes. One hand was unsnapping his holster and the other already on the door's handle, and Juhle ducked and hurled his body against the door, swinging it open and getting below the dash just as he heard the blast of the scattergun and the simultaneous explosion of the windshield above him, which covered him with pebbles of safety glass. Another shotgun blast, and then Juhle was out of the car on the asphalt, rolling, trying to get behind a tire for shelter.

  "Shane!" he yelled for his partner. "Shane!"

  Nothing.

  Peering under the car's chassis—he remembered all of it as one picture, though the images were in different directions, so it couldn't have been—he saw two bodies down on the ground by a cardboard structure and behind them a half dozen or so people crouched in the lee of one of the concrete buttresses that supported the overpass, penned in so they couldn't escape. At the same time, the man with the gun had retreated behind the pillar again. To the extent that Juhle was thinking at all and not just reacting, he thought the killer was reloading. But it was his only chance to get an angle and save himself and maybe these other people as well.

  He bolted for the low stump of a tree that sat in the middle of the asphalt. It shouldn't have been there—Caltrans should have uprooted the thing before they poured, but they hadn't. Now there it was and he'd reach it if he could. Running low, then diving and rolling, he got
to it in two or three seconds, enough time for the shooter, who had come out in the open again to fire his next round, which pocked into the stump in front of him and sprayed him with wood chips and pulp.

  Juhle, on his stomach and with the side of his face and body pressed flat to the ground, knew that the stump didn't give him six inches of clearance and that the man was advancing now, sensing his advantage. He was still probably sixty or seventy feet away—and coming on fast. Once he got to forty feet or so, the shooter's height would give him the angle he needed. The next shotgun blast and Juhle would be history.

  There wasn't any time for thought. Juhle rolled a full rotation, extended his gun gripped in both hands out in front of him, drew a bead, and squeezed off two shots. The man stumbled, crumbled, dropped like a bag of cement, and did not move.

  Juhle called out for his partner again and again got no reply. Still in a daze, his adrenaline surging, he eventually got to his feet, his gun never leaving the downed man. In half steps, he warily crab-walked sideways toward him, with his gun extended across his body in a two-handed stance. When he got to his target, he saw that he had made the luckiest shot of his life. One bullet had hit the man between the eyes.