The Hunter

by John Lescroart

  “I know.” She straightened up and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re a smart guy. You tell me, Wyatt.”

  His eyes went from her back down to the piece of paper. “I’ve already been down to CPS for my file when I was checking out my adoption status. That report was in it. I saw it the first day.”

  “Right. That’s my point. And we know why it was with your CPS file. It was about you as a baby being left with some six- and eight-year-old babysitters. My question is, Why is it also in the case file we’re looking at now? As you say, it doesn’t have anything to do with the trial. It shouldn’t be here.”

  Hunt, suddenly beginning to feel galvanized, straightened up in his chair. “Another witness,” he said. “Somebody on the prosecution team found this report or somehow got wind of it and thought the guy who’d called in the complaint—” Hunt moved the police report over to get better light. “Ernest Talbott, their neighbor. Or the mother of the other kids, Evie Secrist, might give them something they could use at the trial.”

  “Except they never called either of them at the trial, did they?”

  “Evidently not.”

  Tamara cocked her head. “Your mom really left you alone with this other woman’s two little kids to babysit you?”

  “It doesn’t literally say that. The case worker let it go with a warning. And then actually did the job and wrote it up. What it sounds like to me, seeing this, is my mother and her friend Evie were back in the apartment by the time CPS arrived. But Talbott’s testimony is that they’d both been gone a couple of hours, leaving us kids alone.”

  “Gee,” Tamara said gently, “I wonder why you have abandonment issues.”

  “Let’s not go there right now,” Hunt said, then added, “and for the record, Tam, I’m not being evasive. As you may have noticed, I’m working on a bit of a case.”

  “You think this guy Talbott is worth trying to find? Or Evie Secrist?”

  Hunt did the voice perfectly. “Can Geico really save you fifteen percent or more on car insurance?”

  “MR. ERNEST TALBOTT?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Wyatt Hunt and I’m a private investigator.”

  “Good for you. I’m a retired Muni driver. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, this may seem a little out of the blue, but I’m calling about an event that happened forty years ago. You called Child Protective Services about some problem in your apartment building.”

  “Sure. I remember. Couple of idiot hippie chicks left their kids together with nobody watching them. It was a miracle none of them got hurt. ’Course, later, one of them got herself killed, didn’t she? The husband, as I recall.”

  “Yes, sir. But maybe not the husband after all. That’s what I’m looking into after all this time. The woman was my mother. I was one of those kids that got left alone. I wonder if you’d mind if I came by and picked your brain for a few minutes.”

  “What’s left of it. Sure. I don’t see why not, though I can’t promise you I remember much more than we’ve already talked about. You found my phone number, so do I assume you’ve already got my address?”

  * * *

  CRESTING THE RISE ON GEARY just after crossing Van Ness Avenue at a few minutes after noon, Hunt ran into fog that may as well have been a solid wall—visibility dropped within a block to no more than thirty feet. He slammed on his brakes, switched on the Cooper’s lights, rolled up the driver’s-side window, and slowed to twenty. As he squinted ahead into the whiteness, his hangover kicked back in big-time and he drove along pressing a couple of fingers against the right side of his head just over his temple.

  Normally not a heavy drinker, Hunt didn’t remember the last true hangover he’d had. And while he knew why he had one now—six of Theodore’s double Scotches could do that—he wasn’t nearly as certain about why he’d decided to keep drinking in the first place, other than the fact that this nugget of factual information had gotten inside him and continued kicking around in his guts like an emotional pinball.

  After he’d pulled over and parked, he sat in his car for the better part of ten minutes, atypically wondering what this next interview was going to tell him, and whether he really wanted to hear it.

  But this, he knew, was the devil. You had to simply push through these doubts, get to the core of them, kick their ass if you needed to, and move on. Nothing wrong with that, regardless of Tamara’s reservations. That’s just what a man did.

  Eventually, he opened the door and stepped out into the fog. The wind was whipping, too, out here, the temperature in the midforties. It cut through his sports coat and down into his bones in the one block he walked to get to Talbott’s, hands in his pockets and head pounding.

  Talbott lived in a back second-story apartment of a six-unit building on Fulton, across from the northern border of Golden Gate Park. Wyatt pushed the button by the metal gate in front of the entryway. A concrete path created a corridor along the side of the building, at the end of which an iron stairway rose off to the left.

  Hunt climbed and suddenly faced a black man who could have been an NFL tackle in the doorway to number 4, blocking it just about completely. He wore a gray sweat suit with no logo and white tennis shoes. His hair was short and gray, with a mustache that matched it over a generous mouth.

  “Mr. Hunt?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Just making sure. Come on in.”

  They walked down a short hallway, on their left a small kitchen and then a living room, pin neat and spartan with its Barcalounger, a low leather couch with a modern lamp next to it, chrome and glass coffee table, and a wall-mounted flat-screen television.

  Motioning Hunt to take the couch, Talbott lowered himself into the lounger. “I’ve been thinking about it since you called,” he began right away, “and I can’t say I have much specific that I remember about this case you’re talking about. I mean, of course, I remember that there was a trial. At first, they thought I’d be some kind of witness. It’s the only murder that was ever even a small part of my life, thank God, but I was working the day your mother was killed and couldn’t be any help to anybody. I mean prosecution or defense.”

  “Did you know my mother well? Or my father?”

  He considered a moment. “Not really. We didn’t socialize, if that’s what you mean. We said hi in the hallway, that kind of thing. They had a kid—you, I suppose that would have been—and I was young and single and, of course, black.”

  “Was that a problem?”

  Talbott chuckled. “Was being black a problem? Not as much as some places, I guess, but if you paid real close attention, you might have noticed.” He waved that off. “But with your parents, no. Nothing special. They were polite, I was polite. Then that day I called Child Protection, we didn’t talk much after that.”

  Hunt was sitting forward on the edge of the couch, relaxed, his elbows on his knees. “How about the other woman, the one with the older children they left me with? Evie Secrist.”

  “They weren’t all that much older.”

  “Six, I believe, and eight.”

  “That’s my point. It was insane.”

  “I won’t argue with you. It sure wasn’t smart.”

  “You were all crying and screaming bloody murder. I thought somebody was bein’ killed in there. That’s why I called the police in the first place.”

  “You called the police? Not CPS?”

  “Right. But they both came eventually. Except the women, the two mothers, they got back here first. All pissed off at me for getting the law involved. You tell me, what was I supposed to do?”

  “I think you did the right thing.”

  “I never beat myself up over it, I’ll tell you that.”

  “So this other woman, Evie. Did you know her?”

  “No, not really.” Talbott’s moment of pique passed and he chuckled. “Seems like you found me easy enough. You know her name and you can’t find her?”

  Hunt acknowledged the point w
ith a small grin. “You’re in the phone book, not exactly hiding out.”

  “You think she’s hiding out?”

  “We don’t know what she’s doing. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. She’s not listed if she’s got a phone. And I Googled the name and got four thousand hits, none of them local. You were easier. And, by the way, thanks for all this cooperation.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re making my day here. You’re the first person’s been in my apartment since the TV guy came to set me up with the dish. Makes me think I ought to get out more.” Talbott’s trademark chuckle rumbled again.

  Hunt thought he could become friends with this guy. Talbott was making him forget his hangover. “Good idea,” he said, “but I’d wait till the fog lifts.” Then, “You said you didn’t really know this Secrist woman. Does that mean you knew her a little?”

  “I knew her enough to know I didn’t want to know her.”

  “Why not?”

  Talbott thought a minute. “Best way to say it is she gave me the creeps. I only saw her with your mother maybe ten times, a dozen, but that was enough.”

  “What was creepy about her?”

  “Everything. Mostly, though, it was like she was spaced out. Tripping.”

  “Using drugs?”

  He nodded. “Acid, probably. Or maybe had used a lot in the past and it fried her brain, which was like an epidemic back then here in the city. You could just tell this woman wasn’t right. But beyond that was the whole Jesus freak thing. You nod hello to her and she lights up and says ‘Praise the Lord.’ ”

  “Was my mom like that?”

  “I don’t think so. I never saw it if she was.”

  “So why’d she hang out with this Evie?”

  “I don’t know. They both had young kids. Maybe she needed the company.” He paused. “You mind if I ask you something?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Why do you think your father didn’t kill your mother?”

  “You’re going to laugh, but he left me a note and that’s what it said.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  Hunt sighed. “He said I had to believe him. That was the whole message. He didn’t do it. Why? Do you have some reason to think he did?”

  Talbott shook his head. “I didn’t think so at the time. I didn’t know what happened that day, of course, but your father wasn’t mean or violent. I’d hear him and your mom yelling sometimes next door, but nothing physical, no sounds like that. Just struggling and frustrated and angry. They acted mostly like they loved each other from what I could see. Day to day, I mean.”

  “Except when he beat her up and the cops would come.”

  “Okay, but as far as I know, your father never put a hand on your mother. Those walls were paper-thin, and when they got loud, some neighbors called the cops and said they were fighting. That’s all that was. That’s why he never got charged, or even arrested, you ask me.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Hunt swallowed. “Do you think this woman Evie might have been violent?”

  Talbott shook his head. “You’re trying to get a handle on somebody else who might have done it.”

  “Yep.”

  “I gotta believe the cops looked at all their friends, wouldn’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they saw the husband and he looked good enough for it and they stopped looking after that.”

  “No. I can’t believe they’d ever do that,” Talbott said with thick sarcasm. “And you think you’re going get a new trail to follow after all this time?”

  “I can’t say I actually think it. I’m hoping something pops up.”

  “Like Evie Secrist?”

  “Maybe. Maybe she’s step one.”

  “If you find her.”

  Hunt nodded. “If I find her.”

  * * *

  HUNT GOT BACK TO HIS CAR, started it up, and turned on the heat. Taking out his cell phone, he went to his message queue, hit his text icon and started tapping the screen.

  We need to meet. I will protect your identity. I am looking for my mother’s companion, Evie Secrist. Do you know that name? Anything about her? I need to know who you are. I know some cops. We could arrange witness protection. Please respond.

  Send.

  Hunt sat in the warming car pondering his next move, and suddenly his cell phone went off in its regular tone. A call, not a text message!

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, who is this?” A woman’s voice, and Hunt pumped a fist in exultation. He’d flushed her!

  “This is Wyatt Hunt. Who am I talking to?”

  “This is Brittany. From Zazu?”

  Hunt’s euphoria evaporated. “Brittany?”

  “Are you the officer who called yesterday? You were working on a murder case?”

  “That’s me. Wyatt Hunt. How did you get my number?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. Somebody left a cell phone under a table and we picked it up last night and it was here by the reception phone and about a minute ago it just beeped and came up with your message. So I hit reply and it connected us.”

  Hunt gripped the phone.

  “Mr. Hunt?”

  “I’m still here. Listen, Brittany, do you have any idea of who was sitting at the table you found the phone under?”

  “Last night, you mean?”

  “No, I mean lunchtime yesterday.”

  “No. I’m sorry. I mean, it could have been anyone. I don’t even know who found the phone last night, which waiter, I mean, or where. It was just a lost phone above the reception stand when I got in here. We get a couple a week, you know, and then usually somebody calls or texts, like you did, and we hold it for them until they can get back and pick it up.”

  “Brittany, would you do me a favor? As I told you yesterday, this is a murder investigation. If somebody comes in looking for that phone today, would you try to find out who they are, or at least get a description or a license number on their car?”

  Real fear thrummed in her voice. “I thought you said the person wasn’t dangerous.”

  “I did. They’re not. But we would very much like to talk to whoever it is. Meanwhile, I’d going to send one of my associates up there to pick up the phone, if you wouldn’t mind holding it for him. His name is Mickey Dade. He could probably be there within an hour, two at the most.”

  “But what if the person comes and claims the phone first?”

  “That probably won’t happen. If it does, then just give it to them. But get some kind of ID if you can. In fact, tell them you need to see an ID before you can give them the phone. That might work. Otherwise, if that worries you, as I said, get their license number or something. But it’s extremely unlikely the person’s going to come claim the phone. I think whoever it was ditched it at your restaurant on purpose.”

  “This is all pretty scary, you know that? I should tell my manager what’s going on. Maybe he’ll want to do something.”

  “That’s fine. Have your manager call me if you want. But the main thing is, hold on to that cell phone if you can. If you could put it in a baggie or something, that would be helpful, too. We’re going to want to check it for fingerprints and DNA and the SIM card for previous use, okay? Until Mickey Dade comes to pick it up. Mickey Dade.”

  “I’ve got it. Is he a policeman, too?”

  “No, but he’ll have ID.”

  “Okay, then. In an hour or two?”

  “Maybe a little more, depending on traffic. But he’ll be there.”

  AS SOON AS HUNT HUNG UP WITH BRITTANY, he called Mickey, gave him his instructions, and told him to fly. Then he left a message with Devin Juhle saying that Mickey would be dropping by with one of the mystery texter’s cell phones and that he should feel free to run any forensics tests he wanted to try to identify who’d used the damn thing.

  Sometime in the course of these two phone calls, Hunt realized that he’d come to an unconscious decision that made as much sense as anything else. He was more tha
n halfway out to Star of the Sea anyway, and if Evie Secrist had been a religious fanatic of some kind, and a close friend of his mother, maybe Father Bernard had known her.

  “YES, I REMEMBER HER, that poor girl.” They were back in the small rectory visitor’s room with its cold faded yellow vinyl furniture, its green walls, and its crucifix. The housekeeper had offered coffee and it was balm to Hunt’s hungover soul, just now starting to mend. “But it wasn’t Secrist,” Bernard went on. “They must have got that wrong in your report when they wrote it up. She called herself See Christ. Evie See Christ. I’m afraid she fell victim to too many drugs.”

  “That’s what one of the neighbors said, too.”

  “You haven’t been letting much grass grow under your feet, have you, Wyatt?”

  “Well, I’m trying to see where all of this might lead, Father. I’ve got at least one other person now, besides you and me and my texter, who doesn’t believe my father could have been a murderer. Which if we’re right, of course, means somebody else was. I’d like to find him if I can.”

  “And how does Evie fit in?”

  “I don’t know. She hung out with my mother. She was around drugs. Maybe there’s something there.” He shrugged. “It’s the only thing resembling a lead that I have. Have you heard from her? Do you know what happened to her?”

  “No. I only saw her with your mother once or twice. She wasn’t a parishioner here, or anywhere, I don’t think.”

  “And yet you remember her?”

  Bernard let out a small sigh. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really have much memory of her, the person. The main reason she stays with me is because she was one of the major sources of conflict between your mother and father.”

  “Why was that?”

  Bernard looked up at the ceiling. “God forgive me, but from what I knew of her, she was a fundamentalist, cult-following religious nutcase. You know how many people back then moved right on through from LSD directly to Jesus, blessed be His holy name?”

  “So what did my mother see in her?”

  “I don’t know. They must have had some kind of history, and your mother felt she couldn’t desert her. Or maybe even that it was up to her to save her. In any event, your father hated Evie, hated your mother’s relationship with her, worried about her influence on you. It was a big problem.” The priest put his hands together. “That’s why I remember who she was much more than I remember knowing her. Every time I went to counsel your parents, her name came up.”