Wyatt Hunt 02 Treasure Hunt

by John Lescroart

  Mickey’s mouth broke into a smile. “So basically you’d want us to find out who killed him?”

  “Or just eliminate Alicia as a suspect.”

  “Well, if she’s really a suspect, what you really need is a lawyer.”

  “Except that’s a problem too.”

  “Why?”

  “Money.” Thorpe came forward, elbows on the table. “I mean, we’ve got maybe a thousand or so between us, but that’s at the outside. It would pretty much tap us both out.”

  Mickey sat back and turned his cup slowly on the tabletop. “Actually,” he said at last, “if that’s all the money you have, it’s good news in a way.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You can’t afford even the cheapest lawyer. And no reputable investigator would even start this kind of open-ended job for that kind of money. So you don’t have to lose any of it. And if somebody—lawyer or investigator—offers to take you on with that little as a retainer, you know you’re dealing with a shyster.”

  Thorpe’s shoulders fell.

  “Another good-news moment,” Mickey continued. “If Alicia does get charged, the court will appoint a lawyer for her for free. You know that, right?”

  But Thorpe shook his head. “Her getting charged wouldn’t be good news, no matter what. I spent some time in custody when I was younger. I think real jail might actually kill her. We can’t let it get to that. She didn’t kill Dominic, I promise you.”

  Mickey spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “In that case, I doubt they’ll get anywhere near an arrest. But I don’t—” Suddenly he stopped as the germ of an idea occurred to him.

  Dominic Como was a recent, high-profile murder. San Francisco’s large and generous philanthropic community, and in fact many of the charities with which Como had been actively involved, could be expected to have a vested interest in apprehending his killer. But in general, precisely these very people had a deep-seated mistrust, if not actual hatred, of police and law enforcement in general. In this, the most left-wing big city in the country, better the murder of one of their own should go unsolved than that they should cooperate with the Man. Police, and probably the mayor herself, would be seeking a speedy resolution to the Como case, and at least an arrest. But a lot of the people who might know the most would be the least likely to talk to the cops.

  What if, Mickey wondered, the Hunt Club could act as the clearinghouse between the people with information, the police who needed the information, and the institutions that had the cash that would be willing to pay for the information? What if he could pitch the idea of a “people’s reward” for information related to Como’s death?

  This could in theory serve a host of purposes: It might provide valuable tips for the police; it would involve the wider community in the investigation; it could, of course, most importantly motivate an otherwise reluctant witness to come forward. On a more personal note, the Hunt Club could stay open servicing the reward hotline. If the reward was a significant dollar number, many a lunatic would also be contacting the charities who’d offered the money with spurious and/or just plain stupid or wrong information.

  The Hunt Club might be of real value managing the flow of information to the police, forwarding any genuine leads, and gatekeeping against reports from the nutcase front. The process would save the cops perhaps hundreds of man-hours of unnecessary work winnowing out the wheat from the chaff.

  This was work the charities would want done, but they would be ill-equipped to do it themselves, and he and Hunt could do it with their collective eyes closed. Mickey thought that there might be several prospective clients who could chip in to pay for the Hunt Club’s services. Finding them would be a bit of a treasure hunt, but once Mickey did that, he might be able to give Hunt a couple of months’ respite before being forced to go out of business.

  The more he thought of it, the surer Mickey was that the money was out there; he just had to find it. And if they did the job right and met with success, it might even help to restore the reputation of the Hunt Club within the legal community. It could, in fact, be a new beginning for Hunt, and maybe even for Tamara. And Mickey, disposed to like Ian Thorpe because they shared such similar tastes and backgrounds, might even be able to set his and his sister’s minds to rest.

  All of this came to Mickey in a rush, his eyes glazing over. For those few seconds, he went still as a stone, until Thorpe tapped the table in front of him. “Mickey? You all right?”

  He came back to himself with a small start, a fleeting smile. “You know,” he said, “I can’t really promise anything specific, but I don’t see how it could hurt to talk to your sister, maybe give her a heads-up on how the next couple of weeks might go. If you think she’d talk to me.”

  “If I think she’d talk to you. Are you kidding me?”

  Ian Thorpe already had his cell phone out. Was punching numbers.

  5

  Alicia Thorpe lived alone in the basement room of a gingerbread Victorian on upper Masonic, and although by now it was close to two o’clock in the afternoon, as she opened the door to her separate entrance around the back, it was clear that she hadn’t really gotten herself moving for the day. It didn’t take a trained investigator to see that she’d already spent some of the day crying, but the lack of any makeup and a blotchy complexion couldn’t disguise the basic truth of Ian’s description of her. She was, at the very least, kind of pretty. And obviously braless under a San Francisco Zoo T-shirt tucked into the slim waist of a pair of red-striped running shorts.

  The day was warm, the sky clear blue, the air windless. A table with four chairs and a Cinzano umbrella graced the small brick patio area just outside her door, and after the introductions, the three of them gravitated there and sat down.

  “So,” Mickey began, “no cops so far today?”

  “No.”

  “And how long did they talk to you yesterday?”

  “About an hour. There were two of them, a man and a woman.”

  “Did you get their names?”

  She shook her head no, but then said, “Wait,” and suddenly jumped up, heading back to the house. She reemerged a few seconds later and handed Mickey two business cards.

  “Well, this is pretty decent news,” he said with a smile of genuine surprise.

  “What?”

  “I know these people. They’re among the good ones. Devin Juhle is probably my boss’s best friend.”

  “I don’t see how that really helps,” Alicia said.

  “It helps because they’ll probably talk to us off the record. They might be tempted to extend you a few courtesies, which normally isn’t a big part of the arrest procedure. Every little bit helps. You’ll see.”

  “I hope I don’t see.” Now her large eyes opened all the way—white showing around startling green irises—and she reached a hand over and touched his arm for a second. “So you think they’re going to arrest me?”

  Mickey backtracked. “No, no, no. I’m just saying it could be an advantage that we know the inspectors, that’s all. And that they know us. It can’t hurt.”

  Mickey didn’t know that this was true. Certainly, if Alicia was the bona fide prime suspect, she had a good chance of finding herself in handcuffs the minute the homicide inspectors felt that they had a strong enough case to arrest her. And regardless of any personal relationship between Hunt and either of them, they would move swiftly to put her into custody.

  On the other hand, Hunt had been known to play devil’s advocate with Devin Juhle on other cases, which more than once had prevented Juhle from acting too quickly on his gut and arresting the wrong person. In one of Juhle’s most recent homicide cases, though, The People of the State of California v. Stuart Gorman, Hunt’s girlfriend, Gina, had crucified the inspector on the witness stand en route to getting her client acquitted, and this had severely strained the relationship between Juhle and Hunt. So the whole question of familiarity with the homicide pros was both nebulous and personal, but Mickey had seen tim
es when it had worked to Hunt’s advantage, and he’d like Alicia to believe that this could be the case now.

  “Maybe it can’t hurt knowing these guys,” Ian said, “but it’s kind of moot if Alicia’s not going to be your client. So let’s not get her hopes up.”

  “Why can’t I be your client?” Alicia asked.

  “There’s a money issue,” Mickey began, “but I’ve been thinking that over and maybe it’s not insurmountable. I’d have to talk to Mr. Hunt and see what he says, but I think I see a way to investigate this thing on your behalf, which is what you both want, and get paid enough to make it doable, which is what we want.”

  “How would you manage that?” Ian asked.

  Mickey temporized, since he wasn’t yet exactly sure. “The first step is to hook up with some of the other charities Dominic was involved in, and see if any of them might want to chip in on a reward.” Now he looked directly at Alicia. “Ian told me you’d gotten closely involved with him in the past several months. Is that true?”

  She threw a quick glance at her brother, then came back to Mickey. “I was volunteering at the Sunset Youth Project. Getting involved in the process. I hope that’s going to be my life’s work.”

  “So you know these people? The people Dominic worked with?”

  “Some better than others, but I’m familiar with most of them now, yes.”

  “So would you be willing to work with us if it turns out that this means we can help you out?”

  She hesitated for only an instant, then met his eyes. “Whatever it takes,” she said.

  “All right,” Mickey said. “Let me work out some of the details and run it by Mr. Hunt, see what he says.”

  Again, she put her hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.” Her eyes had gone glassy, perhaps a prelude to more tears. “I really didn’t kill him,” she said. “I cared about him a lot, okay? He was a great man, and maybe we were getting a little too close, but I really didn’t kill him.”

  “I’m taking that as a given,” he said. Mickey was also tempted to ask her what she meant by “a little too close,” but if she became a client, there’d be time for all of those questions. He was far too aware, he realized, of how her hand felt resting on his arm, so he patted that hand in a professional manner, and pushed himself back from the table. Standing up, he took a business card out of his wallet and handed one to her and one to her brother. “If the cops come again, make me your one phone call and I’ll at least be able to put you in touch with a good lawyer. Meanwhile, let me go see what I can do.”

  Wyatt Hunt’s home was a unique environment incongruously existing in its light-industrial, south-of-Market ’hood. Less than three blocks away, San Francisco’s Hall of Justice—a six-story blue-gray slab of concrete that would have been at home in East Berlin before the wall fell—set the tone for the surrounding area. The flat, dirty, perennially windswept streets weren’t so much run-down or dangerous—like the Tenderloin district, for example—as simply depressing, and often deserted, especially now on a weekend.

  Each street sported an abandoned storefront or two, some fast food, usually a bail bondsman’s office, a Chinese dentist or acupuncturist, other businesses selling auto parts or advertising specialties or discount clothes. In every block you’d find a bar, or more often a venue that rented itself out as a club catering to a different clientele every night—Monday a hip-hop dance spot, Tuesday a lesbian pickup joint, then salsa after-hours, or karaoke on the Japanese tour circuit. Vagrants and changelings and explorers and the lost among the substrata of humanity that existed in the margins and mostly at night in one of the world’s most glamorous and glittering cities.

  In the midst of all this, in a former flower warehouse, Wyatt Hunt had created a kind of wonderland. Hunt had kept the original outer structure intact, so the first thing that hit you, if you entered by the door next to the garage entrance on the Brannan Street side, was the sheer volume of the space under the corrugated iron roof, perhaps twenty feet high, that spanned the building’s nine thousand square feet.

  Once inside, you’d probably next notice either Hunt’s Mini Cooper parked by the garage door, or maybe it would be the NBA regulation half-basketball court he’d picked up for a song from the Warriors. When you crossed the court, you got to another play/work area filled with guitars and amps and desks with computers, and then you got to a door in a wall that ran from one side of the enormous room to the other.

  Beyond that wall, Hunt had built his living area—bedroom, bathroom, library, den, kitchen—three thousand square feet. All white and pastel and modern, modern, modern. Lots of glass blocks in the wall to the alley out back, and above them high windows for natural light, the drywalled ceiling back here sloping down to fifteen feet or so.

  Now, in natural light from the Brannan Street windows and the open garage door, Mickey was in a basketball game with Hunt, the sound of the bouncing ball and their grunts and the squeak of their shoes as they broke on the hardwood echoing off the noninsulated walls around them.

  They were playing one-on-one, winner’s outs, which gave Hunt a tremendous advantage since he was the far better player and, despite the age differential of over fifteen years, in better physical shape than Mickey. Winner’s outs meant that every time someone made a basket, he got possession of the ball again at half-court. Early in the game, Mickey had scored four quick baskets, at one point each rather than two, but then Hunt had stolen the ball on him and put up an obscene twenty baskets in a row.

  Mickey, by now feeling like a rag, dragged himself to center court just as Hunt brought the ball in, faked right, and broke left, a move that put Mickey ignominiously on his ass. Hunt then dribbled three times and laid up his game-winning twenty-first point with a triumphant shout. “Ha!”

  They were drinking lemonade, recovering their breath—Mickey rather more so than Hunt—sitting side by side on the stoop that led out from Hunt’s kitchen to the alley behind his warehouse home.

  “Twenty-one to four,” Mickey managed to say between breaths. “How pathetic is that?”

  “We should have done loser’s outs. You would have had the ball more.”

  “Great. Remind me next time. If there ever is a next time, which right now I’m kind of doubting.” Mickey chugged some lemonade, then rubbed the cold glass up against his forehead. “Why’d I let you talk me into this? I didn’t come over here to get creamed in basketball.”

  “Yeah, but you got here and there I was, shooting hoops all alone. Talk about pathetic. You took pity on me, for which I’m grateful and in your debt.”

  “And because of that, you went easy on me, is that it?”

  Hunt chuckled. “Perhaps not. That’s not really my style. If I’m gonna play, I’m gonna beat you.”

  “I noticed. Congratulations. Mission accomplished.”

  Hunt nodded in acknowledgment.

  “So in theory,” Mickey added, “that means you still owe me, right?”

  “Up to a point, in theory.” Hunt sipped his drink. “You getting at something?”

  “Not much except the reason I came by in the first place. You want to try to guess which cops pulled the Dominic Como case?”

  Hunt sipped at his lemonade, wiped some sweat from his brow, then wiped his hands on his tank top. He looked up at the side of the graffiti-tagged building across the alley. “Okay, since you ask it that way, I’m deducing Devin’s one of ’em. And Russo’s his partner.”

  “You ought to do that stuff as a party trick. You know that?”

  Hunt shrugged off the compliment, spread his palms. “Elementary, my dear Dade. But, if I may ask you, this is relevant to us because . . . ?”

  “Because we might be able to talk to them.”

  “About Como? Why do we want to do that?”

  Mickey took a breath and launched into an explanation of his strategy, about midway through which Hunt stopped him. “Wait a minute. Nice idea, but the cops already have a unit to field reward calls.”r />
  “I know that. But the point is that we want the people who won’t call the city, who won’t call the cops.”

  Hunt said gently, “No offense, Mick, but that dog just don’t hunt. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. We’d have to turn anything we get over to the cops anyway. So somebody calls us first, big deal. Eventually, they’re talking to the police. We’ve got no privilege. We can’t promise anonymity. We’re just an extra phone call.”

  “Yeah, but the trick is to get ’em to call in the first place. Then we ease ’em into the process, which might not be too hard if it’s a lot of money and they’re not completely nuts. Maybe initially we don’t ask for names. We can’t disclose what we don’t know. If it really looks like they’ve got something, we just explain that we’ll have to give them up if they’re going to get the reward. The whole point, Wyatt, is to get information from people who wouldn’t normally give up anything at all. We can finesse the details later.”

  “So in your dreams, how much reward are we talking about?”

  “I have no idea. Best case fifty, maybe a hundred thou, maybe more. I don’t know how many hours we’ll charge, but at least it would be work that could keep us solvent a while longer—”

  “And how do we find these people who are going to offer a reward again?”

  “Wyatt, c’mon, work with me here. I go by and talk to ’em. We create a groundswell movement among these people who are already so inclined. Como was large in half of these nonprofits, either as a consultant or an actual board member or director. He was the man. These people are going to line up to help find his killer.”

  Hunt got to his feet, paced across the alley, then turned around and leaned against the wall. He took a sip from his glass. “Has it occurred to you that the police might already be lined up to catch his killer too? And won’t appreciate our involvement?”