The Hunt Club

by John Lescroart

  "I figured some insurance companies. But it may have been one of the heavy politicians, the governor, even, if we were bringing the issue to the legislature."

  "So it made sense to you? Andrea wanting to see you?"

  "Sure. It's the kind of thing we would do. Definitely."

  * * *

  Judge Oscar Thomasino was the warrant magistrate on duty today, and he was a much easier sell than Marcel Lanier had been. It took Juhle about forty-five seconds to explain to His Honor what he and Shiu would be looking for at Parisi's home and why a search was necessary, and the judge signed off before Shiu had finished filling out the affidavit.

  Twenty minutes later, they were inside her house, standing over the handgun collection. The cabinet wasn't locked, and Juhle started picking up the pieces one by one, smelling them, then placing them on the table next to them. All the guns were in working condition, firing pins intact; most appeared to have been cleaned relatively recently, although in their enclosed cabinet, they might have simply been protected from dust over a period of months or even years. But they still smelled of oil. There were nine of them in all. Seven Old West–style revolvers. When Juhle looked down the barrels of both derringers, however, he could tell that they hadn't been cleaned since they'd last been fired. And they were .22 caliber. He had Shiu bag the tiny guns to bring to the police lab for ballistics comparisons on the slugs retrieved from Palmer's study.

  Pretty sure that he'd found his evidence, Juhle let some cockiness show. "Are we glad we came here, Shiu, or what? I'm tempted to run those puppies down to the lab right now and be back in Marcel's office by noon with the results."

  "They might not be a match."

  "Well, we'll find out. But I've got to tell you, I feel lucky."

  Juhle closed the cabinet back up, made his way slowly back through the kitchen, then across the living room and into the hallway that led to the bedrooms and a bathroom, which Juhle entered, turning on the light.

  "What are we looking for in here?"

  Over by the hamper, Juhle said, "You know those videotapes you didn't want to watch the other day? Monday's Trial TV?" He rummaged around for a second and then pulled out an instantly recognizable purple blouse. "Look familiar? I don't think she changed after they shot the show. First, she went back to work, right. Then I think she drove right out to the judge's and shot him still wearing this blouse. So let's bag this sucker for GSR and blood. And I'm betting we find the suit she wore still in her closet. And if we're lucky, the shoes."

  * * *

  Jim Pine worked in West Sacramento.

  He liked being nearby the capital so that he could schmooze the lobbyists and legislators and direct the workings of the political action committees that did his bidding. Controlling a yearly income of over twenty million dollars in annual dues, he was the largest contributor to California's political scene—bigger even than numbers two and three, the California Teachers Association and Philip Morris, respectively. Every election cycle, the CCPOA was the major backer of between twenty and forty state lawmakers, and dozens of local office candidates, not to mention the governor, lieutenant governor, secretary of state, and state attorney general, regardless of party. Pine had also teamed the political clout of the prison guards' union with three of California's powerful Indian gaming tribes and formed the Native Americans & Peace Officers Independent Expenditure Committee, another superpowerful PAC, whose offices, too, were in West Sacramento.

  Over the years, under Pine's direction and leadership, the CCPOA and its supporters had lobbied for tougher and tougher laws, with more and bigger prisons to house the criminals that broke these laws. In the process, the California Department of Corrections, the CDC, grew from thirteen to thirty-one prisons, with a total population of one hundred sixty thousand inmates, and to have a yearly operating budget of nearly five billion dollars. And while the twenty-five thousand prison guards now earned a yearly salary of fifty-four thousand dollars, it was far from uncommon for an individual guard to actually make more than one hundred thousand dollars or more with overtime and sick-leave benefits.

  Now Pine was not in West Sacramento, though, but in the office of the managing partner of his attorneys, at Piersall in San Francisco. After the slaying of Judge Palmer on Monday, he had deemed it necessary to be close to the investigation, should anyone in authority need to contact or question him. He knew that sometimes there had been apparent animosities between the judge and the union, and Pine was here to keep the story straight. He'd given over a dozen interviews in the past couple of days to various handpicked members of the media, always with the same message: George Palmer and Jim Pine had been adversaries from time to time in their professional lives, but personally they got along. They attended the same fund-raisers and functions and supported many of the same political candidates. And now, today, Pine would be at Palmer's funeral, in conspicuous mourning.

  Mostly to be sure the bastard was really dead.

  Gary Piersall wore black, too. He hadn't finally gotten more than four hours of turbulent sleep last night and now sat on the leather couch across from his client, on his third demitasse of espresso.

  They would be leaving together for Saint Mary's Cathedral in a few minutes. Pine was sixty-three years old and looked ten years younger, as always, in his business suit. Carrying about 220 pounds on his six-foot frame, he was a robust forty pounds overweight, with a marine cut and the rosy cheeks of either a choirboy or a heavy drinker.

  But for all of his cheerful, upbeat public persona, Pine was not happy. He'd been nearly assaulted by reporters downstairs when he'd gotten to the building—everyone gathered in the street and even in the lobby for this new angle on Andrea Parisi. And the rumors had begun again—that her disappearance had to do with the Palmer homicide and somehow, mysteriously, with the union.

  Where did they come from? Pine wanted to know. How could he stop them? "I mean, what do they think, Gary? I'm putting hits out on people? First George and then Andrea? Christ! I liked that old son of a bitch. And I loved Andrea, I really did." He leveled his gaze across the room. "You look like shit, Gary. Are you feeling all right?"

  "I'm fine, Jim. Just a little done in with all of this."

  "Well, don't let them see it down there, let me tell you. You want to go throw some water in your face, you go ahead. You show any weakness, they'll eat you."

  "Don't worry about me."

  "But I do." He kept his flat gaze on his attorney. "And I'm worried about Andrea. Do you have any idea what could have happened to her?"

  "None."

  "You sure? You have any thoughts? Opinions?"

  Piersall forced himself into a rigid calm. What was Pine doing here? Feeling out what he knew? Testing his loyalty? "I think she may have killed herself, Jim. She wanted to ride this Trial TV thing to New York, and when that fell apart—"

  "So you also don't think there's a thread running through us?"

  "Us?"

  "Me, you, the union."

  "No," Piersall said. "How could there be? What kind of thread?"

  Pine sat back, the picture of relaxation, although his eyes were pricks of almost feline intensity. "I have people on the street who hear things, Gary."

  And at that moment, Piersall resolved to have the outer lobby swept for recording devices, as he regularly did with his own office. If Pine had heard what he'd confided to Hunt last night

  "Then this morning they had it on the Net, the Trial TV site. Where do they get this shit? But anyway, the point is by tonight it's everywhere. You know what I'm talking about?"

  Piersall cleared his throat, tried to get down a swallow of his coffee. "I've tried to steer clear of all that, Jim. It's just these irresponsible journalists one-upping each other. It breaks on the Net, you know its unattributable bullshit."

  "Yeah, but then the legit stations pick it up. What I'm saying is we've got to treat this story as beneath contempt."

  "And the story is ?"

  "That Andrea knew something, and
we had to shut her up. That's hysteria talking, and we don't want to feed it. We shouldn't discuss it on any level."

  "I have no intention to, Jim. It is beneath contempt."

  "She ever talk to you about anything like that?"

  "No. Not even remotely. She was a company girl all the way, Jim."

  "And you're a company man?"

  Piersall put down his coffee cup, mustered his calmest tone. "I have been a company man for fifteen years, Jim. It's a little painful to me to think you'd have to ask."

  Pine studied him for a long moment. "Okay. Just so we're on the same page."

  * * *

  Carla had called Gary Piersall as soon as Hunt had shown up unannounced at her desk. She liked Wyatt, and the boss had told her to cooperate with him in every way she could. Beyond that, she knew that he was on Andrea's side, and that was also the firm's side. They were considering her a victim of abduction, and Piersall had given Hunt the okay to look wherever he needed. Wherever.

  And, just back from his talk with Betsy Sobo, he'd hesitated, trying to decide on his next move, before he told her he'd like to look through Parisi's office. There might be something in her files, her notes, on her tapes or answering machine, almost anywhere, that might provide a clue to what had happened to her.

  But to allow Hunt access to the intimacies of Andrea's office—Carla felt this was beyond the pale. She called Mr. Piersall again to get his specific permission but was told that he was in his office now with Mr. Pine and absolutely could not be disturbed. So she'd stalled, first having trouble locating the key, then taking a trip to the bathroom, until finally Piersall was still unavailable, bunkered down with Pine, and there was no alternative.

  * * *

  "Dev. Wyatt."

  "Talk to me. Where are you?"

  "Piersall's again. In Parisi's office."

  "Are you shitting me? I'm on my way over there right now, stuck in traffic with Shiu. Why is it, you think, I'm the cop in the case and you're already inside?"

  "Maybe the personal-charm thing?"

  "Can't be that. Don't touch anything."

  "Too late. And you've got to see this."

  "I thought you didn't consider Parisi a suspect?"

  "I don't. She's not."

  "That's funny, because we just pretty much sewed that up with what we found in her house just now."

  "Good for you, but I wouldn't go public with it until you see what I'm looking at."

  "In a contaminated scene."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means you're in it. So whatever you've got, it's no good as evidence. Who's to say you didn't put it there?"

  "Me. And even if I did, you're still going to want to see it."

  * * *

  Hunt had been in the room—really not much larger than a cubicle—for nearly fifteen minutes, the door closed behind him, and here in front of Carla's desk now was a man identifying himself as Devin Juhle, homicide inspector, accompanied by the firm's security officer and asking for Wyatt Hunt.

  Carla Shapiro thought her heart might stop. This was not supposed to happen. She'd made the final decision on her own to allow Wyatt into Andrea's personal space, and now the police had come to find her out. She struggled a second for a breath, then managed to string together the words. "Our investigator's in Ms. Parisi's office."

  The inspector's face didn't do much to ease her sense of dread. "I know that," he said. "Where's the office?"

  Carla was already standing, though she didn't remember getting up. She walked over the few steps, grabbed the knob, and pushed the door open. The inspector was right behind her.

  Behind Andrea's desk, in her chair, Hunt closed the lower left-hand drawer next to him and looked up. "Where's Shiu?"

  "On his way to the lab. We're going to settle this thing once and for all. What do I need to see?"

  Hunt had the manila folder ready and handed it over. The inspector put it down on the desk and opened it. Inside was a half-inch stack of newspaper clippings of various sizes as well as several printouts of what looked like Web pages. Carla risked another step into the room so she could see the headlines. The one on top read: "DA Killed in Hunting Accident."

  As the inspector turned to the following pages, Hunt was saying, "You'll notice the folder has no title on the tab. It was under her regular hanging folders in the back of the desk file here. The first one's Porter Anderton, who was the DA prosecuting some prison guards at Avenal. Then there's all seven of the stories about vandalism to candidates' headquarters up and down the state. Sixteen stories all told. Four deaths of people—Anderton's hunting accident, a couple of hit and runs, one suicide. Every one of the victims had dealings with one prison or another. One prosecutor, two whistle-blowers, one physician." Hunt reached across and tapped the printouts. "If you're still not believing in coincidence, then she was on to something."

  "She was building a case."

  Hunt nodded. His eyes were so cold that a chill seemed to come off him. "Maybe more than a case, Dev. Maybe a story. And she'd already built it. And she told it to the wrong person."

  24 /

  Mickey Dade finally checked in and got through to Hunt while he was still at Piersall, and was double-parked outside ready to play chauffeur when he and Juhle came out of the building. Hunt gave him Staci Rosalier's address and told him to hit it. Most of the way over to her condo, Juhle was on his cell phone with Shiu, who was still at the lab. They were backed up and the various tests might keep him there for most of the afternoon. No, they hadn't even done the ballistics. That would be the first test, they promised. Yes, Shiu would call immediately the second he had the results.

  Juhle's response was clipped. "Shiu, listen to me. We need those results now! Exert some goddamn authority, would you? We're homicide, for Christ's sake. Top of the food chain. Kick some ass. Threaten to get 'em fired. Whatever it takes." He snapped the phone shut. "Idiot."

  Mickey Dade and Juhle had never met each other before, and now the young cab driver threw a worried glance first at his boss and then into the backseat, where Juhle sat smoldering. Next to Mickey in the passenger seat, Hunt turned halfway around and said, "You're scaring my driver."

  "That's another thing," Juhle said. "How is it you have an on-call, off-the-meter cab to drive us around wherever you want to go, while I'm a goddamn inspector of homicide and I'm reduced to hitching rides?"

  "It's got to have something to do with karma," Hunt said.

  * * *

  Now they had gotten the key again from the marginally cooperative Mr. Franks and were on their way up in the elevator. This stop was necessary, Juhle was explaining, because Lanier's criticism that they hadn't even identified next of kin on one of the victims wasn't completely off the mark. They should have moved on that already if only for credibility's sake. So he needed to come here and grab the larger, framed, but still very fuzzy photo of the young boy and then get one of the papers to run it with a DO YOU RECOGNIZE THIS PERSON? tag. They'd blown up the other photograph that had been in Staci's wallet and brought it back to the station, and it had been useless. The kid must be some relation to Staci, didn't Hunt think?

  Hunt knew. "He's her brother."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Mary Mahoney. The waitress at MoMo's ?"

  "I know who she is, Wyatt. I'm the one who gave her to you."

  Hunt wasn't going to fight. He didn't blame Juhle for his frustration. In the last hour, Juhle had gone from what he considered a probable closing out of this case to an entirely new and increasingly plausible theory of it. Particularly if the ballistics on the derringers didn't match and he found himself back at square one. And it didn't help that the new theory was one that Hunt had pressed him to consider from early on, and Juhle had flat out rejected.

  Hunt decided to be conciliatory. "That's right, Mary was your ID on Staci, wasn't she? Anyway, she told Tamara he was her brother."

  "Did she get a name?"

  "No, I don't think so."

 
"Of course not. That would be too easy."

  "Right."

  They got to the fourth floor, crossed the hallway to suite A, and Juhle opened the door. The drapes were still open as Juhle and Shiu had left them the other night, and the room was fairly bright. Juhle walked straight across to the table next to the sofa bed and picked up the framed photo of the boy and, in sort of a slow-motion double take, stared at it for a long moment, his frown growing more pronounced.

  "What?" Hunt asked, crossing over.

  "This is her brother?"