The Hunt Club

by John Lescroart

  But she'd barely gotten the words out when Shiu hit her from behind at the knees, and she went down hard. In the seconds of respite he'd earned himself behind the tractor, Shiu had wrestled his own gun from his holster. Now he pulled Tamara up by the hair with his gun hand, then locked his other arm around her neck, pushed the barrel of his weapon into her temple. "That's it! It's over! Give it up!"

  When he got no response, he fired in rapid succession twice into the air, then screamed out, "The next shot kills her! The next shot kills her! I'm not bluffing! Throw the guns on the ground and come on out! Everybody! Move or she dies now!"

  Chiurco only paused for an instant before throwing Juhle's gun out over the trough. He and Juhle shared a look. They had no choice. They got to their feet.

  In a fluid and unexpected move, Shiu leaned down and scooped up Juhle's gun. Keeping his own weapon pressed tight up against Tamara's head, with his other hand, he released the automatic's magazine and almost before it had fallen to the ground, he'd rammed a fresh magazine of his own into place in the handle of Juhle's gun. Tamara couldn't see what was happening and didn't react fast enough—and now Shiu had his own gun reholstered, and Juhle's loaded weapon at her head.

  "Okay, now, you two," he said. "Over by the barn door." Then, raising his voice, "You in the barn! Hunt! Throw out the gun."

  A silence.

  "Hunt! I'm counting to three, and she dies. One "

  "I don't have it. You shot it away. It's somewhere back in the dark."

  This slowed Shiu down for a beat, but he recovered quickly enough. "I need to see you. Get out here."

  "I'm on the ground."

  "Then crawl. Hands out front. Any sign of a gun and everybody dies, understand? The girl first. You other two, move aside. Let him out."

  The only sound was the slow drag of Hunt's body as he pulled it across the last few feet over the floor of the barn. When he started to come into view, it appeared as if he'd been hit twice on the left side. His left arm hung apparently useless behind a bloody left leg, as he pulled himself forward with his good right side into the light. His face was still a smeared mess of dried and fresh blood. His right hand, scratching against the floor as he pulled himself along, left a bloody trail in the ancient dirt.

  When his body was a little more than halfway out of the barn, Hunt was breathing hard with the pain and exertion. He stopped and looked up. "You can't do this, Shiu."

  "No? What's it look like I'm doing?"

  "You'll never sell it."

  "No? Funny, I think I will," Shiu said. "After all, it was Devin's gun that shot poor Mrs. Manion. I'm afraid it will look like Inspector Juhle got himself in another firefight—he's known for that, you know. And then he found a reason to shoot you and your people, too. Maybe you double-crossed him somehow. When I came up here after the Manions called me, after all of your threats to their family today, I saw what was happening and tried to stop it. In the end, I had to shoot my partner in self-defense, but unfortunately not in time to save the other victims. I think it works out just fine."

  "Except for one thing."

  "What's that?"

  Hunt paused, making sure that his body was primed to react. "You didn't rack a round on the last reload." As he said the words, Hunt pulled his left hand out from where he'd been keeping his own gun hidden behind his leg.

  Shiu's double take took only a fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger on Juhle's Glock behind Tamara's head.

  The dry click still hung in the air as Hunt was swinging his own gun up as fast as he could. In one movement, he steadied his left wrist with his right hand and squeezed off one shot.

  It hit Shiu high in the forehead.

  Juhle's gun went flying as the bullet knocked Shiu backpedaling until he rammed up against the tractor and sank to the ground.

  Tamara, too, had collapsed in a heap, and Chiurco had run to her, but Juhle was already moving beyond them, getting to Shiu where he slumped, kicking his shoulder hard so that he fell to one side. Hunt, limping, was right behind him and pulled Shiu's gun out of his holster.

  Taking a gasp of breath, he reached over and put a finger to Shiu's neck, leaving it there for a long moment. Then he stood up and faced his friend.

  "I don't think he's going to make it," he said.

  "Yeah, but enough about him," Juhle said. "Get me out of these goddamned handcuffs."

  38 /

  Hunt never used the crutches they gave him at the ER. The bullet had creased the top of his thigh. It gave him a scar he'd be able to brag about for the rest of his life in certain company, but the actual damage, while painful enough and spectacular in terms of blood loss, was never life threatening, although he was going to be limping for a while. His disregard for Juhle's due process in the execution of his plan, though, gave him enough bureaucratic headaches for the next couple of weeks to make up for any physical pain he might have missed due to the wound.

  The Napa County DA acknowledged Hunt's role in closing the Palmer matter and in saving the life of Andrea Parisi. Nevertheless, he was not initially inclined to overlook the extra-legal methods against one of the area's most prominent citizens—vandalism, trespassing—that Hunt had employed to get his results. The DA also didn't appreciate Hunt's still sloppy CCW paperwork, especially since it was the gun in question that had fired the shot that killed Shiu.

  In the end, though, Juhle's statement about the unfolding of the night's events in combination with Ward Manion's reluctance to pursue prosecution—he just wanted the nightmare to be over—persuaded the DA that he didn't need to file any charges against what was, after all, a satisfactory conclusion to an extremely unusual, difficult, even tragic situation; though the DA did make it clear to Hunt that the next time he came to the wine country to work, he'd be well advised to avoid anything like the methods he'd employed against the Manions. And if his CCW wasn't current, the DA would flat out bust him for it.

  But between the rehab on his leg, the visits to Parisi first at the hospital and then at her home during her recovery, and the resolution of all the legal issues hanging fire up in Napa, his business took a serious hit during the first weeks of the summer. The notoriety he had acquired because of Palmer and Parisi did not compensate for the lack of time he could actually spend on billable work, and so he, Craig, Tamara, and Mickey spent virtually all of their time through early July out in the field or in the office, catching up.

  It was some measure that his life had at last reverted to near normalcy when he found time to meet Juhle for the first time in a month at Plouf, a French restaurant specializing in mussels, for lunch. It was Bastille Day, a Thursday, and Belden Alley was decked out front to back with the tricolor. A bright summer sun shone directly overhead, the temperature hovered in the mid-seventies.

  Juhle sat alone at an outside table under a Campari umbrella, nursing a clear drink with bubbles and ice. He gave no sign that he'd noticed Hunt's approach until he said, "You've still got that sympathy-limp thing going?"

  Hunt pulled out his chair and sat down in it. "You want, I'll shoot you in the leg, and you can have one, too. Except I might miss and hit your kneecap by mistake."

  "Nobody would believe it was a mistake. Not after the shot that took out Shiu. Which had to be as lucky as the one I got all the heat for. I still can't get over it."

  "That wasn't luck, Dev. As you should know better than anybody, hand-eye is my thing. I had him all the way. What are you drinking?"

  "Club soda."

  "Walking on the wild side."

  Juhle shrugged. "I'm on duty. I don't drink on duty. It's one of the perks of the job. But you go ahead."

  "I think I will. I've got a few hours for a nice change. Maybe I'll walk home after lunch and take a nap."

  "You're still walking everywhere?"

  "Mostly, or taking Mickey's cab. I can't work the damn clutch yet in the Cooper." The waiter came up, and Hunt ordered a glass of beaujolais. Both men were having variations on the mussels theme. Hunt watched t
he waiter walk away. "So," he came back to his friend, "you said there was news."

  "Some." Juhle sipped his club soda. "I thought you'd want to know, we closed Palmer this morning. Officially."

  "I wasn't really worried about it. It had to happen sometime."

  "Maybe, but it's good to have it done. I mean rock solid, which it wasn't ever going to be until we found out a few things we didn't know."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as the gun, the murder weapon. The idiot didn't even toss it when he was done."

  "Where'd you find it?"

  "In a storage unit he rented out by his apartment, where he also kept his Beemer convertible." The waiter was back with Hunt's wine, and Juhle went silent until he'd moved away again. He leaned in across the table and lowered his voice. "Along with the cash."

  "Cash?"

  "A box of it. Same storage unit. Ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred dollars."

  "So she paid him a hundred grand. I was wondering about the going rate."

  "Yeah, but remember, it was a two-fer. Plus, you could probably do it a little cheaper if one of the hits wasn't a federal judge."

  Hunt tasted his wine, took in the sun-dappled al fresco dining area. "You want to tell me something?"

  "Like what? You used to be better-looking?"

  "You used to be cleverer. Tell me something else."

  "All right. What?"

  "Andrea told me Mrs. Manion said it all came down that Monday afternoon after the judge called her to set up the meeting at his house. So my question is this: How do you hire somebody to kill two people on no notice? Like, 'Oh, by the way, Mr. Shiu, after you pick up the laundry, would you mind dropping by Judge Palmer's house and shooting him and his girlfriend?' I don't see how that happens."

  Juhle held up a finger. "Aha! This is cool. I haven't told you about this?"

  "I guess not."

  "She'd felt him out before. Ward gave this to us. Evidently they'd had a problem at the house last year, some whack job deciding they owed him money or at least they needed to give him a bunch because they had so much of it. Anyway, he came onto the property here in the city a couple of times, and as you yourself have seen, their security can be pretty persuasive."

  "At least."

  Juhle nodded. "So they busted him and sent him on his way, but he showed up again, so they busted him again, and then again. The guy seemed basically harmless, but he was turning into a real nuisance. So one time when Ward's gone, out traveling again, the guy comes up while Carol's pulling out of the driveway, taking Todd to school. And he kind of goes off on the kid. Why does he deserve everything he's got? And so on. But evidently it got personal and pretty threatening, and Carol decided she wanted him taken care of."

  "Tell me Shiu killed him."

  "Can't do it, because he didn't. But what he did do was beat the living shit out of the guy and leave him in a Dumpster downtown. Out of uniform, random homeless beating, right? No record of any of it, of course, but Ward noticed the guy wasn't around anymore when he got home, and asked Carol about it. And she told him. So after Ward got over the worst of the shock last month, he remembered it and told us."

  "She pay him?"

  "Ten grand. Ward himself paid it out as a Christmas bonus. But the bottom line is it worked. The guy never came back."

  "I can't blame him. That kind of rudeness, I don't think I would have, either."

  Their waiter arrived with the food, and for a few minutes, they chowed into the succulent shellfish—garlic, cream, wine, parsley. Killer.

  After a few minutes of bliss, Hunt took a break from the food. "So how's Todd?"

  "Hanging in there, I guess. He's with Ward and his nanny."

  "And how old's Ward?"

  "I don't know. Seventy? Seventy-one?"

  "Christ. The poor kid."

  "The poor rich kid, Wyatt. I wouldn't lose any sleep over him. He'll be well taken care of, don't worry."

  Hunt put down his fork. "Not to sound too sensitive or anything, Dev, but he won't be loved, and that's kind of the main thing, you know?"

  Juhle was picking the meat out of the mussels, using one of his earlier shells. He popped his latest morsel and chewed for a moment. "Yeah, but so few of us are," he said, "present company excluded, of course." After a minute, he shrugged. "He'll get over it, Wyatt. Most people do."

  "Except the ones who don't."

  Juhle considered, swallowed, drank some club soda. "Right," he said, "except for them."

  * * *

  Wes Farrell's T-shirt read, THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE. His girlfriend Sam Duncan wore one saying, ANGER MANAGEMENT CLASSES PISS ME OFF. Neither was wearing theirs under work garb but right out loud and proud of it. It was that kind of day—yet another rare warm one, a Saturday in late July.

  And it was that kind of party at Hunt's warehouse.

  The celebration was over the announcement that Devin Juhle had been named San Francisco Police Officer of the Year. He'd had his formal dinner with the police brass, his family, and a roomful of his fellow lawmen at Gino & Carlo's in North Beach last weekend, but this party was different.

  Hunt had a barbecue going in the alley out the back door and a pony keg of Gordon Biersch on ice in the kitchen sink. The garage door to the front of the place was all the way up. The warehouse itself had been rocking for over an hour now with everything from the Beatles and Rolling Stones to Tom Petty, Toby Keith, Jimmy Buffett, Ray Charles. Juhle and his two boys, Eric and Brendan, were playing basketball on the inside court with Mickey, Jason, and Craig. The people Hunt worked with every day as well as the other ex officio Hunt Club members—Sam, Wes, Jason, and Amy—were all in attendance, as well as Juhle's wife, Connie, of course, and their daughter, Alexa.

  Hunt was turning sausages and flipping burgers as Connie—pert and pretty in a yellow sundress—sidled up to him. "So where's the famous Andrea Parisi?" she asked. "I thought I was finally going to get to meet her in person."

  "I don't know. To tell you the truth I thought she'd be here by now. She's probably just running late with work."

  "On a Saturday?"

  Hunt smiled, shook his head. "I don't know if you realized, Con, but lawyers don't differentiate between days of the week. They just work all the time. Saturday, Tuesday night, four in the morning, you name it, they're working." He gestured back inside. "Even Wes, Amy, Jason, those guys in there. They're working right now, I guarantee it."

  "I'm glad I didn't decide to do that."

  "Me, too. But Andrea did."

  Connie hesitated. "And you like her? She likes you?"

  "Well, I saved her life after all, so she's kind of obligated to be at least nice to me. But, hey, here you go. You can ask her yourself."

  Andrea Parisi, accompanied by Richard Tombo, appeared at the head of the alley. In espadrilles, culottes, and a sleeveless tangerine T-shirt, she looked impossibly desirable even from a distance. As they got closer, Hunt realized that even close-up she showed little if any of the effects of her eighty hours without food or fluids. Her hair gleamed in the sun; her face had regained its color.

  Connie turned back to Hunt, gave him an approving nod. "Okay, then," she said.

  They made the introductions, then Hunt went inside and brought out a beer in a plastic cup for Tombo and a glass of white wine for Andrea. They made small talk, while Hunt attended to the grill. The first round was about ready, and Connie went inside to make the announcement to the rest of the guests.

  Hunt moved some of the food around and smiled at the latest arrivals. "Burger, sausage, tri-tip, potato salad, and condiments inside. We've got it all. What are you both having?"

  Tombo, as if on cue, said, "I'm having a bathroom run. Back in a flash."

  Leaving Andrea alone with him, wearing a look he couldn't read. "Still time for rare if you decide quick," he said. But then, at her pained expression, he stopped fiddling at the grill. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Fine," she said. She sipped some of her wine. "When yo
u're done serving here, though, can we talk for a minute?"

  "Sure."

  * * *

  "This is a little awkward," she said.

  He'd delivered his platter of food inside and now was back out in the alley with her, halfway down to the street, away from his back door and his friends.

  "I can handle awkward. What's up?"

  "Well." She took a breath. "The truth is, Wyatt, I've got an offer."