The Hunter

by John Lescroart

  “Well, it just seems a little far-fetched, doesn’t it? Something that happened, what, forty years ago? I can’t imagine that Mr. Orloff’s death could have anything to do with that now after all these years.”

  “Well,” Juhle said, “that’s a good point. But Orloff’s death had something to do with something, and that old cold case is what he was working on, which warms it up at least a little bit, wouldn’t you say?”

  A resigned shrug. “You may be right,” Spencer said. “What do I know?”

  LIEUTENANT ABE GLITSKY had his feet up on his desk, his fingers templed in front of his mouth. As usual, his countenance was dark, his eyebrows heavy over sunken eyes. He was breathing easy and steady. The clock on his wall read 5:15. “I’m trying to see this,” he said. “I really am.”

  “It’s three homicides,” Russo said.

  “Well, not exactly true. Even according to both of you, Jim Burg was a suicide.”

  “But now that’s been called into question,” Juhle said.

  Glitsky took his hands away from his lips and faced Juhle. “By who, Devin? Your friend Mr. Hunt? And based on what evidence?”

  “It’s not so much specific evidence”—Russo riding to her partner’s defense—“than what’s starting to look like an accumulation of connections. It’s hard to dismiss them, Abe, you’ve got to admit. That’s what we’re trying to say.”

  Glitsky shook his head sympathetically. “And that’s what I’m telling you. I don’t have to admit them.” Now he swung his feet down and came around, elbows on the desk. “Go with me here, both of you. Stop me when I’m wrong. We’ve got a domestic murder and her killer now forty—did I say forty?—years ago.”

  “Killer never convicted,” Juhle pointed out. “Just to be precise.”

  “Noted. But I’m going to pretend the guy we put on trial twice actually did it, just for the sake of argument. Next, we have a cop suicide in, when? Nineteen seventy-five.”

  Juhle wouldn’t just give it to him. “Maybe committed suicide, Abe. Right after he got promoted? When he was happily married? And let’s not forget he was not only the arresting officer in the first murder case, he’d gone on the child-endangerment call to that same apartment, where he wrote up the victim and her friend, Evie Spencer.”

  “Devin,” Glitsky said evenly. “Those events—the calls to the apartment and the arrest, and then the suicide—are separated by four years, are they not? Four years.”

  “About the time frame for the two trials,” Russo added.

  “So?” Glitsky pointed at Sarah, then Devin. “You guys are two-teaming me, and I’d appreciate if you’d just let me go on. Please? So our third victim is last night, Orloff, who is ostensibly working on the first case, the forty-year-old case, although he’s also got maybe a dozen other cases he’s covering, not to say that his murder had anything to do with any of them. But lo and behold, last night he finds this guy Spencer, who doesn’t deny talking to him, having a meal with him, and is in all ways the picture of cooperation. Am I leaving anything out here? Isn’t that about it?”

  “Abe, listen.” Juhle put his hands on the edge of the desk. “You left out that Spencer was Evie’s husband. All of these dead people—even given that Burg might have been a suicide—everybody is connected with Evie Spencer.”

  “Who, I might remind you, is also dead, and dead since 1978.”

  “At Jonestown,” Russo said.

  “And why, pray, is that relevant? Close to a thousand people died at Jonestown. Evie Spencer being one of them does not make her special.”

  “It’s too much to be coincidence,” Russo said. “That’s all we’re saying.”

  Glitsky relaxed back into his chair. “Granted, Sarah, there’s an appearance of coincidence, which we all hate. And if all this happened over the span of a couple of days, I’d be saying ‘Whoa, there’s got to be a connection. Look into Evie Spencer and let’s find where this goes, where the pieces fit.’ But think about it, people: Evie’s been dead thirty-two years. That’s four years after Jim Burg, eight after Margie Carson, and on a different continent to boot. And now Ivan Orloff.” He spread his hands. “I’m not exactly clear what you expect me to do. Except put much credence in this theory, which I just can’t seem to make myself do.”

  “Abe,” Russo said, “if we don’t get any traction with Evie Spencer, that leaves us with nothing on Orloff.”

  “That’s just not true, Sarah. He was a PI. He was working on other stuff. You’ll just have to slog through it, that’s all. There might be something there, or in his personal life, the usual. Or he might have just been randomly targeted and killed for his wallet, which I don’t have to tell you both has been known to happen, especially where he was.”

  Juhle and Sarah, on folding chairs in front of Glitsky’s desk, exchanged a look, and Juhle, nodding, got up and walked a few steps over to the door, which he closed. When he got back to his seat, he cleared his throat and then he came forward and spoke up in a near whisper. “Abe, what if this has got something to do with cops?”

  It took Glitsky a few seconds to react and when he did, it was a blink, come and gone in an instant. “What are you talking about? What cops? You think a cop shot Orloff? That’s an amazingly offensive accusation and you’d better have some strong evidence to back it up. Do you have that?”

  “Not yet, no, sir,” Juhle said. “No evidence. And anybody might have pulled the trigger on Orloff, maybe got paid to do it.”

  “You’re still saying a cop paid somebody to do this?” Glitsky ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t believe I’m listening to this. Where is it even coming from?”

  “We’re not necessarily thinking a cop did it, Abe,” Russo said.

  Juhle took it up. “We think we shouldn’t overlook the possibility that somehow some cops, by now probably no longer active duty, might have been involved.”

  “Some cops now,” Glitsky said. “More than one? A vast conspiracy of cops?”

  “You remember that case file I had piled up out there over the last few days, the stuff Wyatt Hunt wanted to look into?”

  “And that I let him. Sure.”

  “Right. But then Hunt started asking questions—and not too many questions at that—and the next thing you know, Chief Lapeer gets you on the phone and she’s telling you that maybe we don’t want to be spending time on that.”

  “And you see this as somehow ominous?”

  “I think it’s provocative that somebody talked to her and she came to you and had you call me and Hunt off. I think something happened back then in that first case. I think when Jim Burg became an inspector four years later, he got wind of it . . .”

  “And how did he do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he had a hunch from early on. Maybe he thought they arrested the wrong guy, which is what his wife told Hunt, and when he became an inspector, he decided to look into it.”

  “This is all just fantasy, Devin. Where do you get any of this?”

  “Well, not all fantasy. Jim Burg signed out the case file, all of it, in ’74, a couple of weeks before he killed himself. He was the last person to look at it before Hunt and I did. I think he found something.”

  “Something? Like what?”

  “We don’t know. Something that made sense in the context of the case back then, which is now too far removed to see what it was.”

  “Why would he have signed out the case file, Abe,” Russo asked, “if he didn’t think something was squirrelly?”

  “Squirrelly how? Maybe he wanted to study how a case gets built. Maybe he thought he knew something that didn’t make either trial where they could convict if they went for it a third time. Maybe, as a new inspector, he thought he could make his bones with a fresh approach. I don’t really have any idea.” Over the desk, Glitsky’s eyes conveyed more sadness than criticism. “Devin. Both of you. I’ve given you both a good listen and I still don’t know why we’re having this discussion. What do you want me to do that I’m not
already doing?”

  This, of course, was the crux. Juhle sat back, glanced over at his partner, and came back to Glitsky. “We just wanted you to know that this Orloff case might expose some…​sensitivities that you might want to be aware of, and we wanted to give you a heads-up on where we’re coming from.”

  “I can handle sensitivities. Trust me. Sensitive, that’s what I’m good at, I don’t care what everybody says. And don’t misunderstand me. I’m putting no restrictions—none—on how you conduct your investigation in this Orloff thing. But.” Glitsky by now had his arms folded in front of him on the desk. “Well and good though it may be to have theories, I don’t think I need to remind you that your job is getting evidence, and that theories spring from evidence rather than the other way around.”

  “These Evie connections aren’t theories,” Sarah said. “They are verifiable facts.”

  “Okay,” Glitsky said, “but please remember that sometimes a fact is just a fact. It has no greater meaning. It might not rise to the level of evidence of any specific crime. What I’m telling both of you is that of course you’re free to go wherever the evidence takes you—that’s the job. But a bit of discretion might be advised before you go rousing any of the sensitivities we’ve been talking about. It better be real evidence, and it better be rock solid and airtight.”

  Juhle nodded. “That’s all we’re saying. If we get there.”

  “Then, obviously,” Glitsky said, “you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

  17

  THIS TIME THE HOUSEKEEPER admitted Hunt to the dining room in the rectory proper. The dishes had been cleared and Bernard was sitting alone with a book facedown at the table, a half-full wine glass and half-empty bottle of cabernet in front of him.

  “I’m sorry to be a bother,” Hunt began as soon as he’d crossed the threshold.

  The priest held up a hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. Do I look like a man who doesn’t want company? Especially from the long-lost son. Though of course I’ve got my book and my…​my weakness. Can I pour you a glass? A taste?”

  “I’m good, thank you, Father. I’m still more or less working.”

  “So you’ve got more questions for me? I must say it’s been a while since I’ve felt so…​so useful. Are you making any progress with your search?”

  “Maybe not the kind I’d want, but . . .” Hunt stood with his hands at his sides for a few seconds, then finally pulled a chair around and sat on it. “The truth is, one of my employees was killed last night. A young guy named Ivan Orloff.”

  “Killed?” Bernard’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth and he put it back down on the table.

  Hunt nodded. “Shot. I think it might have had to do with my mother’s case.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph have mercy.” Bernard bowed his head, made the sign of the cross, and kept his eyes closed for a few seconds, apparently offering up a prayer for the soul of Ivan Orloff. When he looked back up, he said, “You know, Wyatt, it may be blasphemous to say this, but the longer I live, the more I understand how people can lose belief in God. What I don’t see as clearly is how people can doubt the existence of the devil.” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “In a twisted way, sometimes I think that’s the reason I’m not an atheist. I know there’s a devil. So then, given that, it’s not unreasonable to assume there must be God. Or at least the existence of a spiritual realm, which would allow for God. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard anyone put it like that.”

  “I wouldn’t go around preaching it. But don’t you think there’s more evidence, sometimes, of evil everywhere, than of goodness?”

  “Sometimes I do, Father. Sometimes I do.”

  The priest sipped at his wine. “I’m so sorry about your employee.”

  “So am I. I’m wrestling with the fact that it was my fault. That I sent him on this path that got him shot.”

  “Well, if you did, it wasn’t purposeful, was it? You couldn’t have known.”

  “No. Although that’s not much comfort. Ivan’s just as dead.” Hunt made a gesture in the direction of the bottle. “Maybe I could do with a hit of that after all.”

  “Certainly.” The priest pushed back, stood up, and turned to an old dark sideboard directly behind him, from which he took out a wineglass and put it in front of Wyatt, then poured. “So how can I help you?” he asked as he sat back down.

  Wyatt lifted his glass and drank. “Well, the situation here on the ground has changed. Now, regardless of whether Ivan was working on my mother’s case or not, his murder is a police matter. My best friend is a homicide inspector who’s actually been assigned to the case. So whether I want to or not, I’d best be advised to keep away from their investigation, at least in an active way. I don’t want to scare off witnesses or muck around the same places they’re looking.”

  “Yes, I can see that. So what does that leave for you?”

  “Well, there are a few other things. My father, for one. I haven’t been able to locate him, and I thought I’d ask you again if you could wrack your brain and try to remember any little hint about where he might have gone to when he left here.”

  Bernard’s face reflected his disappointment. “I’ve thought about that ever since that first day you came here. He had the job offer in Texas, but he told me he might just go and keep going until he felt like he could stop. I never heard from him again.”

  “All right.” Hunt turned his glass on the table. “This may be a stretch, but what isn’t, after all this time? You mentioned that you’d found him work with some of your parishioners . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, might it be possible he stayed in touch with any of them?”

  “I don’t know. It might be, though I’d say it would be most unlikely.” The frustration in Bernard’s expression, if anything, increased. “It was forty-some years ago, Wyatt. If I could remember who any of them were to begin with.”

  “Maybe you can, Father. That’s all I’m saying. It’s someplace else to look.”

  “And if you found him?”

  “I’ll be able to go up and knock on his door. And he can then tell me who offered him the job, who else was around when all this went down. Or at least he can set me on the trail, at the end of which is my mother’s killer.”

  “Is that really possible?” The priest’s eyes glimmered with a sudden faint hope. “All right. Dear God. I’ll find them if I can, Wyatt. I promise I’ll try.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.” He lifted his glass in a toasting gesture, and Bernard raised his own glass and clinked it against Hunt’s. Both men drank. “Well, actually,” Hunt said, “that’s not true. It’s all I’m asking about my father, but I’ve got a question or two about my mother as well.”

  “Whatever I can do, but I think I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “You did. But maybe we can go over again what you said about Indiana?”

  Bernard pursed his lips.

  Picking up on Bernard’s expression, Hunt asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “No. It’s just that I don’t recall saying much of anything about Indiana. Other than that your mother didn’t want to talk about it. She wouldn’t talk about it.”

  “But she’d been abused there? Somehow. Is that right? Did she say that much?”

  “Yes. She said that much. I know that you have personal reasons to find out everything you can about your parents, Wyatt. But this strikes me as rather far afield. This isn’t like your father, who may still be alive. What can your mother tell you about her own death?”

  “I don’t know. But the more I know about her life, the closer I might be to finding what it is that caused her death.”

  Bernard pushed himself back from the table, his body language proclaiming his reluctance to engage any further on this topic. “But Indiana?” he asked. “When she was what, fifteen? How can that be any kind of help?”

  Hunt sat back in his chair
, gauging Bernard’s response. Something had shifted in the room’s dynamic, and with the priest seemingly so willing to cooperate on his father, he didn’t want to lose whatever gains he’d made on that front. But though he couldn’t say why, his mother’s story, in Hunt’s view, was more important. And suddenly he was certain that Bernard knew more than he’d earlier admitted, and it was worth any risk to find out what that was.

  “Do you remember when I was here the other day, Father, asking about Evie Secrist?”

  As Hunt had intended, the segue to Evie from his mother threw the priest off guard. He relaxed slightly, reached for his wine, and drank. “Sure. Of course.”

  “I found out a little more about her. Actually, quite a lot more.” He told it all in the next minute or so, ending with the dramatic punch line.

  Which had its effect. “Jonestown?”

  “With her children. All of them.”

  “More of the devil. God help us.” Bernard sighed heavily. “Not that you couldn’t have seen it, or even predicted it back when she knew Margie and Kevin. She was the kind of person the cults got ahold of and preyed on.”

  “Do you know anything about Jim Jones, Father?”

  He shrugged. “Just pretty much what everybody knows. No real details. We in the mainstream churches didn’t pay much attention to him back in the day. Until it was too late, I mean. But then afterward, I…​I think like a lot of us, I couldn’t bear to hear too much about it, or about him. Maybe it was just guilt that we didn’t do something when we might have had the chance, but then again, what could we have done? He had them all brainwashed.”

  “Yes, he did, Father. But you want to hear another detail about Jim Jones?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He came from Indiana.”

  A guttural sound came from Bernard’s throat. Hunt could almost hear the gears working in his brain. After a bit, the priest sat back in his chair, then came forward, reached for his wineglass. Emptying it in a gulp, he put it down on the table and poured more for both of them. At last, his eyes met Hunt’s. “She thought it was her fault,” he said. “So many of them do.”