Wyatt Hunt 02 Treasure Hunt

by John Lescroart

  “Not a clue.” Hunt shook his head. “Except I’m pretty sure it wasn’t if I knew how to compute the circumference of a circle.”

  “Pi-R-squared,” Juhle said.

  But Hunt kept shaking his head. “Nope. That’s the area. I think it’s pi-D, but that wasn’t what she called about anyway.”

  Juhle hesitated. “So what got you out here?”

  Hunt ran it down for him—the original call with its sense of urgency, her lack of availability at both of her phone numbers during the whole day. “But really, bottom line,” he concluded, “it was just a hunch.”

  “Hunches are good.”

  “I’ve got another one, then. Whoever did this, did Como.”

  “Not impossible, maybe even probable.” He indicated the house.

  “Let’s see if whoever it was left something for us in the way of evidence. And by us I mean the police, not you and me.”

  “I thought we were all about share and share alike.”

  “Wrong. In fact, you’re lucky you’re not sitting in an interview room downtown, and you know it.” As far as it went, this was probably true. Who was to say that Hunt hadn’t in fact come out here to speak to Neshek and had gotten inside the house, where for some reason he struck her down with the poker, then set the house alarm, locked up, walked out, and called Juhle? Certainly, both Juhle and Russo had been overtly aware enough of this possibility that they hadn’t permitted Hunt to enter the house and thus have a ready and benign explanation if they found trace evidence of his presence there—a fingerprint, a hair follicle. Hunt had spent time answering questions in police custody before, and knew that the only thing that stood between him and another interrogation room right now was the forbearance of Juhle and Russo. “And in any event,” Juhle went on, “I’ll want a taped interview from you by tomorrow, let’s say high noon.”

  “Dev, come on, it’s—”

  “It’s the only offer you’re getting from me, Wyatt, and it’s a damn good one. I’d suggest you take it before I get Sarah involved and ask her opinion, which I think would be somewhat less lenient.”

  Wyatt came forward on his chair. “You realize, Dev, that I didn’t even have to call this in. I could have gone home and let somebody else discover the body in three days or a week or whenever.”

  “You could have, but that would have been a crime. A private eye sees a body, he’s supposed to report it. It’s kind of like our rule that if you find a body, we’re going to want a statement. It’s all about having a complete file. This really isn’t negotiable, Wyatt. And it’s a favor I probably shouldn’t even offer. But really, really, in my heart, I don’t see you killing our victim out there.”

  Hunt managed to chortle. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome. So, tomorrow, noon.”

  Hunt gave it a last try. “You know Como’s memorial service is tomorrow at eleven? I was planning to go to that, see who showed up, talk to a few people.”

  “The whole world’s going to show up.”

  “Yeah, but my point is that I’ll be in the Green Room at the War Memorial when high noon rolls around.”

  “Well”—Juhle’s smile had no humor in it—“then in that case we’d better get your statement before eleven. In fact, keep talking much longer and we’ll drive downtown right now and get it all polished up before dawn if you’d like. Good?”

  It didn’t sound good to Hunt. He’d heard the best offer he was going to get. So he stood up, shook Juhle’s hand, told him he’d be there before eleven, and said good night.

  17

  “I know it’s early,” Hunt began when Mickey picked up his phone at around seven o’clock the next morning, “but—”

  “No sweat,” Mickey replied. “We saw CityTalk and figured, ‘Whoa.’ Tam’s in the shower now and as soon as she’s out, we’re on our way down. Unless you’ve got something for us to do out here.”

  “No. We need to talk first before we do anything. You guys are great. Have you heard yet about Nancy Neshek?”

  He hadn’t, and Hunt told him.

  Mickey paused to take in the enormity of it. “This thing’s heating up pretty good, isn’t it?” he said at last.

  “It’s not cooling down, that’s for sure,” Hunt said.

  Hunt pulled a chair for himself from the back room, and forty minutes after Mickey had hung up the phone at his apartment, the three of them were all seated and gathered in the tiny reception area at the Hunt Club.

  “We’ve got some huge issues to deal with today that weren’t here yesterday,” Hunt began. “First, Tam, I’ve got a list for you and I’ve got to put you on calling in some freelance troops to do some hourly work for us. Evidently, with the reward, word’s gotten out that we’re in the private investigations business again, and I’m not about to let the opportunity pass because we don’t have enough people. If I give you the assignments and deadlines, you think you’d be comfortable doling ’em out?”

  This was a significant increase over any of the responsibilities Tamara had shouldered in the past, but Mickey could see that the idea hit her like a shot of adrenaline. Hunt clearly was trying to motivate her to stay on, take more ownership of her job, get back to the way she’d been before the meltdown. And this appeared to be an effective way to do it. “If you think I can.”

  “I know you can. Get ’em in here so you can see them in person, make sure they’re not stoned or drunk, get an idea of what they’re capable of, tell them what we’ll pay, and parcel out the individual gigs. Good?”

  “Good.”

  “All right. Now. We got three new calls this morning, but the first two sound like crazies to me. We all agree?”

  Nods all around. And no wonder, with one call being from Belinda the psychic again—apparently she was hot on the scent now—and the other from a guy who used to know Dominic at one of the projects and had seen him walking around near Japantown yesterday—he was sure of it.

  “But the Len Turner call,” Hunt went on, “I’m going to have to talk to him again. He’ll be at the memorial service today. As you heard on his phone message, he’s pretty pissed off. He thinks we had something to do with the leak to CityTalk, if that’s what it was.”

  Mickey raised a finger. “What do you think it was, Wyatt?”

  “I think these reports were due to come out anyway and both Turner and Dominic knew about them in advance somehow. Beyond that, I think he’s a dangerous guy who thinks that since he’s paying us, we’ll do whatever he wants. Now, I don’t know what they did about these reports, if anything, but obviously somebody’s playing fast and loose with this community money. And meanwhile, I want to protect our position vis-à-vis the reward, and Turner’s clearly the guy to see about that. But first I’ve got to waste a couple of hours this morning talking to Juhle and Russo about finding Neshek’s body. So, Mick, we’re going to want to change our strategy.”

  “Okay. Sure. Whatever.”

  “This isn’t clearinghouse stuff anymore. Which is why we’ve got to be careful with Mr. Turner, since it’s not what he thinks he’s paying us to do. We don’t want to give him a reason to pull the plug, agreed?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked over at Tamara. “See why I love this guy?” Then, back to Mickey. “Okay. Even if we haven’t had any reward calls, you and I are both going to get in a quick look at this Neshek thing, if only because then we can eliminate suspects on Como.”

  “How’s that?” Mickey asked.

  “If somebody’s got an alibi for Monday night, two nights ago, when Neshek got killed, then odds are they didn’t kill Como. Assuming, of course, which I am, that the same person killed both of them.”

  “Do Juhle and Russo think that?” Tamara asked.

  “They won’t say so, at least not to me, but they’d be dumb if they didn’t.”

  Mickey sat, his arm resting on the back of his chair, apparently relaxed. But he couldn’t stop tapping his foot. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Th
e plan is that I go to the memorial service this morning and concentrate on the Como people and see if there’s any I can eliminate. If, say, Mrs. Como had a bridge group over or went to Napa or something on Monday night, then she’s clear. Same with Al Carter. Or even your friend Alicia.”

  Mickey shot a quick—angry? defensive?—glance at his sister, then said to Hunt, “What about Alicia? You’re not telling me she’s really still a suspect in this.”

  “Well, she’s a person without an alibi for the time Como was killed. If she’s got one for Neshek . . . what’s that look?”

  Tamara answered. “We had her and her brother over for dinner last night.”

  “Her and her brother?” His jaw suddenly clamped down, Hunt looked from Tamara to Mickey, and back again. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because they’re good people,” Mickey said. “I wanted to have them over. We’re starting to be friends.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Wyatt said evenly. “But they’re also—or at least she is—a suspect in a murder investigation, unless she’s got an alibi on Monday night.”

  Mickey and Tamara shared another furtive look.

  “What now?” Hunt said.

  Tamara let out a breath. “She slept out in her car by the beach Monday night. Got up early to surf Tuesday morning.”

  After a pause, Hunt asked, “What beach?”

  Mickey took it. “Ocean. Out by Seal Rock.”

  Hunt hesitated again. “Did I tell you where Nancy Neshek lived?”

  “No.” The defensive pose sitting heavy on Mickey now. “Where?”

  “Just above Phelan Beach, well out that way.”

  Mickey was shaking his head. “There is no way Alicia killed anybody, Wyatt. If you talked to her, you’d know that in five minutes.”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Because you could tell. You could just see the person she is.”

  Hunt just barely did not snort. “I don’t think I’ve got to remind either of you how unreliable personal reactions can be. People can hide things, really for truly. They can fool you even with who they are.” He pointed a finger at each of them. “All of us know this firsthand, so excuse me if I’m not overly enthusiastic about Alicia’s overtures to become your friend.”

  “She hasn’t made any moves, Wyatt. I asked her over to dinner.”

  “That’s true,” Tamara added.

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Mickey, getting a little hot now, “What do you mean by that?”

  Hunt held up a restraining palm. “Nothing. I’m just cautioning you to go slow and be a little wary. And neither of you should be socializing with these people. Really.”

  But Mickey couldn’t let it go. “She didn’t do anything, Wyatt. I know she didn’t.”

  “All right,” Wyatt said, “but let me ask you this: Did she tell you that Dominic Como had fired her on the last day of his life?”

  The siblings exchanged another glance. “Who told you that?” Mickey asked.

  “Mrs. Como. Who heard it point blank from her husband.”

  “Maybe she was lying to you. Maybe he was lying to her.”

  “Maybe both,” Hunt admitted. “But maybe I’m going to ask Alicia about it today, if she’s at the service. Not at a nice friendly dinner. And while I’m at it, I plan to ask her, and Al Carter if I get the chance, if either of them know where they store the tire iron in a Lincoln Town Car.”

  “Why would that matter?”

  “Because we know the weapon that killed Dominic Como was a tire iron. And we know that the tire iron from his limo isn’t there anymore.”

  “We do?” Mickey asked. “When did we find that out?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Juhle and Russo went out to Sunset and looked. And they’re probably looking for more in it now even as we speak.”

  After a minute, Tamara brought up the usual objection. “That doesn’t mean the tire iron that killed him came from that car.”

  “Good, Tam. No, it doesn’t. Not automatically. But on the other hand, there’s nothing says it isn’t either. It certainly could be. And, Mick, just consider this: Your friend Alicia, who might have just been jilted by him, and fired at the same time on the last day we know he was alive, had easy access to it. And then certainly had access back to him.”

  Mickey was sitting back, his mouth set, his hands clenched in his lap. “This is bullshit.”

  “No, Mick. These are facts we have to deal with.” Hunt slowed himself down with a breath. “Look, I’m not saying she’s guilty of anything. She might be the nicest person in the world. But she’s in this until conflicting evidence or an alibi gets her out, okay? You can’t become friends with her, and probably not with her brother either. I’m sorry, but you just can’t.” He looked from one of them to the other. “Neither of you.”

  A heavy silence settled in the tiny reception area. Mickey and Tamara shared a few more looks, until at last Mickey came back to Hunt, his voice again under control. “So. What do you want me to do?”

  “Look around up at Sanctuary House. Nancy Neshek’s place. That would be a start. Juhle and Russo are going to be futzing with the limo and crime scene stuff from last night all morning. This gives us a small opening before anybody in Sanctuary has a chance to get their guards up.”

  “So you’re going to talk to Al Carter?” Mickey asked.

  “Yeah. If he’s at the service, which he should be. What about him?”

  A shrug. “One of my lunatics yesterday, Damien Jones? Maybe he wasn’t actually off on everything. He said we should look for somebody, probably with the Battalion but maybe not, up at Sunset. Which, by the way, my grandfather agrees with. Meanwhile, just so you’re clear that Al Carter’s another guy with access to the tire iron. Also the last known human to see Como alive. I don’t know about his alibi, if any. And he hasn’t told us very much about Como’s mysterious last appointment either.”

  “Yeah. I’ll talk to him. That’s a good thought. But listen”—Hunt leaned his lanky form forward, his elbows on his knees—“the main thing for all of us—even you, Tam—is to be careful here. Whoever it is, this killer’s now done it twice. Let’s not force a third. All we’re trying to do is collect information and pass the valid stuff along to Devin. That’s all.”

  Mickey shook his head. “Nice try, but it’s gotten bigger than that, Wyatt,” he said. “A whole lot bigger.”

  The address of the administrative headquarters for the Sanctuary House for Battered Women was on Potrero Avenue near San Francisco General Hospital. Unlike the other service-oriented nonprofits he’d visited in the last few days, for obvious reasons Sanctuary did not shelter, educate, or test any of its clientele on-site—instead, they were assigned, often with their children, to one of the organization’s seventeen secure locations within the city limits. Because of this, Sanctuary’s footprint here on Potrero was so small as to be nearly invisible. Mickey drove by what should have been the address twice before he realized that the office must be somewhere among the buildings that made up the much larger hospital complex.

  Fifteen minutes after he’d finally managed to park in a handicapped zone in the hospital’s main but still woefully inadequate lot, he found the place—one of many apparently identical offices on the ground floor of the hospital’s Admitting and Triage Building. It was a typical overused bureaucratic medical landscape—already at nine A.M., long lines had formed at each of the glass windows, with the chairs in the main lobby filled with mostly older and poorly dressed patients. Although there was still the usual complement of mothers with their coughing or sleeping children, spaced- out young adults, and obvious derelicts, all waiting in numb patience while the clammy fluorescent lighting lit the area and reflected up at them from the greenish tile flooring.

  The only indication of Sanctuary House’s presence was the name of the organization stenciled onto the glass doorway, now open at the farthest extent of the lobby. Mickey stood in the doorway for a long moment. In front of him, a co
unter bisected most of the room across the front, and behind it were mazes of green and gray filing cabinets and a few desks. Venetian blinds over the high back windows. To his left, the counter made a right angle, and behind it more of the ubiquitous green-tinged glass separated out the two or three other offices.

  He heard low voices, apparently coming from one or more of those offices, but saw no one, so he stepped forward and, following instructions, “Please Ring for Assistance,” pushed the little hotel bell that someone had duct-taped down to the peeling wooden counter.

  In five seconds, a tiny and tentative bespectacled young woman appeared from between one of the banks of filing cabinets, wearing what looked to Mickey like a thrift-store cotton dress and a devastated and yet somehow impatient expression. Beneath her wire- rimmed glasses, her eyes were red and swollen. Mickey at once realized two things: that the employees had heard the news about their executive director, and that maybe this should have been an assignment for Tamara—the vast majority of the time, Mickey supposed that men here were going to be the enemy; it came with the turf. Still, he dredged up a look of respectful solicitude.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Having done his homework, Mickey knew the name of the associate director. “I’d like to speak to Adele Watrous,” he said, “if she’s in.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Are you Ms. Watrous?”

  “No.”

  “I was hoping to talk to Ms. Watrous.”

  “It’s Mrs., and she is having a difficult morning. I’m afraid we all are. Can I tell her what this is about?”

  Mickey’s heart went out to this young woman, but he was here to get information—specifically if Nancy Neshek had mentioned to anyone here the question she’d wanted to ask Hunt—and the further down the food chain he went with the staff, he thought, the less likely the result. “I’m afraid it’s about Ms. Neshek, which I can see you already know about. I’m very sorry.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out, and then she closed it, nodded twice, then again, and finally disappeared back into the maze. After another moment, a grandmotherly woman appeared. Her snow-white hair was disheveled and she, too, had clearly been crying, but she spoke in a crisp, no- nonsense manner. “I’m Adele Watrous,” she said. “Is this about Nancy? How can I help you?”