Treasure Hunt

by John Lescroart

  The sun had just disappeared into the ocean and the purple western sky was now ablaze with gorgeous orange-red clouds. The Golden Gate Bridge was right there, just off to his right. And back behind him, the high-rises of downtown had just started to twinkle with their evening lights.

  But tonight he wasn’t here for the views. Because of its parallelogram shape, the floor came to a point on both the north and south ends. Mickey looked left and then made his way to the corner, where, as he’d suspected and hoped, his sister—in a cowl-necked sweatshirt and camo pants—sat on the floor, apparently mesmerized, hugging her knees.

  “They just let you sit here all day?” he asked.

  She looked up and shrugged. “I’m not bothering anybody.”

  Mickey went down on one knee. “Were you planning to come home sometime?”

  “Sure.”

  “When?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Good. Just so I know not to rent out your space.” He paused. “Oh, and in case you were wondering, Jim’s all right.”

  Now her head did turn toward him, quickly, in surprise. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “No reason. He’s fine. Really. I mean, after I got him home.”

  “He went out? Where’d he go?”

  “Shamrock. Then to drink-a-bye land.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “Maybe he wanted somebody to talk to. Maybe his roommate didn’t tell him she was going out, and he didn’t want to be alone.”

  “I don’t have to tell him where I’m going, or what I’m doing. Or you either.”

  “Absolutely correct. I couldn’t agree more. You’re an adult. We’re all adults.”

  “You don’t tell us where you go most nights.”

  “That’s true. I probably should do that. I may start now. Or I might start staying at home again.” He changed his tone. “Jim’s getting older, you know.”

  Her mouth turned down. “And your point is?”

  “My point is he’s getting too old to go out on his own and drink too much. The bartender said he might have had to call the cops if he hadn’t reached me.”

  “Lucky he did, then.”

  Mickey let out a long breath and stared out over his sister’s head at the last vestiges of the sunset. “I’d have thought you might relate to how he was feeling.”

  “About what?”

  “About Dominic Como being dead.”

  She turned up and stared at him. “When did that happen?”

  “Recently.”

  “And I’m supposed to relate to how Jim’s feeling about that because . . . ?”

  “Because Dominic was somebody he’d spent years of his life with? Kind of like you and Craig.” This was Craig Chiurco, formerly of the Hunt Club.

  At the mention of her former boyfriend, she blinked a few times in rapid succession. A tear fell from her left eye and she wiped it away. Some of the tension seemed to go out of her shoulders. After another moment, she turned her head to face him. “What do you want, Mick?”

  “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. Maybe talk to you a little. Have you eaten yet today?”

  Tamara’s mouth softened, almost into a smile. “Food. Always food.”

  “Not always, but often. I figure it can’t hurt.”

  “Probably not.” She sighed. “And, no, I haven’t eaten.”

  “All day?”

  “Some cereal when I got up.”

  He gestured toward the city spread out below them. “Had enough of this view for today?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Giving her shoulder a small, friendly, brotherly push, he said, “Let’s go.”

  “So how much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much weight have you lost?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Maybe ten pounds.”

  “More than that, I think. And you weigh yourself every day, Tam, so you know exactly, or pretty damn close. Don’t scam a scammer. How much?”

  “Okay.” She looked across the table at him. “Say eighteen.”

  “Eighteen pounds in six months?”

  “Maybe twenty.”

  “That’s way too much. Especially since you started at basically perfect.”

  “Not perfect enough, evidently.” She tried a smile, but it didn’t take. “I just don’t have an appetite anymore, Mick. I try, but nothing tastes like anything.”

  “The pot stickers here will knock you out.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see. It’s not like I’m trying not to eat. It’s just I don’t think of it.”

  “Well, you need to.” Mickey slurped at his cup of very hot tea. “I don’t like to see you getting this thin, Tam. It reminds me of Mom.”

  Tamara’s teacup stopped halfway to her mouth. “I’m not like Mom. Mom was on drugs. She overdosed.”

  “Yeah, but before that she didn’t eat well either. And now, seeing you, you look a little like she did. And it brings it back clear as a bell. And that scares me.”

  “Mickey, I’m not going to die.”

  “Yeah, you are. But I’d prefer if it wasn’t like soon. Otherwise, what’s it all been for?”

  “What’s all what been for?”

  “I mean, you know, Wyatt saving us. Jim getting his life together to raise us.”

  She pushed her cup around on the table. “Sometimes I think it wasn’t for anything. It was just stuff that happened. And now we’re all here and so what? Jim’s probably going to die pretty soon. Wyatt’s going out of business. Everything’s a dead end.”

  Mickey put his own cup down. “Craig was that important to you? He’s gone and now you’ve got nothing to live for?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not just him being gone. It doesn’t even seem like it’s so much him personally anymore. It’s more the idea that I lived with this, this illusion, for all that time, thinking I was going somewhere, that he and I were going somewhere, and that all of it mattered.” She leaned in across from him. “I mean, Mick, it all made sense. It hung together. I’m talking about the world.”

  “And now it doesn’t?”

  “I can’t seem to find where my real life connects back in to it.”

  “You think you’re going to find it sitting up in the tower?”

  “I don’t know where I’m going to find it.”

  “So you’ve given up looking? That’s kind of what it seems like from here.”

  “Well, that’s not it.”

  “No?”

  Anger flashed in her eyes. “No!” Then, in a softer tone, “I am really trying not to lose it altogether here, Mickey. I don’t think you can really understand what it’s like when the rug’s pulled out from under you like it was from me.”

  “Yeah,” Mickey said. “I can. It got pulled out from both of us another time. And that was a lot worse than you losing your boyfriend. I remember it pretty well.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is you’re too young to give up. There’s people out here in the real world who care about you—me, for instance, and Jim, and even Wyatt—and maybe you owe it to all of us to try to care a little back in return.”

  “I do care about all of you guys.”

  “You do? How are we supposed to tell? You quit working for Wyatt, you dump your job there on me, you disappear on Jim—”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did, Tam. Yes, you did. And we all felt bad for you, and still do.” He reached a hand over the table and touched hers. “But you’ve got to come back now. You’ve got to start, anyway. Remember back before Jim even took us on, we swore we’d always call each other on it if we started down a wrong road? Remember that?”

  “Yeah, okay. Of course.”

  “Well, this is your brother calling you. You need to get out of this now, start going another way. Jim’s going to need you these next weeks at least. I’m going to need you for him. Maybe even Wyatt will wind up needing you.”

  “Wyatt won’t ever need me
. He never did. And now he’s mad at me.”

  “He’s never said one word about being mad at you. If anything, he’s worried. But not even slightly mad. He blames himself, is what I think. For hiring Craig in the first place, for keeping him on, for you guys getting together.”

  Tamara looked up at the ceiling and seemed to be gathering herself. She inhaled deeply and let the breath out in a long sigh.

  The waitress appeared and placed a small dish in front of each of them, then a plate of six pot stickers down between them. “Kung pao shrimp coming right up next,” she said.

  Mickey picked a pot sticker up with his chopsticks and put it on the dish in front of his sister. “If you eat, you’ll feel better,” he said. “Promise.”

  4

  Saturdays, Mickey went to his cooking class at La Cuisine, located in a large Victorian house on Webster Street between Clay and Sacramento. He was already halfway through his six-week Professional Series course—“Knives and Butchering,” his eighth formal class in the past three years. At his present rate, he could expect to get his Certified Culinarian ticket, the lowest professional ranking, and possibly get hired to cut onions or sift flour for eight hours a day, in only another two or three years.

  But it was working toward something that he loved. By the time he was thirty, if everything worked out, he’d be working in a kitchen; at forty he’d have his own place. Maybe a small one, but his own.

  It was a timeline he could live with.

  His class began at the stroke of eight o’clock, and if you were late, you weren’t admitted. No excuses tolerated, even if you’d paid your entire tuition up front, even if you couldn’t find a parking place, your uncle died, all of the above. Marc Bollet, the maître, locked the front door at showtime sharp, and didn’t unlock it again for five hours. “You want the experience of working in a professional kitchen?” Marc said more than once in his still-pronounced French accent. “You must learn never, ever to be late. Never to be sick. Don’t plan on too many days off, or vacations. La cuisine is not a career. It is a vocation, a sacred thing. Never be less than at your very best. Or you will find yourself without a job. Because there is always, always, someone who wants your chance.”

  Now Mickey, a full twenty- five minutes before class was to begin, courtesy of the best parking spot he’d ever found, got to the stoop with his cup of Starbucks and was somewhat surprised to see that, even this early, he wasn’t the first of his classmates to arrive. Ian Thorpe looked up with an easy, crinkling, blue-eyed smile under a wispy blond mustache. He wore chef’s clogs, a pair of stained khaki shorts, and a blue fisherman’s sweater with white horizontal stripes. “Hey,” he said. “I was hoping I’d catch you before class.”

  “Me? You caught me. What’s up?”

  “I saw you on the tube last night.”

  Mickey broke a small smile. “Me too,” he said. “But only four times. After that it got boring.”

  “They identified you as a private investigator.”

  “I know, but they didn’t get that part exactly right. I just work in the office, more or less the grunt. Answer phones, get the coffee, like that.”

  “Damn.”

  “What?”

  Thorpe blew out. His eyes scanned the street behind Mickey for a moment. “Nothing, really. I was hoping maybe . . . well, maybe you could talk to your bosses. . . .”

  “Boss. Singular. Wyatt Hunt. The Hunt Club. You need a private eye?”

  “I don’t know what I need, to tell you the truth, but somebody like your boss might be a good place to start. I need somebody who knows something about the law and how it works and who isn’t a cop. And it’s not for me. It’s my sister. She worked for Dominic Como.”

  “She did? What’d she do?”

  “She was his driver.”

  Mickey’s mouth all but hung open. “You’re kidding me?”

  “No. Why do you say that?”

  “ ’Cause that’s what my grandfather did for him too.”

  But just at this moment, another pair of their classmates showed up at the corner. “Maybe we can talk a little after class?” Thorpe said. “You be up for that?”

  Mickey shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  After class, back at the nearest Starbucks, Mickey removed the plastic top from his cup, blew over the coffee, and took a sip. “So,” he said, “your sister.”

  Thorpe nodded. “Alicia.”

  “Younger?”

  “Three years. She’s twenty-five. Maybe I care about her so much because she’s my only family, actually.”

  Mickey put down his cup. “I’ve got a sister who’s pretty much my only family, too, except for a grandfather.” He didn’t see any reason to include his boss, Wyatt Hunt, an adopted foster child himself, who, on his own time, back when he’d been working for the city’s Child Protective Services, had tracked down Jim Parr and convinced him to meet with his all-but-forgotten and abandoned grandchildren, a meeting that had eventually led to Jim’s job as Dominic Como’s driver and then Jim’s adoption of Mickey and Tamara less than a year later. Mickey went on. “Anyway, my dad disappeared for good when I was like two. My mom overdosed when I was seven. Heroin.”

  “Heroin,” Thorpe said. “I hate that shit, and you’re talking to one who knows.” He lifted his eyes, his voice suddenly flat. “My dad shot my mother and then killed himself when I was twelve. It wasn’t much fun.”

  “No. Doesn’t sound like it.” Mickey took a beat, let out a short breath. “That’s a worse story than mine, or damn close. And I don’t hear them too often. And now we’re both training to be chefs. Somebody should do a study. Orphans and chefs.”

  “We want to cook for people ’cause there was nobody to cook for us.”

  “Good theory. So you guys didn’t have other family?”

  “One aunt in Texas. An uncle in Florida. Neither interested.”

  “So how’d you and your sister stay connected?” Mickey asked.

  “Alicia, mostly, not giving up. We both bounced around a lot. Foster homes, you know? You too?”

  Mickey shook his head. “We didn’t have that. My grandfather—the one who drove for Como—showed up and took us in. Saved us, no doubt. Maybe himself in the bargain.”

  “Well, Alicia and me, we got split up and farmed out to different families. I got into some bad behavior mixed with drugs and wound up at the youth work farm till I was seventeen. Alicia, she moved in with three or four different families, but she had some issues of her own—guys, mostly—and none of the family units took. But somehow she kept up on me, where I was, and finally talked me into the Sunset Youth Project.”

  Mickey nodded. “One of Como’s charities.”

  “Right. Actually, the main one. So, anyway, between that place and Alicia keeping me honest, I eventually straightened out, got back into school, and then even college. A miracle, really.”

  “But now you say your sister needs a private eye around Dominic’s death?”

  Thorpe nodded. “She volunteered out at Sunset and got pretty close to him in the last few months. The cops came by and talked to her yesterday. She got the impression that she was some kind of a suspect.”

  Mickey sat with that for a moment. At last, he picked up his coffee and sipped at it. “How close was pretty close?”

  “I don’t know, not for sure.”

  “But what would you guess?”

  Thorpe made a face, then shrugged. “I’d say it wouldn’t be impossible that they were having an affair, though Alicia’s always said she’d never go out again with a married guy.”

  “Again?”

  “I told you, guys were always her problem. She’s kind of pretty, and then of course having her father kill himself, she’s got a few issues of abandonment and self-esteem. Wants to prove she’s attractive to men. You’d think after the first fifty, the issue would kind of go away. But in Dominic’s case, I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say. She did tell me, though, that she didn’t kill him.”
<
br />   “You asked?”

  He nodded. “Directly. I wanted to know what we were dealing with.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “Absolutely. She wouldn’t ever lie to me. I’m sure of that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus, you should see her. When it finally came out he was actually dead and not just missing, after you found him in the lagoon . . . I mean, she’s been crying full-time ever since.”

  Even with his limited experience of criminal matters, Mickey had learned that crying wasn’t a guarantee of innocence or of much else. Wyatt Hunt had told him that most people who kill someone close to them spend at least some time afterward crying about it for one reason or another—genuine remorse for what they’d done, or self-pity for the predicament in which they’d put themselves. “So what would you want a private investigator to do for you?” Mickey asked.

  “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I only thought of the possibility of it when I saw you on the tube and they said that’s what you were. I know it’s not much of a connection, you and me. But I thought you might be cheaper than a lawyer.”

  That drew a quick laugh. “That’s true enough. Most of the time, we work for lawyers. That’s basically the gig. So you’re right, we’d be cheaper. Although we’re probably not going to be what she needs.”

  “Well, I thought that at least you weren’t a cop out to get her. I thought maybe you could find out the truth.”

  “Often not so easy. But you should know that the cops aren’t going to be out to get her unless there’s some evidence that points to her. And then after that, the truth might not be what you want to hear, in spite of what she’s told you, or didn’t tell you.”

  “I realize that. But I feel like I . . . I mean we talked about it, and both of us feel like we ought to do something. We can’t just sit and let the cops build a case around her. Especially since it was somebody else.”