Treasure Hunt

by John Lescroart

  “But then we can’t use it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So how do I get around?”

  “Where do you have to go? That’s not close to your biggest problem.”

  “Good point. But how do you get around, for that matter? You don’t have a car anymore either. Plus, you can barely walk.”

  “There’s that too,” he said grimly. “You’ve got to give me a minute here.” He gently probed at his head.

  “Are you hurting bad?” she asked.

  He glanced over at her and tried a smile.

  In the living room of her Nob Hill condominium, Gina Roake sipped her Oban and said, “You’ve got a half hour to cut that out completely, buster. I mean it.”

  Wyatt Hunt, rubbing her feet on the ottoman between them, gave her a grin. “A half hour from now, I’m betting I’ll have moved on to other things.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  “You wait and see.”

  “I believe I will.” She sighed contentedly, leaned back, sipped her Scotch again. “So how close is our Inspector Juhle?”

  “He’s waiting until the DNA work comes in on the semen. But even if he gets a hit, it’s still a long way to Tipperary. It all comes down to whether or not he fired her that morning.” He nodded appreciatively at her. “And if you’re paying attention, I believe that would be your influence at work on Juhle. It’s going to be a while before he makes an arrest again before he’s got the evidence.”

  “Let’s hope. You’d think they’d teach that in cop school.”

  “They do. Then they get out into the real world and need to make arrests. Especially when they know who did it, as in this case.”

  Gina sighed. “And in so many others.”

  “Well, yes. No argument there.”

  “So they’re convinced it’s this woman Alicia?”

  “I’d say yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  Hunt considered for a moment.

  Roake softly kicked his hands. “It’s not a trick question. You don’t have to answer if it’s going to make you stop.”

  “Apologies.” Hunt’s hands went back to work on her feet. “What do I think? I think it’s highly unlikely that both Ellen Como and Al Carter independently made up the story about her getting fired the day he gets killed. I think that happened.”

  “What does she say?”

  “She says not. But then again, she would, wouldn’t she?”

  Roake shrugged.

  “So then I think,” Hunt pressed, “that if that’s true, if Como fired her, then she had a damn good reason to kill him. Especially if they were intimate.”

  “And the scarf establishes that?”

  “Pretty much. If it’s his semen.”

  Roake brought her Scotch to her lips. “Anybody ever see them together out of work? Maybe going into her place? Some motel? One of Sunset’s residential units?”

  “I haven’t heard of that. At work, yeah, according to Ellen. But I don’t think Devin and Sarah have gotten around to asking neighbors, if that’s what you mean. Except, you know, you’re alone together in a limo four or five hours a day, I’m willing to lay odds a determined couple could get in a little nooky from time to time. And it does appear, in fact, that that’s what happened, doesn’t it?”

  “Could have happened. If it was actually Como. Or Alicia, for that matter. Although it might have been neither.”

  “Neither?”

  “Neither. The driver—Carter, is it?—and his girlfriend, if any. Or one of the other young male drivers and somebody they were driving around on any given day.”

  Hunt stopped rubbing her feet again and chuckled. “Roake, you are definitely in the right field, you know that?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that your devious defense-lawyer mind just automatically sees all the ways you can rearrange and argue the facts so that the most obvious explanation gets lost in the shuffle.”

  “Well, sometimes the most obvious explanation is wrong.”

  “Most of the time, though, not.”

  “Still. Enough to make the exercise worthwhile.”

  “From what I’ve told you, don’t you think it’s likely Alicia?”

  “I have no idea.” With a sigh, she pulled her legs back off the ottoman and sat up straighter in her chair. She put her glass of Oban down on the table next to her seat. “There is simply nothing I’ve heard that comes close to convicting her, Wyatt. If I were going to be exerting any energy here, I have to tell you I’m still liking Len Turner.”

  “Who I had a nice chat with this morning, you know.”

  Roake sucked in a quick breath, concern suddenly obvious in her demeanor. “You didn’t do anything to make him feel threatened, I hope.”

  “No. He was surrounded by his gang at Como’s memorial.”

  “Do you know what, if anything, Juhle and Russo are doing about him?”

  Hunt shook his head. “No. Not much, I don’t think.”

  “Looking into his alibis, if any? Trying to get a feel for his financial records? Asking Ellen Como or anybody else about personnel or financial problems that might have come up recently between him and Como? Seeing if Turner has any kind of special relationship with any of the Battalion members?”

  “All of those would be included under the general heading of ‘not much.’ What about the Battalion?”

  “Nothing, specifically. And again, just rumors.”

  “Why am I doubting that, Roake?”

  She wilted under Hunt’s gaze. “All right,” she said. “Although it galls me if this is the way it has to get to Juhle and Russo. They should be looking in this direction already. If I didn’t think you needed to know so you’ll take Mr. Turner more seriously, I wouldn’t mention it.”

  “Okay,” Hunt said casually. “That’s a good lead- in. What do you know?”

  “I know and everybody knows that one of the Battalion’s visible roles is that for only twenty dollars, they hand out little signs you put in your window that your business supports the Sunset Youth Project. You’ve seen them all over the city, right?”

  “Right. So?”

  “So what most people don’t know is the percentage of contacted businesses of all types that support the SYP. You want to guess?”

  “All businesses?”

  “Right. Asian cleaners and restaurants, Hispanic mom and pops, Muslim shop owners, law offices, cigar stores, everybody. Take a stab.”

  Hunt shrugged. “Forty percent.”

  “Close,” Gina said. “A hundred percent.”

  Hunt was silent for a long beat. “They’re selling protection,” he said.

  “No, they couldn’t be,” Gina responded. “The city would surely bust them, would it not? Oh, except if they somehow had enough political influence to just let the practice remain a necessary evil, the cost of doing business here. The SYP is really doing a world of good for a lot of people, and that’s true. So businesses should be glad to pony up twenty bucks for such a good cause. Plus, they get the nice sign in the window.”

  “That can’t be the entire Battalion.”

  “No. It’s not. It’s only a few who go out if somebody doesn’t pay.

  Trusted senior guys. In other words, professional muscle. On the payroll, and paid for by your tax dollars, by the way.”

  “And you think Turner’s got access to these guys?”

  “Not exactly. No.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “Wyatt, I know it. Fifteen years you’re a public defender here, you learn a few things. These kids aren’t angels to begin with, you know. Como gives them the jobs, strictly legit, tutoring and cleaning up at Ortega, passing out political pamphlets and like that. Eventually the promising ones are in the Battalion, moving up, getting paid decent money. AmeriCorps money, by the way. Life’s good. Turner picks a few every year and just tells them if they want to stay on, they’ll just do this or that. Break the window on this store, va
ndalize that flower shop, strong-arm some liquor store clerk. Otherwise, they go back to jail.”

  “And Como didn’t know about this?”

  Gina shrugged. “Maybe he did. I don’t know. But he wouldn’t have had to. Or maybe it was his cost of doing business and he thought it was a fair trade. Or maybe he just found out last week and he called Turner on it.”

  “You’re saying Turner could have one of these Battalion kids kill for him?”

  “I’m saying if I were Juhle or Russo, at least I’d try to rule it out. Oh, and if it turns out this is any part of it, I told Jeff Elliot I’d split the reward with him.”

  “I’ll put that in my report if the time comes. With a strong recommendation.”

  “I’ve got a strong recommendation for you.” Roake drained the last of her Scotch, and placed it down on the lamp table with finality. She reached over, took his hand, and stood up. “If you want to get the lights.”

  26

  It was by no means the obvious choice.

  In fact, it was risky and desperate, but Mickey couldn’t think of another solution.

  Alicia had abandoned her own digs. If Juhle and Russo were planning to put her under arrest, the next place they would look would probably be Ian’s, who was listed at Morton’s as her primary contact in case of an emergency. As she’d told Mickey, none of her girlfriends lived alone, so they were out. And once they realized that Mickey had disappeared from the hospital, they would undoubtedly come to his place. They could go to a motel, of course, but that was both expensive and impractical—they would have to register and he, with a black eye and his arm in a cast, would be easy to identify.

  Eventually he formed his plan, and under his direction, she took the 280 Freeway to the Sixth Street exit and turned right onto Brannan, then made a U-turn and pulled into the depressed curb space outside an industrial roll-up garage door to a good-sized and completely darkened warehouse. Mickey got out into the now frankly bitter night and pushed the button on the box next to the metal door adjacent to the garage’s entrance.

  When no one answered, he got back into the car and directed Alicia to turn right at the next corner, then to take another quick right into the alley behind Brannan. She pulled over and stopped by a low stoop under a darkened door that he knew to be painted bright orange by day. The light over the door, and all the windows in a row high along the wall, were dark. But Mickey knew where he was going as he got out of the car again and found the key right where it was supposed to be, tucked into a magnet case that was stuck against the upper inside edge of a floor vent on the side of the stoop.

  He told Alicia to wait where she was. Then, opening the back door, he let himself into Hunt’s warehouse on the residential side. He deactivated the alarm, and then, turning on lights as he walked through the kitchen, den, hallway by the bedroom, he let himself into the massive basketball court side, then crossed to the door next to the garage and unlocked it. Retracing his steps, in spite of his gimpy walk, he was in seconds back in Alicia’s car, directing her down to the end of the alley, then through another couple of right turns back onto Brannan, and then waiting by the curb while he let himself in again, and pushed the button to raise the garage door. As soon as she was all the way inside, with Mickey getting her parked so she’d be out of the way of Wyatt’s Cooper, another push of the button let the garage door down.

  Alicia let herself out of the car and stood dumbstruck, turning all the way around as she attempted to take it all in—the half basketball court, the guitars and audio stuff, the computers against the opposite wall. “Where are we?” she finally asked.

  “My boss lives here. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Unbelievable.”

  It may have been unbelievable, but it was also very cold on this side of the warehouse, and in another minute they were inside the living area, where the temperature was close to seventy degrees. Alicia found herself a seat in a leather- and-chrome reading chair in the den and Mickey went to help himself to a couple of beers from Hunt’s refrigerator. He brought back the Pilsner Urquells and a corkscrew that doubled as a bottle opener. “I could open these,” he said, “but I bet you could do it easier.”

  “I bet I could too.” She opened both bottles, passed one to Mickey, who gingerly sat on Hunt’s tan leather couch. “So did I miss something?” she asked. “Does your boss know we were coming here?”

  Mickey tipped up his bottle. “I don’t see how he could have, since I didn’t know it myself until about a half hour ago.”

  “But—”

  “Yeah, I know. It could be a problem, but I don’t think so. Wyatt’s a good guy and he’s on the right side. Besides that, and more important, Juhle wouldn’t ever believe that he’d be keeping you here. Not without telling him. And at least until there’s a warrant out for you, there’s no legal issue. You can stay anywhere you want.”

  “So we’re staying here?”

  “That’s my plan.” Mickey sipped more beer. “For a few days anyway. It’s the safest place I can think of. Plus your car’s off the street. Presto, you’re disappeared.”

  “That’s scary.”

  “Maybe. But a lot safer for you. And not just because of Juhle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean whoever killed Dominic and Neshek. If they know you’re a suspect and you, say, show up dead, looking like a suicide, well, now, wouldn’t that be convenient?”

  “Now you are scaring me.”

  “Well, that’s one of the reasons I thought of coming here. You’re safe here. From everybody.”

  Alicia digested that for a long moment. “So when is Mr. Hunt getting home?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime.”

  “You don’t want to call him and leave a message we’re here?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mickey said. He didn’t want to give Hunt the option of ordering them out—not an impossibility—before he’d had a chance to argue for his position. “It might be better as a surprise.”

  “Nobody ever cooks for me,” Mickey said, “except in restaurants.”

  “Well, I do now.”

  At ten-fourteen on this Wednesday night, Alicia was standing over a bowl of half a dozen broken eggs in Hunt’s kitchen by his four-burner Viking stove. Mickey had stolen one of Hunt’s short-sleeved sweatshirts and he and Alicia had maneuvered it down over his cast and now he sat—nearly reclined, actually—at the kitchen table. She’d already set out a couple of plates and utensils and had bread going in the toaster. He held his just-opened third beer in his right hand.

  Pouring the eggs into the skillet, she pinched some salt and pepper over them, then opened the spice cabinet over the kitchen counter and took down a small bottle of yellowish liquid. “Truffle oil? Normal people have truffle oil?”

  “Don’t leave home without it,” Mickey said. “Sure.”

  “Should I put some in?”

  “Every chance you get.”

  In a small stream, she added some of the magical stuff, gathered the eggs with a spatula, then turned off the heat as the toast popped up. After buttering it, she put a slice on each plate, ladled the eggs onto each, covering both pieces of toast completely, then topping the mass with another pat of butter.

  Mickey picked up his fork and took a bite. “These are perfect,” he said.

  After they’d finished their eggs and Alicia had washed up, they were back in the den. Mickey had perked up when they’d first arrived, and that burst of energy had carried him through their meal. But now he sat slumped down in the reading chair, feet up on an ottoman, head on a pillow, covered with a blanket that Alicia had found next to the pillow on the top shelf of Hunt’s bedroom closet. “The couch opens up.” His voice sounded thick and groggy. “You can sleep there.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m good here. I’m almost asleep already.”

  “Sorry, Mick. You’re mangled and battered. You get the bed. Period.”

  “Are we going to have a fight about this
?”

  She was already pulling the cushions off the couch. “No. You’re going to get in the bed as soon as I get it made.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’ve got my trusty sleeping bag and pad in the back of my car out there.” She pulled out the couch mattress, which was already made up for guests with a sheet and a blanket. Then, pulling down a corner of the blanket, she turned to face him. “Do you need help getting up?”

  “No.” But even as he said it, he winced at the attempt.

  “Stop.” She stepped over and took off his shoes, then held his feet up while she moved the ottoman out from under them. Next she removed the blanket and draped it over the bed.

  With his feet flat on the floor, he took her hand with his good arm and lifted himself into a sitting position while she went to one knee in front of him.

  “Okay,” she said. “Good arm around my neck. Easy, easy.”

  Suppressing the urge to moan, he was up, still leaning on her.

  She guided him over a few steps, then helped him down so that he was sitting on the bed. Finally, she put his pillow down where his head would be, lifted his feet, and turned him so that he could recline fully. She pulled the oversheet and both blankets over him and tucked them in. Then she lowered herself and sat on the edge of the bed. “How’s that?”

  Clearly, the movement had cost him. Any boost he’d felt when they’d first gotten here had dissipated with the adrenaline and the beer. Now a light sweat had broken on his forehead and he was breathing through the pain in his ribs, slowly and deeply through parsed lips. “Good.”

  “Would you tell me if it was bad?”

  “Maybe.” He broke a tired smile. “Probably not.”

  “You macho guys.” She gently wiped his forehead with a corner of the oversheet, then tucked it back around him. After a minute her shoulders settled and she let out a long sigh. “I’m so sorry, Mickey.”