Treasure Hunt

by John Lescroart

  “For what?”

  “Getting you into this.”

  “You didn’t get me into this. I got me into this.”

  She brooded on that for a long beat. “Not really. If I . . .” She exhaled heavily again. “Anyway, I don’t know how I can thank you. I don’t know what I’d be doing right now if it wasn’t for you.”

  “You’d be fine.”

  “No. I’d be running, I think. Though I see now how dumb that would be.”

  He shook his head ever so slightly. “There’s no need to run. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

  “But I wouldn’t have known that if not for you. I’d have just screwed up more.”

  Mickey put his hand softly on her thigh. “You haven’t screwed up. You didn’t do anything wrong. Look at me. Alicia, look at me. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  She turned to face him, but couldn’t hold his gaze. Rather, her mouth trembled and she closed her eyes. She put her hand over his as though grasping it for support. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Mickey studied her face, on the verge of tears. And then heavy drops formed and fell at the same time from both of her eyes.

  “Hey.” Mickey squeezed her leg. “Hey, now, it’s going to be all right.”

  But she was shaking her head from side to side. “No. I have screwed up. I did do something wrong.”

  “No, you didn’t. You just—”

  “I did, Mickey, I did. I . . . I lied to those inspectors. I’ve even been lying to you.” Now she looked straight down at him. “That last morning when I came in to work? Dominic’s last day?”

  “What about it?”

  “He did fire me. He said I couldn’t work at Sunset anymore. He couldn’t see me anymore either. He said we could never see each other again.” Her shoulders began to shake, and a deep wrenching sob broke from her throat.

  Tamara got ready for bed and then turned on the television to watch the late news.

  Generally preferring to read or, in the old days when she had a social life, to hang out with friends, she almost never watched TV. But tonight it was the only thing she could think of to keep herself from imploding with frustration, concern, and anger.

  Mostly anger.

  Jim Parr still hadn’t made it home. Where the hell had he gone, and why wouldn’t he have called if he’d known he was going to be so late? But of course, he didn’t have a cell phone, had never bothered to learn how to use one. As if this took some sort of special dexterity or brains. She had already decided that she and Mickey were going to buy him one immediately if not sooner. Of course, then he probably wouldn’t pick it up when the damn thing rang on his belt. He had nothing but scorn for her and Mickey “being the slaves to technology” anyway.

  Beyond that, she would be good and goddamned if she would try getting through the Gestapo switchboard at San Francisco General again to try to talk to Mickey. She did consider testing her Volkswagen and driving down there, but in the end decided that, since it was past visiting hours, she’d have less chance actually seeing him than she would talking to him on the telephone. And wasn’t it just the perfect karma for today that Mick’s cell phone had died in the accident so she couldn’t call him directly?

  That was really special, and further proof that God hated her.

  And when Wyatt Hunt had dropped her off at her home earlier, he told her that he had a date with Gina Roake, and it was far too late to interrupt them, even if she thought Wyatt might have been able to help in some way. Which she didn’t.

  Finally, she knew she could call the police and report her grandfather as missing, except that it was decidedly premature for that. She knew from work that authorities would do nothing about a missing person report until that person had been missing for at least three days. Beyond that, Jim had been home most nights for the past six months since Tamara had lived here, but at least three times he’d wound up staying out somewhere mysterious and didn’t seem to feel the need to explain where or to check in with his grandchildren. She’d thought it was just drinking and probably passing out at the apartment of one of his bocce-ball companions, but then she’d discovered the plastic container of Viagra (certainly not Mickey’s) when she’d been cleaning up one day, and a little later had overheard him bragging to Mick that he’d “gotten lucky.”

  But, the whole tenor of the evening nagging at her, she thought she’d better at least check the late- night news to see if there was anything about a body of an old man being found in a ditch or somewhere. But though there was no shortage of murder and mayhem in and around the greater Bay Area, there was no mention of anyone who could have been her grandfather.

  At the end of the program, the smiling weatherman informed her that the northern storm whose lower edge had arrived in the city this morning would really slam them tomorrow. It would be cold and wet, great news for a drought-starved state. And more good news—it was expected to drop up to four feet of snow in the Sierra.

  Somehow underwhelmed by all the terrific weather and other news, Tamara hit the remote, pulled the covers over her head on the Murphy bed, turned onto her side, and went to sleep.

  27

  Hunt liked to run most mornings, but he wasn’t a fanatic. When the weather turned this ugly, he thought he could let a day go by and not miss it too much. He’d pump some iron at home and maybe get in a sprint workout on the court and could still be showered and shaved, dressed, and ready to head for work by eight.

  With his windshield wipers slapping away, at a few minutes after six o’clock Hunt depressed the garage door button on his car’s visor and started to turn in, only to abruptly slam on his brakes. Just there to his right, parked along the wall, was a dark blue Honda Element. A frown creased his brow, and he considered jamming his car into reverse, backing out of there, and calling the police, telling them he had an intruder.

  Instead, though, he scanned the open space in front of him. The Cooper’s lights were still on, and he could see at a glance that no one was lying in wait for him, although someone could conceivably be using the Honda for cover.

  His heart pumping in his ears, he pushed the visor button and heard the garage door beginning to close behind him.

  Moving the Cooper forward, he next pushed the dashboard button to shut off his engine, pulled out his keys, and opened his car door. His car’s beams now were out, and crouching low, he scampered over to the light switch next to the metal door and brought up the room lights.

  Nothing. And nothing looked to have been touched. On this side of the warehouse, anyway.

  Hunt owned a couple of guns. He generally did not carry them with him, and didn’t have them now. They were locked into a hidden safe under a pull-up board in the floor in his bedroom.

  Note to self, he was thinking. When you’re working on any aspect of a murder case, carry your piece. You just never know.

  But if that was today’s lesson, it was too late to benefit from it now. Again he considered letting himself out into the downpour, using his cell phone, getting a police presence or some reinforcements. But again, something stopped him.

  It was all so quiet. His alarm should have gone off.

  Every nerve on full alert, he walked over to the Element and dared a quick look inside. Through the slightly tinted window, he could see that the backseats had been folded up to the sides. There looked to be a pile of clothes covering the floor. All but tiptoeing now, he crossed his basketball court and got to the inner door, which was unlocked, and opened it without a sound. The rooms on this side of the warehouse would only be naturally lit by the high windows in the far wall, and little of that light penetrated to this hallway, which was close to pitch-black.

  Now he didn’t hesitate at all, but picked his steps as quietly as he could into his bedroom. Dim light from the windows here relieved the blackness of the hall, but not by much. Over in the corner, he lifted the edge of the throw rug.

  By now he was breathing hard and drops of sweat were beginning to stand out on his forehead. Somebody was
still in or had been in his place. And if he was going to meet them, even if it was someone he might know from somewhere (enough that they knew about his alarm and its secret code), it was going to be on his terms.

  He pulled up the floorboard and silently lifted it away. The last time he’d closed his safe, as was his habit, he’d set it so that the combination was mostly set and needed only a half turn to the right. This time, it worked as it should, and he reached in and lifted out his .380 ACP Sig Sauer P232. The gun was loaded and he released the safety and snicked a round into the chamber.

  Then walked back out into the hallway, turning on the lights as he went.

  Hunt was by no means over his adrenaline rush and his anger and he spoke in a whisper, all the more intimidating for its control. “You could have so easily gotten yourself killed. Both of you. I can’t believe how stupid this is.”

  They were all sitting at the kitchen table. The gun, safety now back on, rested on the counter behind them. Mickey was still barefoot in his jeans and Hunt’s sweatshirt, augmented by the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Alicia, barefoot, wore her jeans from last night, though she’d thrown on a brown turtleneck sweater from the stash in her car.

  Alicia raised her eyes to meet Hunt’s. “I’ll go if you want me to.”

  “No!” At his outburst, Mickey clutched at his ribs.

  Hunt’s expression dark, he turned to his employee. “That’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard, Mick.”

  “And where’s she supposed to go?”

  “How about back home? How about to her regular life?”

  Mickey, very slowly, shook his head. “She’s not going to have a regular life until this is over, Wyatt. Juhle and Russo think it’s her. You told me that yourself.”

  “I also told you they’re a long way from a warrant.”

  “That could change in a heartbeat. And besides, it’s not just them.”

  “It’s not?”

  Alicia took the opportunity to break in. “Mickey thinks that whoever really did this might . . . might want to kill me too.”

  Hunt’s mouth twitched in derision. “And why would they want to do this?”

  “If she’s the main suspect,” Mickey said, “and then she kills herself, or it’s made to look like she kills herself, the investigation goes away.”

  Hunt took a beat. “I’ve always said you’ve got a good imagination, Mick.”

  “This guy’s already killed two people. Why wouldn’t he kill somebody else if it would end it? You don’t think that could happen?”

  “A lot of things could happen, Mick. Do I think there’s a likelihood?” He turned his gaze from one of them to the other. “No.”

  “Yeah? Well, I don’t want to bet on likelihoods. Any likelihood at all is too much. You want to bet Alicia’s life that something like that won’t happen? We just can’t do that.”

  Hunt blew out a heavy breath.

  “Look,” Mickey went on. “We took this job, among other reasons, to investigate this murder, now these murders, and try our damnedest to keep Alicia out of jail—”

  “That’s not why we took this job.”

  “Yes, it is, Wyatt. It is exactly. It’s what I promised her before I even came to you about the rewards.”

  This unexpected information didn’t make Hunt any happier. “It might have been nice to let me know about that a little sooner.”

  Mickey started to shrug, but the pain stopped him. “It’s what I did, Wyatt. It seemed like the right thing. Alicia did not do this. Either of these.”

  Hunt’s glance at Alicia made it clear that he wasn’t close to sold on this story. He came back at Mickey. “So what do you propose we do, as opposed to what we’ve already been doing trying to investigate these murders?”

  “Well, first,” Mickey said without hesitation, “for her own safety, she stays here.” He held up his good hand. “Look, there’s no warrant out on her. Devin and Russo haven’t even asked her to check in with them. So she’s just hard to find, visiting a friend, however you want to spin it, if it comes up at all.”

  “What if they get a warrant? Or the Grand Jury gives ’em an indictment?”

  “You told me that won’t happen at least until they get the other DNA. And even with the DNA, where’s the case against Alicia?” Mickey looked over at her, seemingly took strength from her expression of gratitude. “And if they come back with a warrant or indictment, then we ask Gina to come aboard as her lawyer.”

  For the first time, Hunt relaxed his fierce front. “And wouldn’t Devin love that?”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Except Mickey wasn’t done. “But that’s not going to happen, Wyatt. Devin and Russo haven’t even looked at Neshek yet. There’ll be clues at the crime scene there, the investigation is going to open up. Something will break. Or else one of our reward people will come up with something. At least it’ll move in a different direction, and then Alicia can go back to her life.”

  “And in the meanwhile, she’s here?”

  “Nobody’s going to look for her here, Wyatt. She can sleep in her car. You won’t even know it.”

  Hunt looked from one of them back to the other. “I hate this,” he said.

  But then, unbidden and unwelcome, he recalled the discussion he’d had with Gina the night before. All of the unanswered questions about the money, about Len Turner, about his connections, if any, to the Battalion. And Mickey was right—even forgetting the Nancy Neshek homicide, all of that was stuff Devin and Sarah had barely begun to look at.

  Still, Mickey had without his permission moved a murder suspect into his home. Had essentially committed the firm to take her on as a de facto client, and one who didn’t seem likely to come up with a retainer. But, even beyond all that, was Mickey’s point that if the damned woman was in fact innocent, she might be at risk. And now he’d made it Hunt’s business.

  “You know what they say about fish and guests?” he asked. “After three days, both stink.” Hunt’s face had reverted back to where it had been all morning. Unyielding. “So three days. That’s my best offer. Then we figure out some other accommodation.”

  He pushed back his chair, got up, grabbed the gun, and walked off down the hallway toward his bedroom.

  The windshield wipers kept up their regular rhythm. Hunt, grim-faced, waited out the red light on Market. Finally, he turned to Mickey. “You’re sure you’re okay to be moving around?”

  Mickey barely inclined his head. “I moved around more last night.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I’ll be all right. We’ve only got three days.”

  “It might be longer than that. You might want to prepare yourself. It probably will be, in fact, so don’t get your hopes up. And then where does she go?”

  “As you say, we’ll figure something out. I’ve got some people I know from cooking classes who might let her crash with them.”

  “Yeah,” Hunt said. “Make more friends.”

  The light turned green ahead of them. The line of traffic did not move. The driver behind Hunt laid on his horn, and Hunt said, “I wonder if he’d do that if he knew I was packing.”

  Mickey received this intelligence in silence, but he shot a quick look over at his boss. Say what he would to the contrary, Hunt’s decision to carry a gun on him marked a sharp escalation in his estimation of the dangers of this case.

  “So,” Hunt said. “When I got there this morning, you were both on the sofa bed. You want to elaborate on that? And in case you’re wondering, it’s not really a question of whether you want to or not. I need to know your relationship.”

  “Friends. But, yes, I find her attractive. I’m attracted to her.”

  “You tell her that?”

  “I think she’s probably figured it out. But nothing’s happened. Nothing. She was nervous out in her car alone.”

  Finally, they rolled ahead about two car lengths. Six or eight cars ahead of them, the light turned red again. “So how do you know she’s innocent
? And you do realize, I hope, that you are betting your life, and maybe mine, on that.”

  “I think you can tell when someone is a good person. Some people. And I know all about what you’re going to say about you and Tam and Craig, but Alicia is different. She’s real, she’s consistent. Just last night, she even told me the one thing she’d done that she felt she hadn’t handled correctly in this investigation. And nobody made her tell me that. She just wanted to be completely honest.”

  “And what was that?”

  The office door opened and Tamara raised her head and turned, her eyes wide with surprise. “Mickey! What are you . . . ? I was going to come down and get you at the hospital in a couple of hours. How are you...?”

  But in the palpable tension, she shut up.

  Hunt, a couple of steps behind him, let Mickey step out of the way—just barely—and then, with a curt nod and no greeting, passed around Tamara’s desk to his own door, which he opened and then turned back to her. “I’m not to be disturbed. Half an hour,” he said. “No exceptions.”

  He closed the door silently behind him.

  Mickey slowly and carefully lowered himself into the one client’s chair. For a very long moment, the siblings just stared at each other. Finally, Tamara drew a deep breath. “This is going to sound like a ridiculous question since you’ve been in the hospital, but have you heard from Jim?”

  “Have I heard from Jim?”

  She nodded. “He was supposed to go to the memorial yesterday, though I don’t know if he actually did. And in any event, he didn’t come home last night. I’ve been worried sick about him.”

  28

  Al Carter was reluctant to make too many changes in his habits lest he call undue attention to himself. So on Thursday morning he presented himself at the Ortega campus at eight-twenty, which was the new time he’d been coming in since Dominic Como had originally gone missing. Of course, there was still no limo, but he had to believe that things someday would return to normal; and when they did, he didn’t want to have lost his place in the pecking order.