The Hunt Club (11 page)

“People are coming and going all the time. I don't pay much attention.” Franks checked the wall clock. “You said only a couple of questions…”

“Yes, I did.” Juhle's humor actually seemed to be improving—in spite of the hour, in spite of his broken bones. “Here's another one: Do you remember if anyone came to see her in the past few days? Anyone unusual?”

“I'm sorry,” Franks said, “I just never pay attention to that. We've got almost a thousand tenants, and all of them have friends and families, most of 'em unusual one way or another. People are coming and going all the time.” He straightened up off the desk. “Now if you don't need me anymore, I'm going back to bed. You can drop the key in the box when you're done.”

“Thank you, sir,” Juhle said, “we appreciate your cooperation.”

Franks shrugged. “No problem.”

In the elevator, Juhle shot a glance at Shiu. “Personable guy.”

“If that was no problem,” Shiu said, “I'd like to see him when he thinks he's got one.”

Juhle shrugged. “He's tired.”

“Who isn't?”

“Offer it up to the poor souls in purgatory.”

“What's that?”

“Purgatory? Kind of like a waiting room outside of heaven, although I vaguely remember hearing it doesn't exist anymore. Wouldn't that be a bitch? What happened to all the souls waiting around in there when they decided it wasn't there?”

“Is that a real question? Let's make this quick.”

Staci Rosalier had lived on the fourth floor, three steps across from the elevator, where the judge would face little danger of being recognized when he came to visit.

They opened the door and turned on the light. The condominium was high-end and modern in style and adornments but smaller than Juhle had imagined it would be. Twenty-five feet deep, maybe fifteen wide.

Four stools fronted a bar that ran along to their left. Behind it was a kitchen area with a sink and two-burner stove. The bar ended at a door to a small, shower-only bathroom. Directly across were full-length closet doors and built-in bookshelves filled with paperbacks. The far wall was all window, drapes open both sides, the ballyard across the way. He guessed that the couch was a sofa bed. There was a coffee table on an artsy-fartsy throw rug and a comfortable-looking brown leather chair under a reading lamp in the corner.

“The good life,” Shiu said.

“You don't like it?”

“It's a hotel room. Nobody lives here.”

“No, look,” he said. “Daffodils on the bar there. Books in the shelves.” Juhle was pulling on his surgical gloves. On the small table next to the sofa, he turned on a three-way reading light and picked up two framed photographs, one—badly out of focus—of a smiling young boy, and the other of Judge Palmer. “Personal photos. She lived here, all right, Shiu. She just didn't have much room.”

Shiu was already behind the bar, poking around in the cabinets, the drawers, the refrigerator. He was reaching into a closet when Juhle grabbed his arm. “Gloves,” he said.

Juhle opened another closet filled with clothes and a dozen or more pairs of shoes. Staci had color-coded the hangers. He turned. “Here's the wallet.” On a built-in chest of drawers. Moving out into the room, he sat on the sofa and began emptying the wallet's contents onto the coffee table in front of him. Cash—four fifties and four ones. Credit cards. Library card. Social Security. Costco. A smaller version of the same fuzzy snapshot of the boy. One of the judge—much more casual than the formal office shot she'd framed and taken in this room, Juhle realized—in the reading chair, grinning.

Juhle made an unconscious noise and the sound stopped Shiu. “What?”

“That's weird.”

“What?”

Juhle shrugged, held up a business card. “Andrea Parisi.” At Shiu's blank look, he thought fast and said, “The TV expert on the Donolan trial?”

“Ah.” Shiu placed the name, but neither it nor the card had any significance to him. “What is weird about her? She hangs out with the judge, she's going to know some lawyers. Plus,” he added, “you know as well as me, MoMo's is famous lawyer land.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Juhle didn't see any need to tell his partner that his friend Wyatt Hunt was sometimes her jogging buddy. And that he had been regaling him with Andrea Parisi fantasies for the past six weeks or so. Instead, he placed the business card back with the other contents of the wallet. “But it's funny that this is the only card she kept.”

Shiu didn't think so. “Maybe, like every other waitress in the world, she wanted to get into television.”

“That's not here. That's in L.A.”

“It's everywhere,” Shiu said. “It's a universal truth. Anyway, I bet we find a stack of other business cards in some drawer here. Either that, or Staci got that card and hadn't thrown it away yet. Besides, you and I know this doesn't have anything to do with Andrea Parisi.”

“We could pretend. Spend a little time with her cute little self.” Juhle cracked a grin, got no response from his partner, tried again. “Spend a little time with her cute—”

“I heard you.”

“That was a stab at humor.”

“Adultery's not something you joke about.”

“You are
so
wrong, Shiu. Adultery's no lower than number three on the list of all-time joke topics. In fact, there's this Irishman, Paddy, who hasn't been to church in something like twenty years, and this one day—”

“Dev.” Shiu held a palm up. “It's something
I
don't want to joke about, okay?”

“So along with religion and ethnic and gay and women, now you don't do adultery. Christ, what's left?”

“Why does there have to be anything?” Shiu sat down on one of the stools. “Devin,” he said, “it's the middle of the night. We're investigating a double homicide that's all about adultery, okay? We know we're going to arrest Jeannette Palmer in the next week, maybe sooner than that. Her life will be ruined, already is ruined. This young woman is dead. So is a federal judge. None of this is funny. And Connie wouldn't find it funny that you want to get cozy with Andrea Parisi.”

“Yeah, you're right, I'm sorry, my bad.” Juhle hung his head. “Getting cozy with Parisi, that would be wrong,” he said with deep sincerity. Then he suddenly brightened. “But, hey, maybe I could invite Connie? If you wanted in, we could make it a foursome.”

In his bed
Juhle pulled the covers up over his sling with some care. Next to him, Connie stirred. “What time is it?”

“Unreasonable. Near three, I think. You awake?”

“No.” Then: “How'd it go?”

“I think we solved the case. Surprise, it's the wife. But I've got to get a new partner.”

“You always say that. What'd he do now?”

“Nothing. He's perfect. I hate him. I even invited him to get into a love thing with you and me and Andrea Parisi, the TV fox with the Donolan trial. Turned me down flat.”

“I didn't know you knew her.”

“I don't, but I could definitely meet her around this case.”

“Is she involved in it?”

“I can't see how. But the victim had her business card, and I'm sure I could finagle an introduction.”

“Maybe it's me. Maybe Shiu doesn't find me attractive.”

“Impossible.”

“It
would
be weird,” she agreed. “Are you tired?”

“I could probably stay awake another few minutes in a crisis.”

“You know how long it's been? Since the operation.”

“Is that the last time? Nine days?”

“Actually, it was the day before that, if you're counting, which makes it ten. That qualifies as a crisis,” she said, and rolled on top of him.

Out in the warehouse,
practicing silent scales on his unplugged Strat, Hunt heard a muffled scream, Parisi coming back to consciousness. He stepped into the doorway where she could see him.

She was sitting up on his bed, the covers thrown off, in the clothes she'd been wearing last night. “Oh, my God! Wyatt? What am I…?” Her hands came up to her face, and she moaned again.

Hunt unslung his guitar and laid it on the rug. By the sink, filling a glass, he grabbed a bottle of aspirin and crossed over to her. Handing her the glass, he shook out some pills.

“Thank you.” She took them all at once, knocked back the water. “What time is it?”

“A little after eight.”

Her eyes widened, but the effort was too much. She lowered the glass into her lap. “It can't be that. I've got to…” Swinging her feet to the floor, she tried to stand but didn't make it. Putting the glass on the floor, she fell back onto the bed.

Hunt picked up the glass, went and filled it again, and came back to her. “Drink more water. You need to get hydrated.”

She raised her head. “I don't think…”

He wasn't hearing it. “Water. Water will save your life.”

She pulled her body up and drank.

“All of it,” Hunt said. “You'll be glad you did.”

She forced the rest of it down, tried to straighten up again. “I've got to get back home. I've got…”

“You want to give it a minute.”

“I can't. I've got…what day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“How did I get here?”

“I didn't know where else to take you. You passed out.”

She picked at the memory. “We were…Spencer, that bastard.” Parts of it coming back. “All along, he knew…he couldn't do anything about…”

“New York?”

She lay back into the pillow, threw an arm over her eyes. “I've got to call work.”

“I can do that for you.”

“No.” But she didn't move. Lying on the bed, breathing through her mouth.

Hunt got the phone. He had worked for her firm enough that he knew the number by heart. He also knew her secretary, Carla Shapiro, but didn't want to talk to her because she would ask him questions. So he talked to the receptionist. He was Andrea's doctor, and she had a bad case of food poisoning. She was resting and on fluids now and wouldn't be in till tomorrow.

Andrea tried to object. “Wait,” she said. “That's too…”

“Maybe this afternoon,” Hunt said into the phone, “but I'm recommending against it.”

When he hung up, she collapsed back down. “I've really got to get home.”

“You've got to get up, you've got to call work, you've got to go home. What you've got to do, Andrea, is give the alcohol time to dissipate. Get more water inside you. You're okay here. Lay back down, close your eyes, cover up. I'll unplug the phone. You go back to sleep.”

“Maybe I should.”

“No ‘maybe' about it.”

“But I need to use the bathroom.”

“Can you get up?”

“I don't know.” She sat up, tried to stand, went back down. “Maybe not.”

Hunt leaned over her. “Put your arms around my neck.”

“You don't want to…I stink,” she said. “My clothes—”

“Shut up. Arms.”

She obeyed him. He got her upright, walked her inside the bathroom, then stepped outside it, and closed the door behind him. After the flush, he heard the water running.

“Wyatt.” The voice feeble.

He opened the door. She was sitting down on the seat cover, tears in her eyes. Again he got in front of her, went to one knee. “Arms,” he said.

After a minute, she moved, and he walked her back and helped her down again to the bed. “You can take off your clothes if you want. You'll be more comfortable. I won't look.”

“Okay,” she said. But instead of making any movement to do that, she lay on her side and pulled the blankets over her. Hunt took the pillow and tucked it in under her head.

Before he straightened up, she was asleep.

When she woke up
next time, she took four more aspirin with two more glasses of water that Hunt made her drink. In the bathroom, she used the new toothbrush Hunt had given her. Now she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. With the clean white towel Hunt had supplied, she wiped the bathroom mirror in a couple of circular strokes. Her clothes lay where she'd put them in a pile on top of the hamper, under her purse, which she now brought over to the sink. The purse still contained her hairbrush and compact. She wasn't going out without using them.

When she was satisfied, she wrapped the towel up under her arms, then around her, barely preserving a technical modesty.

Wyatt Hunt wasn't in any of the rooms she'd seen, so barefoot and towel-wrapped, she walked out through the bedroom and opened the door. She got a surprise. Hunt was on her right, facing away from her, by an old, cracked leather couch and in front of a six-foot television screen that was turned off. Surrounded by several amplifiers and four guitars on their stands, he was holding a fifth and quietly playing scales on it.

Parisi's gaze went up to the ceiling, way above her. She took a silent step out into the huge open space that looked pretty much like what it was, a converted warehouse. Over to her left, a silver MINI Cooper squatted in one corner. The far wall facing her contained a desk with a computer and file cabinets. On the right-hand corner was some kind of backstop, with a few bats stuck in the fencing. Then, coming around, a set of weights. Finally, the pièce de résistance, one half of a hardwood basketball court, backboard and all, with a Golden State Warriors' logo in the key.

“Wyatt.”

He turned. His eyes immediately went to her legs, then nearly as fast came back up. “Hey,” he said. “Better?”

She couldn't go that far. “At least there's some hope I might live.” She gestured around. “This is very cool.”

Unslinging the guitar, Hunt put it back on its stand. Took the moment as an excuse not to stare at her. He cast his eyes around his space. “Yeah. I like it. You want the grand tour? You notice my professional basketball court, bought used from the Warriors for a mere four grand?”

“No. Where is that?” Joking with him. Now looking down at herself. “You wouldn't have something I could wear, do you? I couldn't bring myself to put my old clothes back on.”

Hunt decided not to say that she looked pretty damn good to him just like she was. “I'm sure I can find something,” he said.

Now she was wearing
one of his black pullovers over a T-shirt and a pair of his jeans with a length of rope to gather the waist. They were drinking coffee at the table in Hunt's kitchen. “So how do I thank you?” she asked.

“No need. You were in trouble. I'm supposed to leave you passed out in the street?”

“Some people might have.”

“No human beings.”

“Well…thank you.” She sipped at her coffee. “It keeps coming back to me. I hate a public scene.”

“I've seen worse,” Hunt said.

“Did I hit him?”

“Yes, you did. A slap, really.”

“That's inexcusable.”

Hunt shrugged. “He'd been lying to you.”

“Still. That's no excuse. Once the hitting starts, excuses get lame pretty quick.”

“I have noticed that.”

Something about the way he said it stopped her, the cup halfway to her mouth. “That sounds like personal experience?”

“Maybe a bit.”

“If you don't want to talk about it…”

“No, it's all right. I spent time in a few foster homes when I was a kid, that's all. I found that once the old corporal punishment barrier got broken…as you say, any excuse became a good one.”

She put her cup down. “You were a foster kid?”

He nodded. “For a while. Till I was eight. I was lucky. I got adopted.”

“At eight?”

“I know, it's unusual.” He made a face. “I must have been cuter then.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe in a different way. But you know, then, too, about getting hit.”

“Too? Who hit you?”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “My mother's second husband. Richie. He was a big believer in discipline, and I was his favorite.”

“Why was that?”

“You're sure you want to know this?”

“I asked.”

She sighed. “I think because I tried to fight him off. Note the key word, ‘tried.' Luckily, he was only around for a year.”

“What happened?”

“Mom found out. About me. She got him to come at her, and she killed him. They called it self-defense.”

“Sounds like it was.”

A small smile began, faded. “Close enough, I guess.” Twirling her cup on the table now. “I apologize for all the melodrama.”

“It's all right. I can take it.”

“Anyway, it's why I'm so disgusted if I hit Spencer, even if he's a shit. I thought I'd trained myself never to do that.”

“You think maybe you got drunk and saw a little of Richie in Spencer?”

“I don't want to think that. I don't want to see Richie in anybody.”

“But he's always around?”

“The memory. Somewhere, yes. And I know what you're going to say next.”

“If you do, you're a step ahead of me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Okay, so what was I going to say?”

“That you know why I crave this public adulation, the anchor thing.”

“Do you? Crave it, I mean?”

“I must. Deep down, I don't think I feel too worthy of any one person's affection. I'm damaged goods. So maybe enough love from the masses makes up for the lack of it from any one person. How's that for a theory?”

“Painful.” Hunt started to move a hand across the table to cover hers, the comfort of a sympathetic touch. He didn't let it get there.

She went on. “I can't think of how else or why else…anyway, I'm sorry.”

“Yeah,” Hunt said. “Love. That's a bad thing for a person to want.” He finished his coffee, put his cup down. “No more apologies, okay? How's the head?”

“The head pounds. The head is going for a new record.”

“Well, as long as you get something positive out of it.”

A feeble smile, then the structure of her face seemed to break somewhat. Tears threatened again. “What's really funny is that Spencer was really just the last straw. You know why I got involved with him in the first place?”

“You wanted to be a star.”

“Okay, that. But mostly to get out of San Francisco. To New York or anywhere else. And to do it as a celebrity. That would just show…” She twirled her coffee cup.

“Show what?”

“Not what. Who.” She drew a breath and spoke under it. “Another guy. We broke up six months ago, just when Donolan was starting. I was too serious, he said. He didn't want serious. Besides, he had a new girlfriend. Two years we're together, and he didn't want serious. We were adults, colleagues. The professional side would just be the same.”

“And it was?”

“That's the killer. It was.” She met Hunt's eyes. “Then Spencer showed up. And the new gig. And suddenly that all became a way to get out.”

“To get away from this other guy?”

She nodded. “I couldn't stand to keep seeing him, but we had to meet all the time. Work. Prison guard stuff, CCPOA. Piersall's bread and butter, as you know.”

But Hunt hadn't realized that. “I thought they were just another client.”

“Not exactly. In fact, they're number one for us. Six or eight million in billings.”

“Every year? Are they in the market for their own private investigator?”

“I don't think you'd like working for them.”

“For any whole number percentage of eight mil I'd try. I'd try really hard.” Hunt came back to the nut of it. “So you had to keep seeing this guy professionally? You couldn't just bail on him?”

“You don't bail on that kind of business and stay employed. Not at Piersall.”

“So New York was the answer?”

“Well, it was
an
answer.” She spun her cup, forced a weak smile. “I think it's time I called a cab.”

“You don't need a cab. I'll take you home.”

“No. You've already done too much. I'll just get a cab.”