The Hunt Club (5 page)

In my years with the CPS, many of the calls to the homes of abused children provided a similar buzz, and I came to realize that in some sense this feeling was my fix. In the five months since I'd been forced to quit, between my revenge fantasies and my anger issues, I'd given a lot of thought to the kind of professional path I eventually wanted to put myself on if I ever got myself out of the personal Dumpster. And one trait stood out. No matter what the eventual new career turned out to be, it wouldn't feature a whole lot of time in an office.

After Amy's call, I'd considered my options and finally pulled out my Canon 35 mm and my telephoto lens. I also owned a Sony video camera, which I dug out of the back of my bedroom closet. Miraculously, since I didn't even remember the last time I'd used either of them, both cameras seemed to have working batteries and film, and I put both of them and the ancillary junk into a backpack by the entrance to the alley in back off the kitchen. Then, turning off the brain, I went to bed.

When I opened my eyes to darkness for the fifth time, I finally gave up trying to sleep. Rain pelted the roof as I pulled on sweats and a windbreaker. By a little before six o'clock, the approaching dawn still not much in evidence, I was thoroughly soaked and making the turn at Cost Plus in Fisherman's Wharf, a mile and a half in eleven minutes. This was slower than I'd been at thirty, but I consoled myself with the news that it was undoubtedly faster than I'd be at forty-five.

Back home, I showered, changed, and decided to emulate Churchill while there was still time by opening a cold split of Veuve Clicquot champagne to have with my scrambled eggs. Coffee is my breakfast drink of choice as a rule, but what's the point of having a rule if you're not going to break it sometimes?

As the first order of business, I thought I'd wake him up for fun. Since I still had his home number from the CPS directory, I called him directly, heard his voice after the second ring, and hung up, smiling. I drove out to the address on Cherry Street that Amy had given me, a one-block dead end that adjoined the south border of the Presidio. It was just past eight o'clock. Parking on the opposite side of the street and a few houses away, I noticed the black Mercedes with the vanity plates that read
KIDSTUF
, his cute little play on words about the work he did at CPS. So I was at the right place. I checked my cameras one last time, still uncertain about exactly what I was planning to do. Amy had described Mayhew as partially ambulatory, but she'd also told me that he was receiving a full-disability pension. So I more or less expected that ambulatory in his case meant he could get up out of his wheelchair to walk into the bathroom or something like that.

Fifteen minutes into my first stakeout, the rain picked up again, falling in vertical sheets that partially obscured my view of the front door to Mayhew's large, two-story house, which was up twelve steps from the street level. My Lumina's windows, nearly closed against the precipitation, began to fog up. It dawned on me that if my target stayed indoors, confined to his bed or not, it was going to be a slow couple of weeks.

Not my idea of a good time.

Two options presented themselves: Call again, or knock on his door?

At CPS, the direct approach tended to produce the best results. So I waited for a slight break in the downpour, then let myself out of the car and jogged across the street and up the steps. It was still by most civilized standards a bit early for an unannounced visit, but he'd been awake enough to answer the phone an hour before, hadn't he? Compared to my half-contemplated plot to have the man murdered only a few weeks before, this interruption seemed nearly benevolent.

I rang the doorbell, waited, rang again. After another moment, I heard footsteps, and then the door opened. His wife, presumably. A well-preserved fifty, in a green housecoat. At this hour, she did not exude graciousness. “Can I help you?” She was brusque, no-nonsense. “It's rather early to be knocking on doors, don't you think?”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry, but I was hoping to talk to Mr. Mayhew.”

“I'm afraid he's not available right now. He's not been well.”

“I heard that, but this is very important. I won't take much of his time. I'm one of his former employees with CPS, Wyatt Hunt. I'm sure he'll want to see me.”

Her mouth was a tight line. “I'm not so sure of that, but if you'll wait just a minute.” She closed the door on me, and I did as she'd instructed. Waited.

More footsteps, heavier this time, and then I was looking at Mayhew. He was dressed for work, without the coat and tie. I doubted that his wife had rousted him from bed in those clothes, especially with the shoes on.

“Wilson.” It was the first time I'd called him by his first name.

He hesitated, the unaccustomed informality throwing off his timing. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

I conjured up a chill smile. “I want my job back, but it's too late for that now, isn't it?”

“That wasn't me, Mr. Hunt. You made that decision yourself.”

“What decision was that, Wilson?” I kind of liked pushing the first name. It shifted the dynamic.

“Not to accept the reprimand letter. That was your decision.”

“Yes, it was. And you know why I made it?”

“No, I don't. Doing so was foolish, though, your only chance to hold on to your career, and you threw it away.”

“Close, but actually a little off. I couldn't accept the reprimand because I didn't do anything wrong. And you knew this and lied about it.”

“You're delusional,” he said. He stepped back and started to close the door.

Rage had begun to swell like a tide within me as soon as I'd laid eyes on him, and by now I was riding it. The power of my emotions took me somewhat by surprise. Acting without any thought, I jammed my foot up against the door and leaned into it. “You're telling me to my face that you don't remember me stopping by your office to brief you about Nunoz?”

He pushed against the door forcefully, to no avail, and gave up. “It was to your face last time, too, as I recall, at the hearing. It didn't bother me then, either, because it was the truth then, too.” He smiled. “In case you're wearing a wire.” The face went dark. “Now get your foot away from the door, Mr. Hunt, or I'll be forced to call the police.” Then he added, “The last time we had a disagreement that went to a third party for adjudication, you got rather the short end of it, didn't you? Are you sure you want to go through something like that again?”

“No,” I said, “you're right.” I moved back, left the door free. “It's got to be handled differently this time.”

Placid, his head cocked in a show of curiosity, he said, “That sounds rather like a threat.”

“Does it?”

“Well, in case it was, let me just say I shall make a police report later this morning, and the next time our paths should happen to cross, I will apply for—and I assure you I will get—a restraining order issued against you.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“If I were you, I'd take it to heart and move on with my life. We're not in the same league, Mr. Hunt. I thought you'd have realized that by now.” Nodding, he said, “Have a nice day,” before he closed the door.

I got Devin Juhle
on his pager, and he called me back about a half hour later. The rain had been coming and going in fits and starts all morning, but now the random spot of blue had begun appearing through the cloud cover, which I chose to interpret as a sign of better things to come. At the big home down the street, not a creature was stirring. If I hadn't seen with my own eyes the evidence that Mayhew was suffering about as much back pain as I was, his apparent lack of activity might have discouraged me. Instead, encouraged by the certainty that his workers' comp claim was in fact bogus, I spent the time working the logistics of how best to expose him. I thought I had a decent idea.

By this time, Devin knew every nuance of my history with Mayhew. When I told him in general terms what I was doing, he perked right up, game for a little extracurricular activity on my behalf if there was even a small element of payback involved. I assured him that his involvement wouldn't take long, and my plan was so beautiful it might make him cry.

In another good omen for the home team, Devin and his partner Shane Manning weren't exactly swamped with critical homicide investigatory work at the moment. February tended to be a slow month for murder, and they were only working two cases. Beyond that, both of them were supposed to be witnesses in court that morning. Because of that they'd left the day open, but the trial had been continued for some reason, and now they faced a long afternoon with no scheduled witness interviews and no other work of burning importance. It was either come out and have some fun or sit around all day in homicide and catch up on writing reports.

Tough call.

I gave Juhle the phone number and cautioned him to make sure the call he made about Mayhew's flat tire came from a pay phone where it couldn't be traced back to anyone. “Wow, good idea, Wyatt,” he said with his patented heavy irony. “I never would have thought of that.” But in spite of the sarcasm, he and his partner were in. So I now had a makeshift staff of three, including myself, and two-thirds of it were trained police inspectors. I dubbed us all the Hunt Club. It didn't exactly make me light-headed with confidence, but the odds looked good.

What flat tire? you might ask.

The one I gave him as I hunched out of sight of the house behind his car, unscrewing the valve cap on the back right tire, then releasing the air in a satisfying hiss until the wheel had settled all the way down onto its rim. I admit that this could be seen as puerile, immature vandalism, very much beneath the mature adult I had become. But I took consolation knowing that it was, in fact, kid stuff, advertised by Mayhew himself, and I thought this gave the act a kind of elegant symmetry.

Nevertheless, my nerves were raw as I jogged back to my own car to wait. Juhle was going to make the call when he got near enough, and given all the variables with his schedule and with traffic, that might take an hour or more. Fortunately, he and Manning must have been chomping at the bit to hit the streets, and it wasn't more than twenty minutes before Dev called on my cell phone and told me he'd made the call. I should be ready.

Checking my video camera one last time, I got out of my car and went around to the passenger side, where Mayhew wouldn't see me even if he looked. I rested the camera on the car's hood to steady it and hunkered down as out of sight as I could make myself behind the vehicle. Of course, there was still a chance that Mayhew would simply call AAA or that the charming Mrs. Mayhew might come down to survey the damage and maybe even fix the tire herself. But I knew that Mayhew was already up and dressed and probably going stir-crazy in the house. He would also want to confront me if he got out fast enough and had the chance.

It might not happen. I realized that Mayhew might be cautious enough about the scam he was running that he'd keep the profile as at least a semi-invalid. But I also knew something about his arrogance and guessed that he believed that his connections and his social status would protect him from too much scrutiny. If there was any investigation going on about his workers' comp claim, he'd hear about it long before it got close enough to touch him, and he'd get back on his guard.

Besides, I had a slick backup idea involving my own suicide if this one didn't draw him out. But as it turned out, I wasn't going to need it today.

Sometimes luck does smile on the good.

As I zoomed in on videotape, Wilson came out onto his porch and, with his face set in a scowl, peered perfunctorily up and down the street. No doubt after getting Juhle's anonymous call, he thought it was me who'd flattened his tire in a fit of pique and then lit out. Certainly I wouldn't be so foolish as to wait around and take credit for the nuisance. Apparently satisfied, shaking his head in anger, he started down his front steps with a firm tread. He didn't put a hand to his sore back. He didn't reach for the metal banister that ran along the steps.

Down in the street, he circled the car. When he saw the flat, he swore violently—audible back even where I was filming—and turned a quick and, I thought, rather athletic full circle one more time, checking for a perpetrator. Swearing again, he stood still for a while, hands on his hips. I thought I might have captured enough on video already, with him walking easily down his twelve front steps, but more would be better.

I waited.

He did not disappoint. Opening the trunk, he leaned over (without bending his knees, I noticed) and rummaged a moment, then lifted out an apparently heavy bag of golf clubs, setting it down on the pavement. Another duck into the trunk produced the jack, and in under a minute, he had the thing in place, pumping with the tire iron, lifting the car.

I looked behind me at the corner and saw Juhle and Manning standing there, looking like a couple of guys taking a walk. We waved but stayed in place for another couple of minutes, watching as Mayhew undid the lug nuts. When he was just about finished, I stood up with the video camera and advanced, recording the whole way, getting to within about ten feet of him just as he pulled the tire from the wheel and stood up with it in his arms.