The Hunt Club

16

Spencer Fairchild had been the line producer on more than twenty-five trials nationwide for Trial TV, and in his opinion, the trial of Randy Donolan for the double murder of his wife, Chrissa, and her lover, Josh Eberly, was the absolutely best one he'd ever been involved with.

It had it all.

Randy Donolan was thirty-one to Chrissa's twenty-six to Josh's seventeen. Both of the adults were attractive, though neither matched Eberly for sheer heartbreaking sex appeal. Chrissa had been substitute-teaching PE and history at Lincoln High School when she met Josh, and they'd begun their affair within a couple of weeks. Right up until the day of his arrest over a year and a half ago, Randy had run a small but enthusiastic fundamentalist Christian ministry (and Web site startup business) out of his house in the Sunset District.

Although Josh's and Chrissa's bodies had not been found to date, samples of blood types matching both of theirs, as well as DNA-matched hairs from each of them, had turned up in the truck bed of the vehicle that Randy used for his pastoral and Web-master duties. That truck turned out to be owned by a parishioner named Gerry Coombs. When the police discovered the blood and hair in Gerry's truck, Mr. Coombs found an altogether different religion and became the chief state witness against Randy, with whom he'd been having a homosexual affair.

Among the dozens of allegations of one type or another that came out before and during the trial were the proposals that Gerry, Randy, and Chrissa had been involved for some time as a threesome; that Josh had decided to cut Randy out and leave Gerry and Chrissa; that Chrissa loved Josh and wanted to marry him; that Gerry had actually done the killings at Randy's request; and just about all other possible variations on the theme. Which in the San Francisco environment were nearly endless.

From the get-go, the case had been a gold mine for Trial TV.

And now, as if the case didn't already have enough complications, the extremely coolheaded, logical, and knowledgeable babe Andrea Parisi, who'd been explaining the meaning and nuance of every defense strategy and move since Day One, had apparently disappeared.

Wu's early-morning call to Spencer Fairchild had alerted him to this fact before he'd left his apartment. Andrea had been upset the other night, of course-he really didn't blame her-but it never occurred to him, even if she weren't going back to New York, that she would do anything to jeopardize the position she'd created for herself here in San Fran. After all, she was definitely on the inside track for any future trials here. She had kicked ass on camera. And the money they were paying her, even given that in her everyday life she was a highly paid lawyer, was not chump change. To say nothing of the notoriety and branding, both for her and her firm.

Even if her one first shot at the Apple hadn't worked out, Fairchild didn't doubt that she would realize that she was still young. A little more seasoning, a different break here or there, and she would be ready. And even if she wasn't, what she had here was not just good-television is a career-making medium, and she was already a star. She'd get over the affront to her amour propre. It was part of the business.

So his initial feeling after he talked to Wu was that Andrea was probably off pouting and would be back in plenty of time, at least for the afternoon court session and definitely for when she was really needed at the wrap-up. This was the segment after the court adjourned for the day, usually no earlier than four o'clock, when she and Tombo would not only review the day's major events but put them in context from the defense and prosecution sides, respectively. Great television, especially when they'd get into it with one another, as they sometimes did.

But he didn't like to lose tabs on the "talent," and just to be safe, he'd done a little calling around-to Andrea's completely private, off-limits-to-anyone-else, emergency-only Trial TV-issued cell number, then to Richard Tombo's home. Knowing that Wyatt Hunt had run out after her the other night, he had called The Hunt Club and talked briefly with Tamara, who was trying to locate Andrea herself. At Piersall, he talked to Carla, whom he knew and who, he felt sure, admired the hell out of him, and she really, truly hadn't heard from her boss. She was worried.

Now Fairchild was sitting across from Richard Tombo about to order what passed for lunch at Lou the Greek's, a semi-subterranean, dark, and marginally hygienic bar/restaurant across the street from the steps of the Hall of Justice. Today, Judge Villars had dismissed the Donolan morning session at eleven thirty, and so there were still a couple of booths available under the small and grimy alley windows along one side. In spite of Lou's drawbacks, which to Fairchild were legion-the food, the atmosphere, the lighting, the food, the smell, the food, and particularly the daily special, which was the only menu item-it was a popular place within the legal and law-enforcement communities and had been for more than twenty-five years. It was SRO from noon until about one thirty, two and three deep at the bar.

Tombo was either an old thirties or a young forties. Wide-shouldered, substantial without being fat in the waist, a little above average height. His skin was very dark, his head buzzed, his dark suits always impeccable. Hints of gray accented his well-trimmed goatee. A wide, somewhat flattened nose bisected an almost exactly symmetrical face, and this gave him a definable and pleasant look-perfectly normal and yet somewhat unusual at the same time. His deep chocolate eyes, potentially so soulful, often winked out between laugh lines. In his own way, Tombo was as attractive as Parisi, and this, of course, was a large part of the reason Fairchild had chosen them.

Fairchild was finally getting around to telling Tombo about Parisi's reaction two nights ago. "That's what this disappearing act is about, I'm sure. But let me ask you, Rich, did I ever pretend that I had that kind of pull? Haven't I always told both of you to just enjoy this ride while it's here because there's no telling when it's going to come again?"

Tombo picked up a green pod of edamame from a bowl of them on the table, popped it open, and emptied the beans that were inside into his palm. "Evidently she didn't get that message somehow."

"I never lied to her."

"I'm not saying you did." He picked one bean and put it in his mouth. "She might have gotten a different impression is all I'm saying. With you both being so tight and all."

"No tighter professionally, I mean, than you and I have been. It's been a team all the way, the three of us."

The laugh lines showed. "Yeah, well, I wasn't just talking about the professional thing."

"Okay, fair enough. But the first time I got a vibe that she was really thinking New York was on the plate was Tuesday night. That is no bullshit. That's the first time. I mean, that she was counting on it as the next step, that it was actually going to happen. As soon as she said that…well, I had to set her straight. And that's when it started to get a little heavy. What are those things, anyway?"

Tombo, opening another shell, looked down. "Edamame. Soybeans. Great stuff." He looked around the crowded room. "Lou's stepping it up, going gourmet."

Fairchild said, "You notice the special coming in? Tempura dolmas? What is that?"

"As you say, it's the special. Sui generis." Tombo paused, translated roughly. "It's own thing."

"Maybe that, but we've got a ways to go to get to gourmet."

Tombo shrugged. "Depends on your definition. In the Sudan, this stuff would cause food riots." He threw some soybeans into his mouth. "So where is she, you think?"

"Laying low. Sending a message. Trying to get to me."

Tombo clucked sympathetically. "Thinking it's personal."

Fairchild cocked his head, wondering if Tombo was mocking him. "Exactly," he said. "She'll be back by the wrap-up, I'm sure."

"Let's hope."

"Well, if not, you'll carry it fine." The waitress came by with a tray of water glasses, put two on their table, took their unnecessary order for the record-the dolmas special. When she'd gone, Fairchild picked up his glass. "Tell me honestly, Rich, what did you think you were doing after this trial?"

Tombo shrugged. "Going back to billable work. God, that sounds horrible now that I think about it." The eyes lit up again. "Hey, maybe we can pull a few strings and get George Palmer's killer into trial in ten days or so. Wouldn't that be great?"

"Terrific. But wouldn't they have to catch him first?"

"If it's a him. Speaking of which, check this out." Tombo's gaze had gone to the crowd by the door, where two figures who were familiar to him had broken through. "Juhle and Shiu," he said. "And it looks like they're coming our way."

Tombo had been an assistant district attorney for nine years before going into private practice. He knew both Juhle and Shiu and had followed their assignment in the Palmer case. When they got to the table-he'd called it; they were coming right to him and Fairchild-he made the introductions. He and Fairchild made room for the inspectors by sliding over on their benches, and now the seating in the booth was a little tight. And Shiu started right in. "We were just on our way over to Andrea Parisi's firm, and Devin thought you guys would be down here, so we could hit you first. In fact, we were kind of hoping that Parisi would be with you."

"No," Fairchild said. "It's just us guys so far. As you can see."

"Have you talked to her today?" Shiu asked.

"Not yet. She's not due till the afternoon gavel, and sometimes she's got other work and misses that." Fairchild shrugged as though this were no issue at all. "I expect her around for the wrap-up, though, you want to stop by then."

"What's up, guys?" Tombo asked.

"Well, since we're here, anyway, for starters," Shiu said, "we wonder if either of you could tell us a little about the extent of her involvement with the prison guards' union?"

"You mean, beyond them being her client?" Fairchild asked.

"Piersall's client, you mean," Shiu said.

The producer shrugged. "Okay, sure, but she worked on their stuff all the time."

"Maybe I'm missing something," Tombo said. "You guys are on Palmer's murder, right? What's Andrea got to do with that? Or the prison guards, for that matter?"

Juhle stepped in. His partner had said too much already. "We don't know," he said. "All we've got are some dots we thought Parisi could connect."

"About Palmer?" Tombo asked, followed by Fairchild's, "Like what?"

Juhle didn't like to give information out to television people. He offered both men a bland smile and asked his own question instead. "Has she ever mentioned a young woman named Staci Rosalier to either of you?"

Tombo shook his head. Fairchild frowned.

"Ring a bell?" Juhle picked up something in Fairchild's expression.

"No. Not from Andrea. The name's familiar, though."

"She was the other victim," Shiu said. "The other woman with Palmer."

"That's it," Fairchild said. "That's where I heard it. What's her connection to Andrea?"

Juhle reached for an edamame. "That's what we want to know."

Tombo and Fairchild shared a blank look.

Shiu said, "Okay, let's go back to the prison guards for a minute." He turned to Fairchild. "You said she worked with them all the time. So she must have been aware of Palmer's, um, problems with them."

"Sure," Fairchild said. "But who isn't? Some article's in the paper every couple of weeks, right? Inmates killed by their guards by mistake up at Folsom. Mexican Mafia's making a fortune running drugs out of Pelican Bay. They're staging gladiator fights to the death with the prisoners at Corcoran. Half the prison doctors have rap sheets of their own, don't have current licenses, give the wrong prescriptions. And every time, Palmer's threatening that this time he's shutting the union down. The guards are out of control. If the union can't discipline itself, he'll put it under federal jurisdiction. Well, guess who he communicates all this to the union through?"

"Wait a minute." Tombo came forward, no sign of laughter in his eyes now. "You think the CCPOA had something to do with Palmer's death?"

"We don't know," Shiu said. "We do know the union has muscle and isn't afraid to use it. We also know that people who run against the candidates it supports, especially in the rural counties, have had bad things happen to them, to their campaign headquarters, like that."

Juhle had listened to enough of Shiu's irresponsible chatter. Next he was going to tell them that they were looking into the possibility that Jeannette had paid somebody, maybe one of Palmer's union enemies, to kill him. This was where they'd been in Lanier's office early in the day. But since then, having come that far, Shiu might tell them that they'd realized that they didn't need Jeannette as the prime mover at all. It might have been some union henchman all on his own. Pretty soon, if Shiu kept it up, they'd hear all of their theories on television. "Anyway, what we'd like to see Parisi about," he said, "is maybe some context on this, that's all."

"But you've got her with the other victim somehow," Tombo said. "Isn't that right?"

Juhle evaded. "Again, context." He was getting out of the booth, his body language bringing Shiu up and out along with him. "When you do see her," he said in his most amiable tone, "would you mind telling her we'd like to talk to her? If we don't before, ask her to wait around, and we'll catch her on the wrap-up."

"This incredible story she was going to break." Fairchild didn't appear to be having any trouble with the dolmas. He was finishing his fourth. "That was why New York was really going to want her. She was going to be this amazing investigative reporter. Anyway, that's what started it."

"You told her it didn't matter."

"I had to." Fairchild shrugged. "It didn't matter. It doesn't."

"She tell you what it was?" Tombo asked. "The story."

"Some. But I got a better sense of it right now, talking to these guys."

"What?"

Fairchild leaned in over the table, lowered his voice. "It's one thing you get some union thugs to mess with people, right? But how about if you actually spring inmates for a night or two to do crimes? That's what she was looking at."

Tombo had already pushed his plate away, mostly uneaten. He was filling up on water. "To do what?"

"Whatever needs to be done. Trash a campaign headquarters. Intimidate some assemblyman leaning the wrong way on prisons appropriations. I don't know, maybe assassinate somebody. And meanwhile, they've got the perfect alibi if anybody ever comes and looks-they were locked up."

Tombo raised his eyes, shook his head. "No."

"'No,' what?"

"No everything. It couldn't happen."

"Why not?"

"Because, Spencer, here's what happens you let a convict out. He keeps going. He doesn't go do the job you've kindly asked him to do. He probably leaves the state. At the very least, he doesn't come back to his friendly local prison, having just killed somebody for you, or trashed a campaign headquarters, to peacefully serve out the remainder of his term."

Fairchild chewed for a moment, considering. "He does if, say, his brother's in the slammer with him and might have a fatal accident if you didn't come back."

"Oh, yeah. The ever-popular two-brothers-in-the-same-prison trick."

"Might not be a literal brother. Might be another relationship. Or," getting into it now, Fairchild said, "or how about you get conjugal rights every night, plus dope, plus liquor, cigarettes, any combination of the above? They bring it all in for you."

"Who does?"

"The guards."

"The guards who are guarding you?"

"Yeah, those guys."

"And where's the warden all this time?"

"He's in on it. He's just taking care of the union's business. It's grateful. He gets a bonus under the table every week. Not surprisingly, it's not a credit business."

Tombo was frankly smiling now, enjoying the idiocy. "How about they get him a Harley to drive around the yard with, too? I agree to go out and kill somebody, I'd demand a Harley."

"Maybe not the Harley," Fairchild said. "Too visible. Piss off the other inmates."

"Like conjugal rights wouldn't?"

"They might at that."

"This doesn't happen, my man. I can't believe Andrea was really looking into this."

"I think she was. She might be still. And I mean this minute."

"Even after you told her it wouldn't get her to New York?"

"Maybe it was the Palmer case. If she thought that it could have happened with him. I mean an assassin out of one of the prisons. She could break the case, get famous on her own, make the move to New York without my help."

Suddenly serious, Tombo went silent and twirled his empty water glass on the table.

"You think that hard, I can actually hear the cogs turning," Fairchild said.

"They don't spring inmates," Tombo said in a nearly breathless whisper. "They use parolees."

"What are you talking about?"

"Spencer, what have we been talking about? Union muscle. Andrea was onto something, but it wasn't the inmates. It's the parolees. They get their parole violated and sent back to the joint if they don't do what they're told. Then whatever they do, maybe up to murder, they're alibied by their parole officers."

"That's a stretch, Rich. I can't believe you'd get many cops who'd have any part of that."

"No. I don't think many cops would, either. But parole officers aren't cops."

"Sure they are."

"No, they're not."

"What are they, then?"

"Technically. They're prison guards. CCPOA."

Devin Juhle's opinion was that Gary Piersall had too much hair for a guy in his fifties, all of it a perfect shade of gray, and not a one out of place. At least six foot four, he probably didn't weigh two hundred pounds, and his perfectly tailored light gray suit was shot through with almost but not quite invisible threads of neon blue. A strong aquiline nose under a wide forehead gave him a patrician cast that was only accentuated by piercing milky blue eyes.

They were in his office, seventeen floors above San Francisco. The firm had four floors in the building on Montgomery Street, and Piersall's lair was about a third of the way to the top, in the northeast corner, which afforded views of the bay, Alcatraz, the Golden Gate. Piersall had greeted Juhle and Shiu at the door and had offered them the wing chairs that faced his desk while he had gone around to put the ornate piece of cherry furniture between them.

"I'm afraid I still don't understand why you've come to see me," he was saying. "What connection do you have between George Palmer's murder and the CCPOA?"

Juhle, unruffled, sat back comfortably in the oversize chair, one leg crossed over the other. "Well, sir, it wasn't much of a secret that the judge was threatening to freeze the union's funds and put it into receivership."

Piersall assayed a thin smile. "The key word there, inspector, is threatening. You have to understand that this was a game he liked to play, although frankly he had cried this version of wolf enough that the entire exercise had become much more tedious than worrisome."

Shiu, in contrast to Juhle, sat in the front six inches of his chair, his feet planted flat on the carpet. "So you're saying that he didn't have enemies with the union?"

"No. I'm sure he had several. He was biased and unsympathetic to the guards and loved the limelight. He bought all the bullshit the cons were selling and was a loud, sanctimonious son of a bitch on top of that. So, yeah, he had an enemy or two, Jim Pine maybe being the most visible of them."

Pine was the president of the union and, because of the vast sums of money he controlled, one of the state's most powerful political figures. He had personally spearheaded the drive for California's Three Strikes law, which vastly increased the state-prison population and in turn created the need for more guards and, hence, more union dues. Pine was also the driving force behind the Victims' Awareness Coalition, which constantly lobbied for harsher criminal penalties to keep inmates in prison for longer periods of time. Every get-tough-on-crime prosecutor and legislator in the state of California had benefited from the lobbying efforts and political contributions of Pine and the CCPOA.

"But I must tell you, inspectors," Piersall went on, "that Mr. Pine doesn't have to resort to strong-arm tactics, which is, I gather, what you're implying here. George Palmer wasn't going to take him down, and even George Palmer knew it. He just wanted to keep the pressure on with the union's efforts at self-discipline, which-I'll be honest-sometimes historically have come up a little short. But the whole interaction with George and Jim was all very much in the spirit of checks and balances between judicial and executive functions, and that's all it was."

Juhle toyed with his own idea of a smile. "That's good to hear and all to the good, except that we've just come from Judge Palmer's office before we came here. We talked both to his secretary and to his clerk, who had already drafted the preliminary order to put the union into receivership. It's hard to believe you knew nothing about that."

Piersall all but rolled his eyes. "He's gone that far several times before. It's just another stage in the threat." With a sudden show of impatience, he rubbed his hands together, put his palms flat on the expanse of desk. "But let me ask you this, gentlemen: Doesn't the presence of the young woman, the other victim, provide a more compelling theory here for George's death than some obscure and frankly tortured reading of union shenanigans? I'm assuming you've established an intimate relationship between her and the judge? And in that case, I'd expect that you'd be looking a little, shall I say, closer to home."

Juhle instinctively mistrusted anyone who overused the word frankly, his experience having taught him that it was a nearly infallible indicator of mendacity. "Mrs. Palmer has a very solid alibi. And you're right. That leaves us pretty much at square one. So, frankly," he purposely repeated, "we came here to ask for your help and cooperation. We're exploring not only alternatives to Mrs. Palmer as the suspect, but ways that someone in her social position could have identified and maybe even contacted someone from the, shall we say, enforcement side of something like the CCPOA."

This brought what appeared to be an expression of geniune shock, then a sympathetic smile. "If that's where you are," Piersall said, "then you gentlemen really are nowhere. You're saying that you are reduced to thinking that Mrs. Palmer might have contacted someone in the union to help her kill her husband?"

Shiu nodded. "Let's say we'd want to rule that out, yes."

"And leaving out," Piersall said, "that the CCPOA doesn't have an enforcement side."

"No?" Juhle came forward. "So those little problems last year with folks running against your candidates in, what was it? Seven counties? What were they? Acts of God?"

Piersall shrugged. "I don't know. A lot of that is rumor, and I've heard the theory that some of them might have been the candidates themselves, trying to create the illusion that the union was behind the incidents. But if you don't like that, I'd suggest the random spark, maybe even simple carelessness, I don't know. Local vandals, kids' pranks. And might I point out, frankly, that if memory serves, no one from the union was ever arrested in connection with any of that mischief."

"The coincidence factor doesn't speak to you, does it?"

"The coincidence…?"

"Seven different political races, and only your opponents hit?"

"Hit? Somebody gets a flat tire, and it's a conspiracy? As a matter of fact, some pro-union candidates were harassed, too, although these weren't as well publicized. So, no, the coincidence doesn't compel me much. And to extrapolate from that and think that Mrs. Palmer somehow…" He stopped, shook his head. "I'm sorry, but it's just ludicrous."

Juhle said, "To tell you the truth, sir, it would be ludicrous except for one thing."

"And that is?"

"Andrea Parisi."

Piersall's ice-blue eyes squinted down. "What about Andrea?"

"Well, as I understand it, she was your representative with the judge."

"One of many, actually, and less so since she's been involved with her TV work on Donolan. Half of our associates work regularly on union billings. But, yes, she had a comfortable relationship with Judge Palmer. The court respected her, and she him." Cocking his head to one side, he continued, "But I'm afraid I'm still not getting your drift."

"Staci Rosalier, the other victim, she had Parisi's card in her wallet," Shiu said. The junior inspector seemed incapable of talking to anyone without giving up every shred of information that their investigation had uncovered. "That makes her the only person we have who has a demonstrated connection to both victims. And the intersection with Palmer is the CCPOA."

"Slim pickin's," Piersall said.

"Yes," Shiu agreed, "but now that she's apparently missing, there's…"

Juhle, at the end of his patience, uncrossed his legs, held a hand out toward his partner, hoping to stem the flow.

Piersall reacted as though he'd been jabbed. "What do you mean, apparently missing? She's not…excuse me a minute, would you?" He picked up his phone. "Carla? Gary Piersall," he said. "I'd like to speak with Andrea, please… I see, since when?…All right, thank you. Have her call me as soon as she gets in, would you? Thanks." He hung up, the confident face suddenly slack.

Juhle had gotten to his feet. He wanted to get Shiu out of the room before he could do any more damage. He managed to place his business card on Piersall's desk. "We're really not trying to waste your time, sir. If you hear from her, we'd appreciate it if you had her give us a call. ASAP."

Three floors down in the same building, Juhle, Shiu, and Carla Shapiro were in an employee lounge that was larger than the entire homicide detail-six tables with four chairs each, vending machines for coffee, tea, sodas, candy, snacks. The smells of popcorn and stale coffee hung in the air. Andrea's secretary was thin, bespectacled, frizzy-haired, earnest, and sick with worry now about her boss, she told them. Just sick.

She was talking, all nerves, as they took seats at one of the tables. "She called at about quarter to three and said she was feeling a little better and wanted to come in and catch up on some of her work, but first, she was going to go out and visit a client at her home, then probably be in after I went home, no doubt till pretty late. I didn't have to wait around-she'd leave stuff on my desk for the morning."

"But she didn't?" Shiu asked.

"No. She never came in. At least she never signed in downstairs. After hours, we have sign-in here in the building, you know." Then, as though it had just occurred to her, "She'd missed most of yesterday, too, you know? And she never misses work. I mean, never."

"So what was she doing yesterday?" Juhle asked. "That made her miss."

"Food poisoning, they said."

"Who was that?"

"Her doctor, I think. He called and talked to reception, not to me."

Shiu had his small notepad out and glanced down at it, then looked up. "But then she was apparently better by about quarter to three?"

"Yes, I think so."

"You talked to her personally," Shiu asked, "and she was going first to meet a client at her house. Did she do that a lot? Meet clients at their homes?"

"I think so, yes. Sometimes. It depended."

Suddenly Juhle broke in. "Do you know the name Staci Rosalier? Was she one of Andrea's clients?"

Carla shook her head. "No. That name isn't familiar. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about, ma'am," Shiu said. "Did Andrea tell you who she was going to see?"

"Yes. Carol Manion. You know the Manions? Except she never got there."

"How do you know that?" Shiu asked. "Did you call her?"

In Carla's nervous state, the question appeared to startle her. "Who?"

"Mrs. Manion."

A haunted expression of guilt settled in Carla's dark eyes. "Well, no. I mean, there was no reason to last night before I left, and then…because she called here instead. I mean, the office. Later last night. There was a message on Andrea's line when I got in this morning."

"From Mrs. Manion?"

Head sunk into her shoulders, she nodded. "Wondering if Andrea had forgotten or gotten the wrong day or something. Which of course Andrea would never do."

"No." Juhle made circles with his index finger on the table. "So she never made it to the Manions? If she was going there at all."

"I think she was. That's where she told me she was going. Then coming back here."

"And that," Juhle asked, "is the last you've heard from her?"

She reached under her glasses and brushed away a tear. "As far as I know," she said, "that's the last anyone's heard from her."