The Hunt Club

30

Mickey Dade was a serious food-and-wine guy. When Hunt had called him earlier in the night asking him to drive up to wine country, if he'd realized that this was the weekend of the Napa Wine Auction or, as they were calling it this year, Auction Napa Valley-the Holy Grail of American haute everything-he'd have told his boss he wouldn't have missed it for the world.

In celebration of the day, all of the great local restaurants were going to have special tasting menus, some available at prices affordable to the hoi polloi. There'd be grills set up in parking lots, world-class chefs roasting spring lamb and quail and asparagus, oysters and sausages and eggplant, the air redolent with herbs and mustard and smoke from vine cuttings.

So Mickey had made his three hundred and fourteen dollars, plus fifty-one in tips on his regular shift, which ended at two in the morning. Dropping his cab off at the dispatch house, he picked up his own used Camaro, and then, sick of fog and not remotely interested in sleep, he pointed the car north on 101 and took it over the Golden Gate Bridge, by JV's Salon in Mill Valley, then past Vanessa Waverly's home in Novato. Turning east on 37, he averaged eighty-two miles per hour until he got to the Napa/Sonoma turnoff at 121, then jammed it up over the Carneros grade and onto Highway 29 in just a little over twenty minutes. Forty-eight minutes, all told, a new personal best.

Once in the valley, under a clear and cool night sky, he took the Oakville Crossroads over to the Silverado Trail-the other north/south artery in the valley-and turned north. In a few miles, he pulled left off the road into the driveway for Manion Cellars, obvious and visible even in moonlight. In front of him, the château itself looked down from a small promontory. Off to either side, the vineyards traced sinuous lines over an undulating landscape. Slightly to his right and up ahead, the promontory fell off into more vineyards, but above them, he could make out the line of four newly excavated caves back into the limestone rock, the doors that Manion Cellars was using for its logo.

The gate to the estate was closed across the driveway, so Mickey backed out and proceeded north on the Silverado Trail up as far as St. Helena and Howell Mountain Road, where he knew a few good hiding places, and here he parked on the side of a side street under a low canopy of oak. He carried a sleeping bag in his trunk for emergencies such as this, and within five minutes of setting his brake, he was sound asleep on the soft ground next to his car.

At five forty-five, Juhle got the paper from his front porch and brought it back to his kitchen table, where he laid it out next to his coffee. His shoulder had tightened up again overnight, but he'd made the decision to leave the sling at home, and he was going to stick with it. When his administrative miseries had concluded and they'd brought him back to work, Connie had given him as a present a device called, he thought-his French wasn't much-a café filtre that made coffee by filling a cylinder with very fine ground beans and hot water, and then pressing down on a strainer. It had been too painful to use since the burnout game he'd had with Malinoff, but this morning, in his new spirit of healing, as he forced the strainer through the black liquid, he realized that even the broken bones in his catching hand were truly on the mend.

The coffee was far thicker than anything he'd ever made at home, and he had developed a taste for the bitterness, albeit tempered with two teaspoons of sugar. Now he sipped, savored, opened the newspaper, looking for the picture of Staci's brother. Or was he, as Hunt now believed, Staci's son? Or was it a picture of Todd Manion, to whom Juhle had been cursorily introduced when he and Shiu had first interrogated Carol Manion earlier in the week?

Away on the Presidio Little League diamond, and then watching the Giants' game at the Malinoffs' last night, he'd missed the many times the photograph had been televised, and now he wanted to examine it again in light of Hunt's information.

He found the photo effortlessly enough, well positioned on the top of page five, but looking at it, he found himself disappointed and somewhat hard-pressed to place the face before him with that of the boy he'd shaken hands with a few days ago. In the first place, the fuzziness of the original photograph had been magnified by the half-tone reprint. Beyond that, the Todd Manion he'd met for only a few seconds was still clearly older than the smiling boy in this snapshot-indeed, neither he nor Shiu had remarked on any similarity between the two when they'd first come upon the picture in Rosalier's condo.

And, of course, this picture in the paper today was black and white, so even the so-called distinctive background-the terra-cotta tower of the Manion home-left him unconvinced. Studying the face in front of him now, Juhle realized he had little confidence that this would result in any kind of positive identification of Todd Manion from someone who knew him today.

And yet Hunt, starting with this premise, had apparently run a new quarry to ground. He'd unearthed another believable scenario for the deaths of Palmer and Rosalier, maybe even for the missing and presumed dead Andrea Parisi. As Juhle and Shiu had done originally with Jeannette Palmer, and as he and Hunt, working in concert yesterday, had done with Arthur Mowery, Jim Pine, and the CCPOA.

Juhle put his coffee mug down on the table and stared off into nothing. He did not underestimate the importance that this case might have on his career, for good or for ill. If he blew it by a false arrest, a bad arrest, or no arrest-all potential yet distinctly different kinds of failure-he could kiss away his chances to make Police Officer of the Year. And without that, he believed, his citation for heroism would always be tainted, his reputation forever clouded. On the other hand, success in this case would go a long way toward proving that Lanier's confidence in him had not been misplaced, that his reinstatement as an active homicide inspector had been justified.

He wanted it so badly it made his teeth ache. But now Hunt's latest path to his own salvation was starting to look like it meant an investigation into one of the wealthiest, most politically connected, philanthropic families in San Francisco. And why? Because they had adopted a child, perhaps their own grandchild, eight years before.

He recalled Lanier's words to him the last time they'd met in his office. Lanier did not want to hear about any suspects, especially in this case, and especially coming from Juhle, without evidence to back up the accusation. Juhle's gall rose at the memory of what this discussion had been when he'd been arguing that Andrea Parisi had killed the judge and his girlfriend, and then herself-a scenario that was still, from the facts in evidence, plausible.

Last night, both exhausted and exhilarated by the accumulation of facts Hunt was presenting, he had found that this new theory had taken on a lustrous quality. Shenanigans in high places, coverups, conspiracies, class warfare. It had all sounded so sexy, so right.

But here, now, as the first light of day outside revealed the thick, gray blanket that had wrapped itself around the city in its sleep, Juhle sneaked a last peek at the picture of Staci's brother/son. Or was it her nothing? A vision of a child she may or may not have lost.

Juhle realized that he and Shiu would have to make all the calls that Hunt had made last night. And even if everyone repeated their stories faithfully-nowhere near a certainty-he would then have to arrange for Mrs. Keilly to fly up and identify Staci as her daughter.

And only then, perhaps, could he begin to make a case against Carol Manion, if he were still so inclined. If she was already the child's adoptive mother and legal guardian, she wouldn't have needed to protect those rights. But if she'd simply bought the child from Staci's parents and had falsified or forged documents or even had no documents, then Staci might have had every right to reclaim her child. Carol Manion would be nothing more than a kidnapper. Juhle could envision no scenario more likely to provoke a woman of power and influence to do something hasty, not to say deadly.

Could it be that simple, that basic, that much a question of class and greed?

Yes, he decided. It could be.

But in a situation such as this one, every move had to be by the book. The smallest procedural flaw would render all of his efforts useless. Lawyers would be lined up to find ways to toss evidence, dismiss charges, slander the arresting officers.

He would have to take it slow. He had wanted a fast and righteous arrest in this case more than he'd wanted to admit to himself. That desire had impaired his judgment at nearly every turn. He'd been flitting from theory to theory for the better part of this week, and each one had seemed workable until it became time to deliver any kind of proof.

So now here he was, up on Saturday at six o'clock. He'd already had his blast of caffeine, and he wasn't going back to sleep. He sipped more coffee, absently turning the pages of the newspaper. He paused briefly at the sports section, checked the no-surprise weather-morning and evening fog, partly cloudy afternoon, light winds, high of fifty-four in the city-and then his roaming stopped abruptly at the first page of the weekend insert.

And suddenly, he knew why the Manions hadn't been home last night while Hunt had waited outside their house for them. They were at Auction Napa Valley. As a matter of fact, they were profiled inside as one of the probable big bidders, as they'd been in years past. Nice, apparently recent picture of them, too, but alas, without Todd.

Juhle brewed himself another cup of coffee. He moved quietly back into his bedroom for his telephone, then walked back out to the living room window and gazed out into the gray. The paper had told him that Napa was expecting beautiful weather-no, perfect auction weather-today. Sunny, bright, highs in the mid-seventies. California was the land of the microclimate, and although Napa was only sixty miles or so from San Francisco, its weather was dramatically different and almost always better.

Checking his messages, he couldn't help but enjoy the midnight call from Shiu. So, against his advice, Hunt had stayed out in Seacliff after all and had reaped the rewards. It would be a riot, Juhle thought, if they'd actually put him in custody for a while. In the meantime, there was nothing Juhle could do now about his friend. If Hunt was still in jail, oh, well. Not Juhle's problem. Maybe they'd talk again after he'd slept off his long night. In any event, the entire incident could be worth months of abuse, and Juhle was tempted to call early, wake him up if he was home, and start on him right away.

But before he acted on that impulse, he thought he'd check in with the general-information desk to see if, contrary to his expectations, the skeleton staff that worked around the clock had received any calls on Staci's picture.

A surprisingly upbeat, wide-awake female voice greeted him with-if Juhle hadn't known this was impossible-what sounded like actual enthusiasm. "We've gotten seven calls since midnight, sir. And one so far from the paper this morning. Four of the callers identify him as the same person. A Todd Manion."

Juhle wasn't aware that any words escaped him in a whisper. "My God." Then, in his normal voice, "You've got names and addresses on these witnesses?"

"Of course."

"One of them wouldn't be Carol or Ward Manion, by any chance?"

"Just a minute. No. Who are they, the parents? The famous local Manions?"

"They might be."

"Why wouldn't they have called themselves?"

"That question occurred to me. Maybe they never saw the picture." Which Juhle supposed was possible if they'd been up partying in Napa all last night. It would be interesting, he thought, if they did call today when they eventually saw the paper. Or someone who knew them saw it and told them about it.

And more interesting if they did not.

Hanging up, all hesitance about calling due to the early hour banished now, he immediately punched in Shiu's home number and listened to his partner's voice on his answering machine. He should have guessed that he would still be sleeping: Shiu had been hassling his pal Wyatt and hauling down his off-duty money at the Manions until after midnight. He left a message. Wrestling with the decision for about twenty seconds, he then called Shiu's cell number and again got told to leave a message. Next, he paged him and entered his own cell phone number as the callback.

He woke up Connie while he was putting on his clothes. "Hey," he said quietly.

"Hey. Isn't it Saturday?"

"Yep. Sorry to get you up. I want to ask you something."

She shifted, pulled herself up onto the pillows. "You're going in to work?"

"That's what I wanted to ask you about." He came over and sat on the edge of the bed. "Wyatt's latest theory on Palmer and Parisi looks like it just got some corroboration. We've had four calls identifying Rosalier's kid or brother or whatever he is. The picture? Any normal day, I go in and talk to some of the callers, see how sure they are, how reliable. Then I pull a warrant if I can tell a good enough story to a judge."

"Which you can."

He shrugged at the compliment, rested his hand on her thigh. "Here's the thing, though. Last night, this was just Wyatt with an idea. Today, if these witnesses are legitimate, there's some chance things will unravel fast."

"And you've got to be on top of it."

Another nod. "At the very least, I've got to see if I can make my suspect talk to me again before she gets lawyered up."

"It's a she again?"

"Oh, yeah. A definite she." He nodded. "Carol Manion."

Connie almost laughed. "No. Really."

"I'm not kidding." He rubbed his hand over her leg. "But I've been trying to tell myself to go slow, make sure I do everything by the book. If I screw this up-"

"How are you going to do that? Have you screwed up anything yet?"

"No. But I don't have much to show, either."

"But now you might?"

"Now I think I do."

"So what's the problem? Go get her."

"Just like that?"

"That's what you do, Dev. You play by the rules, okay.

You don't cheat. But you get it done, don't you? You always get it done."

"So far. I've been lucky."

"Not just lucky. Good. Careful. By the book. But you don't have to do the book slow. That's never been your style. Slow would have gotten you dead last year, instead of being a hero." But she saw something in his face. "Hey, you, look at me. Don't you dare let those small and ugly people get inside of you, you hear me? You know what you did, what you had to do. You didn't second-guess yourself. You acted bravely and wisely and saved a lot of lives in the process."

"And lost one."

"No. Shane wasn't anything to do with you. He was gone before either of you moved. We've been over this, babe."

"I know." A silence settled. "I'm talking about the Manions, you know. If it's her and if it gets political again and I get squeezed-"

"If, if, if…we don't do if. Remember? If she's killed somebody, bring her down."

"Maybe three people."

"And you want my opinion should you go downtown?"

"I think I just got it."

She broke a smile, came forward with a kiss. "Don't walk," she said. "Run."

Mickey slept well and, undisturbed throughout the night, woke up a bit later than he'd imagined he would, as the last bit of ground fog was dissipating. He threw his sleeping bag back into the trunk and crossed half the valley again over to St. Helena, where some small counter-style restaurants had already opened for breakfast. After cleaning up a little in the restroom, he went and sat alone at one of the six tables, each one dressed with a perfect orchid and a starched white cloth. He ordered his Peet's French Roast coffee, a Roblochon-and-chive omelette of Kelly Ranch organic eggs, with a side of Yukon Gold hash brown potatoes, house-made ancho-chili ketchup, and an Acme Bakery brioche. His waitress, Julia, was about twenty-eight years old, and when he first saw her, Mickey tried to remember when he might have heard about Julia Roberts going into waitress work, but the moment seemed to elude him.

She was nice, too.

After she'd refilled his coffee cup three times, he refused the fourth and leaned back in contentment, asking for the check.

"You're sure? Nothing else?"

"Well, there is one thing, if you don't mind."

"Sure. Anything."

"Maybe you can tell me why I live in San Francisco and not here."

"Oh, I love it down there."

"I do, too, but I love it here more."

"I know." She seemed to be floating in some ethereal place, completely unconcerned and unaware of the passage of time. Suddenly, but in no hurry, she looked all around her, taking in her elegant surroundings. "This place really is like nowhere else."

"Especially today."

She flashed a wicked smile. "Don't tell me you're going to the auction."

"Okay. I won't tell you that."

"But you are?"

"Actually, sadly, no."

"Well, that is sad, but if you were, I was going to hate you for a minute there."

"And now you don't have to. Do you work here all day?"

"Is that a line?"

"It could be. It might not be. If it was a line, would it offend you?"

"No."

"Okay, then, let's call it a line."

"That's sweet, but I've got a boyfriend." Her smile touched his heart as she told him she'd be right back with his check. He watched her with terrible longing as she waited on the other tables, as nice and efficient with each of them as she'd been with him. Maybe she was a robot, a Stepford wife in the making. But damn…

When she came back to him, she leaned over and confided in him as though they were old friends. "Don't look now," she said with quiet excitement, "but the older couple and the boy at the front table? They are going to the auction."

"Who are they?"

"The Manions. Mega high rollers. Manion Cellars?"

Mickey threw a quick glance toward them. "Out eating breakfast just like normal folks?"

"Actually, they come in here a lot."

"You think they're taking the kid to the auction?"

"Maybe not. But if they do, I doubt they'll let him bid."

But the Manions had paid their bill, and now they were getting up. Mickey, fighting sticker shock at the twenty-eight-dollar breakfast tab, decided he could make back some of it by going on the clock for Hunt. He left two twenties for Julia under his plate-might as well leave her with a good memory of him. At least he wasn't cheap.

He walked out onto the street, which now at a little after nine was beginning to come alive, although there was no sign of the Manions.

Which, he thought, was impossible. They'd only left the restaurant thirty or forty seconds before he had followed them out, and he'd seen them start off to the right. He didn't think they could have even made it to the nearest corner. They must have entered one of the adjacent shops, so he started strolling, window-shopping. Four doors up, an old-fashioned barber's pole slowed him down, then drew him inside.

"I just thought you'd want to know." Mickey was back in his car in St. Helena, fresh from his own haircut.

"I do want to know," Hunt said. He hadn't gotten out of the holding cell until three thirty in the morning, Shiu and Poggio making his life unpleasant just because it was so darn much fun. They'd protected the lives of the good citizens of San Francisco by verifying Hunt's permit to carry a concealed weapon, by making sure that his PI license was valid, then graciously informing him that they were letting him off with a warning for carrying the wrong weapon on his permit. He felt that Shiu honestly expected him to say thank you.

Now at least he understood why Juhle hated him.

By the time he'd retrieved his car and gotten back home, it was close to five o'clock, and he'd crashed in his clothes for about four hours, until Mickey's call woke him up. "But," Hunt said, "I thought you weren't going up there."

"Yeah. I changed my mind." Mickey waxed poetic for a moment or two about the day's probable delights, including the breakfast he'd just eaten, which would have been worth its exorbitant price tag even if Julia Roberts hadn't been his waitress.

"Did you ask her out?"

"No. She's got a boyfriend."

"And also twins, from what I hear."

"What? My waitress?"

"No. The real Julia, you fool. You want to tell me about the Manions?"

"Well, first off, the kid did not want the haircut, and I can't say I blame him. But the mom had made up her mind. By the way, is she really the mom? I have to say, grandmother is more what she looks like."

"Well, she might be the grandmother, but she's also the mom."

"If you say so."

"I do. It's complicated. So, the haircut Todd didn't want? What about it?"

"They buzzed him clean. He was pissed. I would have been pissed, too. But she was, like, extremely uptight about it. It was going to happen."

"She needed to change his appearance. Today."

"Why?"

"So he wouldn't look like that picture you saw yesterday with me and Juhle. The kid."

"That was him?"

"That was him. So where are they now?"

"I don't know. I assume back home or off to the auction."

Hunt's voice reflected his disappointment. "You're not still with them?"

"That would have been a little obvious, don't you think? No. Since I was there, I stayed and got my own haircut. Just a trim, thanks."

"Mick."

"You want me to catch up with them again." Not a question.

"If you could."

"Are you coming up?"

"What do you think?"