Treasure Hunt (11 page)

“Well, as a matter of fact . . .” And Mickey went into his prepared pitch on the reward, ending by telling her that Wyatt Hunt had cleared the idea with Len Turner, who would manage the reward fund.

“You mean you’ll be working with Mr. Turner as well as the police?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s kind of the plan. We’re assuming that once the idea gets out into the nonprofit community, the reward might become fairly substantial, and we’d then serve the purpose of evaluating the information received and passing the legitimate stuff along to the police. We’re hoping to elicit information from people in the community who might not normally cooperate much or willingly with law enforcement. At the same time, we’d screen calls from cranks and publicity seekers, since we know there’ll be some of them as well. Basically, we’d be acting as a clearinghouse. And of course validating the claimants for the reward, if any.”

“But won’t the police be investigating as well?”

“Sure. But Mr. Turner agrees that we could provide a valuable service by being a conduit to a community that doesn’t always willingly interact with law enforcement. Even if they have very persuasive stuff. That’s why you offer a reward. It’s a little more proactive. And, as of last night, the police had no active leads they were working on.”

Hess made no real attempt to disguise the stress and fatigue of the days since Como’s disappearance. Now she leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes briefly, and let out a deep sigh. “And you’ve come to us, I presume, to sort of get the ball rolling?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Turner recommended that you call him if you have any questions or misgivings. We’re offering our services, that’s all. We’re trying to coordinate and facilitate the reward. But it’s entirely your call.”

“Well,” Hess said, “I appreciate that, but I don’t know if I have the authority to make that decision. As you know, with Dominic gone, we’ve got a huge vacuum at the top right now, and . . .” Again, she closed her eyes, shook her head wearily, brought them back to Mickey. “On the other hand, if Mr. Turner says . . . I know we want to do all we can, as soon as we can, to find out who could have been responsible for this. How much money were you thinking you’d need to start?”

“That would be entirely up to your discretion. But enough to incentivize somebody who otherwise might not be inclined to come forward. And as I’ve mentioned, Mr. Turner wasn’t thinking you’d be in this alone. He told us that Mr. Como was on several other boards. Maybe you’d want to set an example for them to follow.”

“I would have to go to our board, but—” Suddenly, she seemed to come to some decision. A bit of color came back into her cheeks and she slapped her palm down on her desktop. “Hell, at least we’d be doing something instead of just sitting here waiting for the police and twiddling our thumbs. Do you think twenty thousand would be enough? I’m sure I could go to the board with that much in mind. I could reach them all this morning by phone.”

“I think that might be a good start,” Mickey said, restraining an urge to let out a war whoop. In fact, he knew that this was about the maximum total reward that most professionals advised be offered. It was one thing, he knew, to offer $100 million for bin Laden, and another thing to dangle such a vast amount of money in a local case that it would serve as a distraction, attracting so many tips as to drown out any actual leads. But in this case, the idea was to generate every conceivable tip. Even paranoids have enemies, he knew, and even psychos sometimes possessed real information. But he kept his reply low-key. “That would give me something to go to the other charities with.”

“Not till you hear back from me, though,” Hess said. “I’ll need the approval of our board.”

“Absolutely,” Mickey said. “If you’d like, I could wait.”

 

 

It looked like a school because it still was a school, K through eight Sunrise School.

He got outside onto the asphalt yard just as the recess bell sounded. As the kids came flying out all around him, he let himself through a small gate in a fence, turned the corner of the building, and found himself in the small parking lot he’d noticed from across the street.

A tall, rangy, middle-aged black man was leaning back against the building, arms crossed over his chest, watching in a supervisory way as two other young men went over the limousine with sponges and hoses. On a hunch, Mickey sidled over to the area and caught the man’s attention. “Excuse me,” he said, “are you Al Carter?”

With a questioning expression, the man straightened away from the wall. He exuded authority. Except for a well-buzzed tonsure, he was bald, and the high, clear forehead spoke of intelligence and patience. His voice, when he spoke, was low-pitched, unhurried, educated. “I have that name,” he said. “And you have the advantage of me.”

Mickey extended his hand and introduced himself. “You don’t know me,” he went on, “but maybe you knew my grandfather, Jim Parr?”

At that name’s mention, the closed-up face relaxed somewhat. “I certainly did know your grandfather. Is he still among the quick?”

“I don’t know about that,” Mickey said. “He’s slowed down a little, but—”

Carter chuckled, shaking his head, cutting him off. “The quick, young man,” he said, “in contradistinction to the dead. The quick and the dead. I was asking if Jim were still alive.”

“As of this morning.”

“Well, that’s wonderful news. Tell him hello for me.”

“I will.” Mickey gestured toward the car. “So what are these guys doing?”

Carter cast a throwaway glance in their direction. “We call this washing the limousine. It’s one of their tasks.”

“Are they being punished for something?”

A little half-laugh. “Punished? To the contrary, they’re being rewarded. These two young men were handpicked by Mr. Como to do this job and if they continue to do it effectively, they’ll be promoted to more responsible and important jobs.” Now his expressive face did cloud over. “Or they would have been.” Suddenly the eyes focused and he raised a finger in Mickey’s direction. “You’re the young man who found him.”

“I am.”

“And you are Jim Parr’s grandson as well?”

“Right.”

“That’s an extraordinary coincidence.”

“Yes, it is,” Mickey said.

“So how is it,” Carter asked, “that you’ve stayed involved in matters surrounding Mr. Como’s death?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you found his body. Your grandfather used to be his driver. Now”—he gestured to include their surroundings—“you’re here. The connection eludes me.”

“There’s no mystery to it. I work for a private investigator. We’re offering to coordinate a reward program.”

“Ah, a reward program. I don’t believe I’ve heard of that.”

“It’s in its early stages. Ms. Hess is hoping that the Sunset Youth Project here is going to put up twenty thousand dollars. With others of Mr. Como’s charities kicking in, it could get to quite a substantial sum.”

Carter’s eyebrows went up, his head canted to one side. “So,” he said, “the assumption being that there is information out there somewhere. Someone knows something he’s not talking about.”

“I don’t know about assumption,” Mickey said. “More like a hope. Maybe someone knows something but doesn’t recognize its importance. The hope is that the money might get that person motivated to think a little harder about what they’ve seen or might have heard. You, for example, Mr. Carter. You were the last person to see him alive, if I’m not mistaken. Right?”

“No. That would have been his killer.” Carter broke a sad smile. “A small, yet critical distinction, don’t you think? But the police have already spoken to me and I told them everything I knew, which, I’m afraid, wasn’t much. I left him off near his home on Tuesday night.”

“How near?”

“A couple of blocks.”

“And he never mentioned who he was supposed to be seeing?”

“Not by name, no. He said it was just an old acquaintance who was having problems. But old acquaintances of Mr. Como could fill the phone book, Mr. Dade. According to that criterion it could theoretically have even been your grandfather. And beyond that, it’s possible that he had his scheduled meeting with the old acquaintance he’d told me about and then, after that, met with his killer. Or, as I think Lorraine would like to believe, it was a random attack by some mugger.”

“But you don’t think that?”

“No,” Carter said. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Do you have any specific reason for not thinking that?”

Carter shook his head. “I wish I did. I wish there was something I could point to, but it’s just a nebulous feeling.”

“Well”—Mickey, his wallet out, removed one of his business cards—“if it gets to be more than that, call this number. Or, of course, the police. The information doesn’t have to come through us to qualify for the reward, if that’s a concern.”

“It isn’t. I wouldn’t be doing it for the reward, Mr. Dade.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that you would. And remember that as we speak right now the reward sits at zero. But still,” Mickey added, “if something does occur to you, or something new develops, it might be nice to know the money’s sitting there waiting for somebody to claim it.”

Carter nodded, his face set in grim stone. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

 

 

 

 

First thing that Monday morning
, Len Turner had talked to the mayor. The mayor had placed a phone call to the chief of police, who had personally called Devin Juhle and suggested—an order would have been inappropriate—that he extend “every courtesy” to the “concerned citizens who were assisting in the investigation” by offering this so-far nonexistent reward.

Devin Juhle told Hunt he’d be with his partner, Sarah Russo, at the Ferry Building’s MarketBar restaurant at eleven A.M. They’d be willing to review the progress in the Como investigation to bring Hunt up to speed, with the understanding that if Hunt was successful in helping to get a reward established and funded, then when he got anything, he’d reciprocate.

In the normal course of events, they all would have met at Lou the Greek’s, the city’s legendary bar and eatery across the street from the Hall of Justice. But Juhle’s choice of a lunch venue far removed from the normal haunt of cops and other courthouse denizens drove home to Hunt the fact that he was still very much on probation, or worse, here. Juhle and Russo might cooperate with him and see how things went, but neither of them was ready to be seen with him in public.

Sarah was married to Graham Russo, a junior partner in the one law firm that was with some regularity still throwing Hunt the occasional bone of work. She was also a ten-year homicide veteran, and the mother of two boys. A freckled and athletic tomboy with Beatle-length dark hair, she looked about fifteen years younger than her actual age, barely old enough to drink. She and her husband and kids had been to a couple of case celebration parties at Hunt’s warehouse/home, and as far as she was concerned, Hunt was okay. She agreed that the reward idea was at best stupid and at worst distracting, but she pointed out that it was no more stupid or distracting than half of the political things that San Francisco’s Police Department had to put up with every day. She was willing to go with the flow.

Down on the Embarcadero, the morning cloud cover had lifted and mostly dissipated. Now a gauzy sunlight bathed the outdoor tables as Sarah was gearing up on her summation. “So we’ve got nothing on his activities after five forty- five last Tuesday. The wife, Ellen, didn’t even call to say she was worried about him and hadn’t seen him until almost seven o’clock on
Wednesday
night . . .”

“Apparently,” Juhle put in, “he frequently stayed out late at some fund-raiser or another, got home after she was asleep, and was up and out the next morning before she got up.”

“Didn’t sleep in her bed? Or in their bed?” Hunt asked.

“Evidently not,” Russo said. “Or not that she noticed.”

“America’s fun couple,” Hunt said. “So where was she Tuesday night, then? The wife?”

Russo didn’t have to consult her notes. “She walked up to Chestnut and went to a movie,
The Reader
. It checks. At least, that’s what was playing there that night. Still is, for that matter.”

“She went alone?”

She nodded. “That’s what she says. Got home around nine-thirty, read for a while, went to sleep around eleven.”

The waitress arrived with their food. All of them were having the Cuban pork sandwiches and iced tea and the young woman put the plates down, saying, “And today’s award for most original order goes to . . .”

Everybody got a little chuckle out of that.

And then the waitress was gone and Hunt took a bite of his sandwich and said, “But nobody saw him on Wednesday all day, right? He didn’t come into work?”

“Right,” Juhle said.

“So it was Tuesday night?”

“That’s close enough,” Russo said. “ME says he can’t be sure, but it’s not a stretch to say he didn’t come home Tuesday night because he was already dead.”

“How about his phone?” Hunt asked. “Who’d he talk to?”

“Lots of people,” Juhle said. “And I mean like forty different numbers in or out the last day. All of whom we’ve called, by the way, and most of whom we’ve reached. But the last completed call in or out was at nine-forty. After that, it all went to voice mail. And the cell site information says he’s where his driver said he left him.”

Russo held up a much-scribbled-upon computer printout for Hunt’s edification.

Juhle stopped his chewing. “Police work.”

“And a darned fine job of it too,” Hunt said. “And what did all these good cell-phone-talking citizens have to say?”

“Everybody so far,” Russo said, “has had a completely plausible reason to have talked to him, and about half of those are verified by Como’s calendar anyway. No ancient acquaintances that we’ve come across.”