Treasure Hunt (9 page)

“Hey, big guy. Good to see you.”

“You too.” He advanced and reached out his hand, which Hunt, standing, shook. He chose to take it as a good sign that they still called him “uncle,” perhaps still considered him Juhle’s brother on some level.

Devin evidently wasn’t in any hurry to get in the house. He would have known Hunt was inside from the distinctive car parked out front. The connecting door closed shut behind Eric and they heard some sounds from the garage—Devin closing his driver’s side door, throwing the duffel bag where it belonged.

Hunt found his breath snagged in his throat.

Juhle opened the door and stood for a second in the doorway, holding it open. Nodding first at his wife, then briefly at Hunt, he turned and closed it with an exaggerated gentleness. Turning back around, he leaned up against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, nodding again, his face a mask. “Hey, Wyatt,” he said with no inflection whatever. “What can I do for you?”

 

 

“I don’t think so,” Juhle said. “That’s police work.”

The two of them sat at either end of a sagging beige sofa in the downstairs family room, a converted half-basement where Juhle had his Ping-Pong/pool table set up, along with a dartboard and a foosball game area. A television rested on the middle shelf of a built-in bookcase mostly devoted otherwise to sports trophies for the kids, and Connie’s washer and dryer reinforced the place’s basic functional nature. Juhle’s house wasn’t big, and the family and their activities filled it all up, every spare inch.

“It’s police work,” Hunt countered, “that won’t do any good. You won’t get the calls we’re going to get and if you did, you’ll spend all your time screening out the nuts.”

Juhle shrugged, shook his head dismissing the idea. “How many good tips you think you’re going to get? Two? Three? Not even that. End of story.”

“No, it isn’t. Not if we get the reward set up and it gets big, and it will.”

“What’s big?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a hundred grand, maybe more. Mick’s shooting for the moon, and he’s a charmer.” Hunt came forward on the couch. “So we’re not talking any couple of calls a day here. It’s not impossible the reward might go to half a mil, and if that happens, the flakes come out of the woodwork. You know this and I know it, and you’re going to spend half to all of your time either chewing your cud on nothing or running down ridiculous leads trying to identify one good one.”

Another shrug. “That’s what we do, Wyatt. Run down leads. It’s police work.”

Wyatt sat back, let out a breath. “This is getting a little circular, don’t you think? You got any of these leads?”

Juhle paused, then spit out, “We got squat.”

“That was my guess,” Hunt said. “You know, time was this would have been a slam dunk for both of us, Dev. Win-win.”

Juhle glanced down the length of the couch. “Time was a lot of other things too.”

“You want to talk about some of ’em?”

“Talk’s cheap, Wyatt. And bullshit walks.”

“This isn’t bullshit. This is something I can legitimately do to help your investigation. We are going ahead and contacting potential reward sources—”

“And who are these sources?”

“People connected to Como. Who want to see his killer get caught.”

“None of them more than I do.”

“Granted. But we can generate leads you can’t. Calls from folks who would never call the cops. Most of what we get will be crap, sure, but if we even get one good tip you couldn’t get, you’re better off.” Hunt sat back, spoke matter-of-factly. “This is a free gift to you, Dev. Call it an apology if you want. Sometimes the jobs we do, we’re on different sides. It doesn’t have to be personal.”

This brought a cold smile. “And of course it’s going to put money in your pocket for what you just admitted to me was mostly going to be crap. For this I’m supposed to say thank you? You fuck with my career, my livelihood, and my family, and you tell me it’s not personal?”

“It didn’t happen that way, Dev. You could look at it that Gina and I saved you from being the cop who sent the wrong guy to prison. And then, P.S., she hands you the real guy, the actual killer. And you get the credit for that arrest. How’s that hurt your career? You want to tell me that?”

No answer.

“Your feelings?” Hunt went on. “Okay. After what happened on the stand, okay. Sorry. But your career? Your livelihood? Your family? I don’t think so.”

Up one flight on the main floor, the television laid down white noise. Tires squealed and a car’s horn sounded from outside on the street.

Juhle’s jaw was set, the corners of his mouth drawn down. He stared in the direction of the bookcase wall across from him, then pulled himself upright on the couch and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

Hunt lowered his voice. “This is a done deal, Dev. I’m telling you as a courtesy. This is happening. But whatever you think of it, we will help you any way we can.” Without a cease-fire, much less a peace treaty, in hand, Hunt got up. “Tell Connie and the kids it was nice seeing them.”

 

 

Now that Hunt was on board with him, Mickey had all the excuse he needed to see Alicia Thorpe again.

They met at Bay Beans West, a coffee shop on Haight Street about midway between their two residences, got their brews, and realized it might be hours before they could find a place to sit inside. So they decided to walk instead, down to Lincoln and then due west into the teeth of the wind, out toward the beach.

For the first couple of blocks, they made small talk about the changing weather, Starbucks versus Bay Beans, how the La Cuisine classes were going for both Mickey and Ian, how everybody their age seemed to be doing one job for money, then all these other things that they seemed to like better for free—Alicia volunteering at the Sunset Youth Project, Mickey and Ian learning to cook.

“So what’s your day job?” Mickey asked her. “When you’re not volunteering?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“If it’s work that pays you, it’s not embarrassing. As my grandfather used to say, ‘There is no work, if done in the proper spirit, to which honor cannot accrue.’ ”

A small contralto laugh. “That’s good. Does that apply to being the hostess at Morton’s?”

“Every job in the world, according to Jim. But especially hostess at Morton’s,” Mickey said. “Perhaps the most honorable of the service jobs.”

“Well, thank you. I’ll start trying to look at it that way. Instead of as six hours of mind-numbing tedium.”

“There you go.” They walked on in silence for a while, and then Mickey said, “Ian told me about your parents.”

She cast a quick glance over at him. “Yeah.”

“Did he tell you that pretty much the same thing happened to me?”

She stopped and faced him. “Your father shot your mother and then himself?”

“No. But my father disappeared and then my mother overdosed. Same result. No parents.”

She closed her eyes, then shook her head. “I don’t really remember it too much. It was just the way it was. I was only nine.”

“I was seven, but I think it’s the most indelible memory of my life—the shape under the sheet on the gurney, knowing it was Mom, as they wheeled her out.”

“I must have blocked it,” she said.

After a silence that lasted for half a block, Mickey cleared his throat. “So, about Dominic, all these charities he ran . . .”

“He only ran one. The Sunset Youth Project. And of course all the subordinate groups off that.”

“Okay. So what are those?”

She shrugged. “Let’s see. The art gallery, the two schools, the development company, the theater, the moving company, the Sunset Battalion . . .”

“Sunset Battalion sounds like a bunch of commandos.”

“No. It’s more like an urban Peace Corps. Mostly older guys, some of the girls, people who’ve been in the program awhile.”

“So what do they do?”

Another shrug. “Pretty much whatever needs to be done. Tutoring, handing out pamphlets, bringing back the strays, working the neighborhoods. They’re kind of the boots-on-the-ground people.”

His understanding limited at best, Mickey nodded.

“Well, then, with this other stuff, what’s the actual Sunset Youth Project do?”

“Sunset itself? It’s the . . . I don’t know what you’d call it. The umbrella. The administrative side.”

They kept walking, and she must have noticed another question playing around on Mickey’s face, because she said, “What?”

“I’m just trying to get my arms around this whole thing. I mean, if Dominic was only running one program, what’s with the car?”

“Well, the one program has maybe two dozen sites in the city, maybe more. The main office and K through eight down on Ortega, the residential treatment center in Potrero, the outpatient center for adults by City College. Then the high school . . .” She stopped the litany. “You get the idea. I could get you the whole list if you need it, but the point is that Sunset’s a huge organization. Huge.”

“What’s its budget? Do you know?”

“Total?” She thought a moment. “Fifty million a year, give or take.”

Mickey stopped in his tracks. “No. Really.”

“Really. I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere in that neighborhood. It’s in the annual report. You could check.”

“Fifty million dollars?”

“Somewhere in there, I’m pretty sure. With everything, I mean all the programs, Sunset’s probably serving five thousand people a day, all told, citywide. It adds up.”

“I’ll say. So where’s all that money come from?”

“Everywhere, Mickey, are you kidding me? Individual philanthropists, foundations, tuition and other income from the schools, moving company fees and the sale of the redeveloped buildings. I mean, a lot of these things are profit centers in themselves. But also there’s a ton of public health money from the city. . . .”

“This city? I thought we were in a budget crunch.”

She nodded. “Always. But even if they cut way back, the Health Services Department is going to stay the single biggest agency in the city.”

“Is that true? The biggest?”

Alicia shook her head. “I’m sure that’s right. I think they’re in for five million to us, just Sunset. But then there’s also AmeriCorps, which is federal and funds the Battalion, for another several mil. And then there’s all the just day-to-day regular fund-raising.”

“That gets you to fifty million?”

“Pretty close, most years.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s impressive.”

“So, I’ve got to ask this, what was Dominic making running this thing? Does anybody know that?”

“Sure. It’s public record again. You could look it up in twenty minutes.” She broke a small smile. “But you don’t have to because I already know. His salary was six hundred forty-eight thousand dollars.”

“Every year?”

“Last year, anyway. And at least close to that the year before, and before that.” She shrugged. “It’s a major executive job, Mickey. He earned what he made. He deserved it.”

“Still,” Mickey said. “Six hundred and fifty grand. Makes me think I might want to go into charity work myself.”

“I thought you wanted to be a chef.”

“I do. But I’m flexible. For that kind of money I believe I could be tempted.”

“No.” She touched his arm again. “You don’t do it for the money. You do it for the work. It’s great helping people, it really is. Way better than standing in a restaurant saying hello with your smile on all day.

That’s why I got into my own volunteering. Although now with Dominic gone . . .” She stopped and visibly gathered herself as she threatened to tear up. “Sorry,” she said. “I keep doing this.” But wiping her hands over her eyes, she got herself back under control. “So I guess we’re to that now. My relationship with Dominic.”

“We can be if you’re comfortable with it.”

“I’m fine with it.” The words confident enough that they carried with them almost the hint of a threat. “I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of.”

“Although the other day you said that maybe you and Mr. Como were too close. What did you mean by that?”

“I meant that there was some chemistry, physical chemistry, that we both acknowledged. But he was a married man and he wasn’t going there. And neither was I. We’d even talked about me quitting so we wouldn’t be around one another so much, but that just seemed like a needless hardship on both of us. And why did we want that? We liked being together. We joked and had little secret things we did that made everything fun. I mean it, in the middle of all this serious stuff he did, every day was fun. He was just a great guy doing great work. And that was the other side of it.”

“Of what?”

“The job. The actual job.”

“What about the job?”

She bit her lower lip. “This is the part where you laugh at me.”

“I don’t think so. Try me.”

As they started walking again, she took a breath of air. “I kind of want to go into politics and change the world. At least try to make it a better place.”

“That’s not a bad thing. The politics, maybe, but not the general idea.”

“No, I know. But here I am with my little degree in political science, and I’m a hostess at Morton’s. You know what I’m saying?”

“Sure. You wanted to do something more important.”

She nodded. “And now you’re thinking, ‘So she gets a job driving a limo?’ ”

“I’m not thinking that. I’m listening.”

“Okay. So the thing about this job with Dominic isn’t so much about driving him around. It’s about moving into another world where there’s power and money and good things can happen.” She was getting into it now and her voice came to life. “You know what happened to the last three of Dominic’s morning drivers? This is in, like, the last two or three years.” She held up one finger. “Jon Royce, now administrative assistant to guess who? Alice Tallent, city supervisor. Two, Terry McGrath, EMT school and fast- tracked to the Fire Department. Three, DeShawn Ellis, scout for the San Francisco Giants who got Dominic and me the best tickets I’ve ever seen last Opening Day.”