John Lescroart: The Hunt Club

Frustration crowded out any other expression on Lettie's face. "You fine," she said to her child, then spoke to me, her tone dispassionate, even reasonable. "She don't need to go gettin' up. She get up, she try an' go out."

My flat gaze went from Lettie to her daughter. "Keeshiana, I'd like to see you stand up, please."

Her eyes, panicked, flew to her mother.

Which was my signal. With an exaggerated slowness, I pushed back, stood up, and sidestepped to Keeshiana's end of the table. Pulling out her chair, I drew in a sharp breath. A clothesline wrapped perhaps a dozen times around her waist and legs held her in her place.

Devin Juhle,the homicide cop from my childhood, fell in next to me as I emerged from the darkened pod into the bright and windswept cut of packed earth and glass that led out to the sidewalks. I was carrying Keeshiana in my arms, a blanket wrapped around her legs, her own arms around my neck.

"What are you doing?" Juhle asked.

"Getting her out of here. Her mother had her tied up."

"She let you just take her?"

"I explained the situation, gave her the forms."

"Still. Anybody sees you or she come screaming out raising a stink, the people here…"

"The mom's gonna learn to live with it. I do this for a living, okay? There's a technique." I was walking quickly, breathing hard. "You got a car nearby?" I asked. "I'm three blocks away. Mistake."

"Yeah, but anybody comes out-"

"That's why I'm in half a jog here, Dev," I snapped, cutting him off. I indicated Keeshiana. "I'm worried about her."

"My car's just down here, around the corner," Juhle said, and led the way for us, double time.

Deputy Director Wilson Mayhewleft a polite note in my cubicle asking if I could please come to his office at my earliest convenience. There was nothing ominous about the summons except that it was the first time I'd had any personal contact with Mayhew since we exchanged cordial hellos at the Christmas party two years before. At that time, finger right on the pulse of those he supervised, he had asked me what my connection was to the CPS. Since I'd only been with the department for eight years back then, and ever since Mayhew himself had come aboard five years before, I told him to keep it between us, but that I was really FBI, working under-cover to ferret out the pimp who was running the illegal-alien child-prostitution ring out of the CPS. Surely he'd heard of it.

After that, at least he knew who I was.

So that October afternoon, I found myself standing in front of the DD's desk in his third-floor office on Otis Street. Though the furnishing and decor of the rest of the CPS offices could have been case studies in drab bureaucratic aesthetics, heavy on grays, greens, and metal surfaces, Mayhew's workplace, like the man himself, was done up in a semblance of style if not taste. The desk was an enormous redwood burl, polished and asymmetrical, without any apparent drawers, and a flat surface only large enough to hold a phone and a nearly empty in-and-out box. There was no sign of a computer or workstation of any kind. He had three Walter Keane paintings-large-eyed children on the verge of tears (get it?)-framed and hung to cover any free wall space. A teak credenza hugged the wall to my right, opposite the windows. It was covered by a large crocheted doily on which stood what appeared to be an actual silver Russian samovar. The bookshelves behind him held very few books and mostly featured silver-framed photographs of Mayhew with the past three mayors, the chief of police, Governor Gray Davis, Boz Scaggs, Danielle Steel, and a few other celebrities I couldn't identify. The top shelf was entirely devoted to Lladró ceramics. Touching.

Mayhew stood. His Armani couldn't disguise the extra forty pounds he carried. His round, faintly cherubic face glistened slightly over the double chin, as though perhaps he'd overscrubbed it. A high forehead wasn't improved or mitigated by his decision to comb what hair there was straight back. His own mother probably wouldn't have called him attractive, but he nevertheless exuded a confidence born of the exercise of power. The fat older white guy who'd made it, and if you didn't like how he looked, you could bite him.

He pushed his bulk up from in his chair and reached over the desk to shake my hand and thank me for coming so promptly. He was back in his seat by the time I answered.

"Sure. What's up? Is there a problem?"

"No, no. No problem at all. In fact, rather the opposite."

"Great." I waited.

"So how long have you been on the street now, working cases?"

"Eight years, sir."

He emitted a low whistle. "That's what I'd understood. Do you realize that you're the senior caseworker downstairs?"

"I hadn't really thought about it."

"And you've had nothing but glowing evaluations all that time."

I shrugged. "I care about the work, sir."

"Obviously. Obviously." Sitting back, he linked his hands over his stomach. "The point is that you've got a lot of firsthand street knowledge you could pass on to new caseworkers coming up into the department."

"I try to help when I can."

"Yes, well…but I was thinking we might want to formalize that relationship a bit." He came forward, his small eyes locking into mine, a smile of sorts appearing. "I'll put it right to you, Wyatt. Have you ever considered stepping up to supervisor?"

"I've never applied, no, sir."

"Why not?"

I gave it a moment's thought. "I guess I like being on the street."

"That's commendable. Where the action is, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Would you consider moving up?"

Again, I didn't answer right away. I must have appeared to be looking around the room at his pictures and trophies.

He blindly read it as envy. "With your stellar record to date," he said, "it's not out of the question you could be sitting here where I am in a matter of years."

Oh, be still, my heart.

Besides, this was a blatant lie. Mayhew himself had never worked the street. I didn't even know for sure that he had a master's in social work, which was a prerequisite for us street types. But casework was not one of the prerequisites for deputy director. Political connection was. Mayhew was the brother of a city supervisor, Chrissa Mayhew. I neither had nor wanted to have any part of that.

But we were being friendly, and I saw no reason to change the tone. "Well, it's flattering that you should consider me…"

He jumped in again before I could outright refuse. "It's quite a significant bump in salary, you know."

I shook my head. "It's not that."

"What is it, then?"

"What I said. I guess I'm just not much of an office person. I like going out on calls."

Sitting back, slumped in the chair again, Mayhew's face had closed down. "And you often go out alone."

It wasn't a question. Still, I said, "Yes, sir, I do."

"Why is that?"

Because most of my coworkers, whom you've hired, are unmotivated, you idiot. But I said, "Sometimes it's hard to coordinate schedules."

"And do you think that's particularly efficient?"

"Sometimes in the field, an inexperienced partner can be more a hindrance than a help."

"But how are they to gain that vital hands-on experience if veteran caseworkers won't go on calls with them?"

"Well…it's not a matter of 'won't.' Some of the people downstairs feel like they have to write up their reports, and that's their priority. And sometimes that keeps them at their desks." We were leaving the faux friendly arena quickly. "As to efficiency, you said I've had good performance reviews."

"On the calls themselves, yes. But we've got a ship to run here, and we need all the sailors to cooperate if we're going to keep it afloat."