John Lescroart - The Hunt Club

"I don't think he's going to make it," he said.

"Yeah, but enough about him," Juhle said. "Get me out of these goddamned handcuffs."

Hunt never usedthe crutches they gave him at the ER. The bullet had creased the top of his thigh. It gave him a scar he'd be able to brag about for the rest of his life in certain company, but the actual damage, while painful enough and spectacular in terms of blood loss, was never life threatening, although he was going to be limping for a while. His disregard for Juhle's due process in the execution of his plan, though, gave him enough bureaucratic headaches for the next couple of weeks to make up for any physical pain he might have missed due to the wound.

The Napa County DA acknowledged Hunt's role in closing the Palmer matter and in saving the life of Andrea Parisi. Nevertheless, he was not initially inclined to overlook the extra-legal methods against one of the area's most prominent citizens-vandalism, trespassing-that Hunt had employed to get his results. The DA also didn't appreciate Hunt's still sloppy CCW paperwork, especially since it was the gun in question that had fired the shot that killed Shiu.

In the end, though, Juhle's statement about the unfolding of the night's events in combination with Ward Manion's reluctance to pursue prosecution-he just wanted the nightmare to be over-persuaded the DA that he didn't need to file any charges against what was, after all, a satisfactory conclusion to an extremely unusual, difficult, even tragic situation; though the DA did make it clear to Hunt that the next time he came to the wine country to work, he'd be well advised to avoid anything like the methods he'd employed against the Manions. And if his CCW wasn't current, the DA would flat out bust him for it.

But between the rehab on his leg, the visits to Parisi first at the hospital and then at her home during her recovery, and the resolution of all the legal issues hanging fire up in Napa, his business took a serious hit during the first weeks of the summer. The notoriety he had acquired because of Palmer and Parisi did not compensate for the lack of time he could actually spend on billable work, and so he, Craig, Tamara, and Mickey spent virtually all of their time through early July out in the field or in the office, catching up.

It was some measure that his life had at last reverted to near normalcy when he found time to meet Juhle for the first time in a month at Plouf, a French restaurant specializing in mussels, for lunch. It was Bastille Day, a Thursday, and Belden Alley was decked out front to back with the tricolor. A bright summer sun shone directly overhead, the temperature hovered in the mid-seventies.

Juhle sat alone at an outside table under a Campari umbrella, nursing a clear drink with bubbles and ice. He gave no sign that he'd noticed Hunt's approach until he said, "You've still got that sympathy-limp thing going?"

Hunt pulled out his chair and sat down in it. "You want, I'll shoot you in the leg, and you can have one, too. Except I might miss and hit your kneecap by mistake."

"Nobody would believe it was a mistake. Not after the shot that took out Shiu. Which had to be as lucky as the one I got all the heat for. I still can't get over it."

"That wasn't luck, Dev. As you should know better than anybody, hand-eye is my thing. I had him all the way. What are you drinking?"

"Club soda."

"Walking on the wild side."

Juhle shrugged. "I'm on duty. I don't drink on duty. It's one of the perks of the job. But you go ahead."

"I think I will. I've got a few hours for a nice change. Maybe I'll walk home after lunch and take a nap."

"You're still walking everywhere?"

"Mostly, or taking Mickey's cab. I can't work the damn clutch yet in the Cooper." The waiter came up, and Hunt ordered a glass of beaujolais. Both men were having variations on the mussels theme. Hunt watched the waiter walk away. "So," he came back to his friend, "you said there was news."

"Some." Juhle sipped his club soda. "I thought you'd want to know, we closed Palmer this morning. Officially."

"I wasn't really worried about it. It had to happen sometime."

"Maybe, but it's good to have it done. I mean rock solid, which it wasn't ever going to be until we found out a few things we didn't know."

"Such as?"

"Such as the gun, the murder weapon. The idiot didn't even toss it when he was done."

"Where'd you find it?"

"In a storage unit he rented out by his apartment, where he also kept his Beemer convertible." The waiter was back with Hunt's wine, and Juhle went silent until he'd moved away again. He leaned in across the table and lowered his voice. "Along with the cash."

"Cash?"

"A box of it. Same storage unit. Ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred dollars."

"So she paid him a hundred grand. I was wondering about the going rate."

"Yeah, but remember, it was a two-fer. Plus, you could probably do it a little cheaper if one of the hits wasn't a federal judge."

Hunt tasted his wine, took in the sun-dappled al fresco dining area. "You want to tell me something?"

"Like what? You used to be better-looking?"

"You used to be cleverer. Tell me something else."

"All right. What?"

"Andrea told me Mrs. Manion said it all came down that Monday afternoon after the judge called her to set up the meeting at his house. So my question is this: How do you hire somebody to kill two people on no notice? Like, 'Oh, by the way, Mr. Shiu, after you pick up the laundry, would you mind dropping by Judge Palmer's house and shooting him and his girlfriend?' I don't see how that happens."

Juhle held up a finger. "Aha! This is cool. I haven't told you about this?"

"I guess not."

"She'd felt him out before. Ward gave this to us. Evidently they'd had a problem at the house last year, some whack job deciding they owed him money or at least they needed to give him a bunch because they had so much of it. Anyway, he came onto the property here in the city a couple of times, and as you yourself have seen, their security can be pretty persuasive."

"At least."

Juhle nodded. "So they busted him and sent him on his way, but he showed up again, so they busted him again, and then again. The guy seemed basically harmless, but he was turning into a real nuisance. So one time when Ward's gone, out traveling again, the guy comes up while Carol's pulling out of the driveway, taking Todd to school. And he kind of goes off on the kid. Why does he deserve everything he's got? And so on. But evidently it got personal and pretty threatening, and Carol decided she wanted him taken care of."

"Tell me Shiu killed him."

"Can't do it, because he didn't. But what he did do was beat the living shit out of the guy and leave him in a Dumpster downtown. Out of uniform, random homeless beating, right? No record of any of it, of course, but Ward noticed the guy wasn't around anymore when he got home, and asked Carol about it. And she told him. So after Ward got over the worst of the shock last month, he remembered it and told us."

"She pay him?"

"Ten grand. Ward himself paid it out as a Christmas bonus. But the bottom line is it worked. The guy never came back."

"I can't blame him. That kind of rudeness, I don't think I would have, either."

Their waiter arrived with the food, and for a few minutes, they chowed into the succulent shellfish-garlic, cream, wine, parsley. Killer.

After a few minutes of bliss, Hunt took a break from the food. "So how's Todd?"

"Hanging in there, I guess. He's with Ward and his nanny."

"And how old's Ward?"

"I don't know. Seventy? Seventy-one?"

"Christ. The poor kid."

"The poor rich kid, Wyatt. I wouldn't lose any sleep over him. He'll be well taken care of, don't worry."