John Lescroart - The Hunt Club

Hunt put down his fork. "Not to sound too sensitive or anything, Dev, but he won't be loved, and that's kind of the main thing, you know?"

Juhle was picking the meat out of the mussels, using one of his earlier shells. He popped his latest morsel and chewed for a moment. "Yeah, but so few of us are," he said, "present company excluded, of course." After a minute, he shrugged. "He'll get over it, Wyatt. Most people do."

"Except the ones who don't."

Juhle considered, swallowed, drank some club soda. "Right," he said, "except for them."

Wes Farrell's T-shirt read,THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE. His girlfriend Sam Duncan wore one saying, ANGER MANAGEMENT CLASSES PISS ME OFF. Neither was wearing theirs under work garb but right out loud and proud of it. It was that kind of day-yet another rare warm one, a Saturday in late July.

And it was that kind of party at Hunt's warehouse.

The celebration was over the announcement that Devin Juhle had been named San Francisco Police Officer of the Year. He'd had his formal dinner with the police brass, his family, and a roomful of his fellow lawmen at Gino & Carlo's in North Beach last weekend, but this party was different.

Hunt had a barbecue going in the alley out the back door and a pony keg of Gordon Biersch on ice in the kitchen sink. The garage door to the front of the place was all the way up. The warehouse itself had been rocking for over an hour now with everything from the Beatles and Rolling Stones to Tom Petty, Toby Keith, Jimmy Buffett, Ray Charles. Juhle and his two boys, Eric and Brendan, were playing basketball on the inside court with Mickey, Jason, and Craig. The people Hunt worked with every day as well as the other ex officio Hunt Club members-Sam, Wes, Jason, and Amy-were all in attendance, as well as Juhle's wife, Connie, of course, and their daughter, Alexa.

Hunt was turning sausages and flipping burgers as Connie-pert and pretty in a yellow sundress-sidled up to him. "So where's the famous Andrea Parisi?" she asked. "I thought I was finally going to get to meet her in person."

"I don't know. To tell you the truth I thought she'd be here by now. She's probably just running late with work."

"On a Saturday?"

Hunt smiled, shook his head. "I don't know if you realized, Con, but lawyers don't differentiate between days of the week. They just work all the time. Saturday, Tuesday night, four in the morning, you name it, they're working." He gestured back inside. "Even Wes, Amy, Jason, those guys in there. They're working right now, I guarantee it."

"I'm glad I didn't decide to do that."

"Me, too. But Andrea did."

Connie hesitated. "And you like her? She likes you?"

"Well, I saved her life after all, so she's kind of obligated to be at least nice to me. But, hey, here you go. You can ask her yourself."

Andrea Parisi, accompanied by Richard Tombo, appeared at the head of the alley. In espadrilles, culottes, and a sleeveless tangerine T-shirt, she looked impossibly desirable even from a distance. As they got closer, Hunt realized that even close-up she showed little if any of the effects of her eighty hours without food or fluids. Her hair gleamed in the sun; her face had regained its color.

Connie turned back to Hunt, gave him an approving nod. "Okay, then," she said.

They made the introductions, then Hunt went inside and brought out a beer in a plastic cup for Tombo and a glass of white wine for Andrea. They made small talk, while Hunt attended to the grill. The first round was about ready, and Connie went inside to make the announcement to the rest of the guests.

Hunt moved some of the food around and smiled at the latest arrivals. "Burger, sausage, tri-tip, potato salad, and condiments inside. We've got it all. What are you both having?"

Tombo, as if on cue, said, "I'm having a bathroom run. Back in a flash."

Leaving Andrea alone with him, wearing a look he couldn't read. "Still time for rare if you decide quick," he said. But then, at her pained expression, he stopped fiddling at the grill. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Fine," she said. She sipped some of her wine. "When you're done serving here, though, can we talk for a minute?"

"Sure."

"This is a little awkward,"she said.

He'd delivered his platter of food inside and now was back out in the alley with her, halfway down to the street, away from his back door and his friends.

"I can handle awkward. What's up?"

"Well." She took a breath. "The truth is, Wyatt, I've got an offer."

"Offers are good."

"Sometimes they are. This is one of those times." Speaking more quickly now, wanting to get it all out in a hurry, she went on, "You know how everything was, I mean with the Trial TV people, before I got…before I disappeared? I mean, Spencer wasn't going to be able to help me. It wasn't going to happen."

"Right."

"Well, this is…I mean, you couldn't plan something like this, but when I was gone, missing…you know this, I kind of became a story."

"No 'kind of' about it. You were hot."

"I was hot," she admitted with a rueful look. "And then when it turned out I'd been kidnapped and then getting rescued the way I did…the way that you did, I mean…all of that, you know. Then all the interviews and stories."

Hunt had something of a vague recollection. Time , Newsweek , CNN. Basically, everywhere-he'd been a small part of the frenzy himself. He decided to make it easier for her. "They want you now."

She couldn't quite hide the pride in her small smile as she nodded. "Yes. Yes, they do. Without doing anything myself to make it happen, it seems now I've got name recognition."

Hunt forced his own brave smile. He brought a finger up and touched her cheek. "And pretty-face recognition."

"Maybe even that," she said, "if you can believe it."

"Oh, I believe that all right. So have you told your boss here yet?"

"Gary? Well, that's the other thing. Things at work, at Piersall, have been…well, I've told you a little about this. It seems Gary has come to think I might have been personally involved with Judge Palmer…"

"That's all right, Andrea. I don't need…"

"No." Her eyes bored into his, signaling her complete honesty, begging him to believe her because she was being so sincere. "But I just need to tell you that I would never have done that. It would have been completely unethical. We were working on huge cases together, Judge Palmer and me, millions and millions of dollars, and anything personal between us would have jeopardized every single case we touched."

"Okay," Hunt said, his heart tightening in his chest. For an instant, he considered telling her that it didn't matter. People weren't perfect; everybody made mistakes. It wasn't his place to judge her. What hurt him now was that she felt she had to lie to him, that perhaps it was okay, even noble, to lie to him if it would keep his vision of her intact.

As though he had ever wanted the vision.

He'd wanted the person.

And now that person irrevocably was someone who could look him in the eye and not tell him the truth. Because though he might never be able to prove if she had had her rumored affair with Judge Palmer, he knew that her denying it now with these rehearsed lines was a lie. And now suddenly what might have been had become what never could be.

She was going on. "Gary said that even a hint of that suspicion, any sign at all, and Jim Pine would fire the whole firm. All of our work for them would be suspect, subject to appeal or lawsuits, worthless." She drew a breath. "Anyway, I don't know if there's any more law work for me in this town anymore. For what it's worth, Gary seemed to recognize that. The severance package was pretty good."