John Lescroart: The Hunt Club

The first book in the Wyatt Hunt series, 2006

From the outside,the large four-story San Francisco apartment building on Twenty-second Avenue near Balboa in the Richmond District was well kept up, but I had seen that before when I'd been called on complaints, and by itself it meant nothing. This building probably had forty units, each one a self-contained and discrete universe inhabited by singles, doubles, students, old folks, happy and unhappy, married and unmarried, gay and straight couples, with or without children.

On this cold and dreary morning, the mandated call had come from Cabrillo Elementary, where the kids were in sixth and fourth grade, respectively. Both of them had been absent the entire previous week of school, and no parent had called the office with an excuse. When the school's attendance officer had phoned the Dades' home for the first time last Wednesday, she'd left a message that no one returned. On Friday, she called again and talked to Tammy, the sixth grader, who said everybody had the flu, that was all. No, her mother was too sick and sleeping and couldn't come to the phone. Tammy thought that she and her brother would probably be better by Monday and she'd bring a note from her mother or the doctor. Somebody, anyway. Monday, they didn't make it, though, and the attendance officer had called Child Protective Services to check out what might really be going on. She noted on the complaint that both children appeared to be under-nourished and poorly clothed.

Now it was Tuesday morning, a little before 10:00. My partner for the call, my favorite partner in CPS, for that matter, named Bettina Keck, stood with me-Wyatt Hunt-outside the building after the first few rings from the button in the lobby went unanswered.

"Why am I not believing nobody's home?" Bettina said.

It was freezing standing there and I had already had enough waiting. I was going down the list of residents' namecards, pressing each button one after the other. "I hate when they make us do this. If anyone answers, you up for talking?"

"Why me?"

"You're smarter? Wait, no, that can't be it."

"Funnier, too," she said. And as if on cue, a squawk came out of the box, the voice of an elderly woman. "Who's down there?"

Bettina leaned close to the speaker. "FedEx delivery."

"See?" I said. "Brilliant."

Bettina shushed me and we heard, "I didn't order anything."

"What apartment are you?"

"Eight."

My finger went to the namecard for Bettina to read. She got it without missing a beat. "You're Mrs. Craft?"

"I am."

"Well, you've got to sign for your delivery."

"What is it?"

"Right now, ma'am, it's a brown box. If you don't want it, I'll just have it sent back."

"To where?"

"Let me see. It looks like a jewelry store. Maybe you won a prize."

A pause. Then, "Oh, all right."

And the door buzzed, letting us into the building.

"You might be smarter at that," I said, holding the door for my partner.

"No might about it." She smiled at me. "Best part of the job."

We took the stairs, through a door just inside the entrance, and came out on the third floor. The Dade residence was number 22, down the hallway on our left, and we stood in front of its door, listening to the television playing inside. Bettina nodded and I knocked. Immediately, the TV sound diminished. I knocked again. And again. "Whoever just turned down the television," I said in a loud and authoritative tone, "open the door, please."

Finally, a young girl's voice, thin and timid: "Who is it?"

"Child Protective Services," Bettina said softly. "Open up, please."

"I'm not allowed."

"You're not allowed not to, honey. Is that Tammy?"

After a hesitation, the voice asked, "How do you know that?"

"Your school called us to check on you. They're worried about you and your brother. You've missed a lot of days."

"We've been sick."

"That's what they said."

"We'd just like to make sure you're okay," I put in.

"We might still be contagious."

"We'll take that chance, Tammy," Bettina said. "We're not allowed to go away until we see you."

"If you don't let us in," I added, "we may have to come back with the police. You don't want that, do you?"

"You don't need to call the police," Tammy said. "We haven't done anything wrong."

Effortlessly tag-teaming with me, Bettina spoke. "Nobody's saying you did, honey. We just want to make sure everything's okay in there. Is your brother with you?"

"He's okay, except he's still sick."

"How about your mom? Is she there with you? Or your dad?"

"We don't have a dad."

"Okay, your mom, then."

"She's sleeping. She doesn't feel good, either. She's got the flu, too."

"Tammy," keeping a rising sense of concern out of my voice, "we need to come in right now. Please, open the door."

A couple of seconds more and we heard the lock turn, and there she was. Remarkably composed and reasonably well dressed, I thought immediately, for a girl who was clearly starving to death.

Bettina went down on one knee. I heard her asking, "Tammy, honey, have you had anything to eat lately?" while I opened the door and passed behind them, half-hearing the young girl's response: "Some bread."

In the living room in front of the television set, an emaciated young boy sat under a pile of blankets, staring with hollow and empty eyes at the silent screen. "Hey, buddy," I said gently. "Are you Mickey?"

The boy glanced over at me and nodded.

"How are you doing?"

"Okay," he said in a tinsel voice, "except I'm a little hungry."

"Well, we'll get you some food right away, then. How's that sound?"

"Good. If you want."

"I do. I do want. Where's your mom, Mickey?"

Bettina, holding Tammy's hand, heard the question as she came into the room. "She's in her bedroom," Bettina said. "Maybe I should stay with the kids in here a minute, and you go see how she is?"

"On it," I said.

Mrs. Dade was in her bed, all right, and sleeping. But it wasn't the kind of sleep where you woke up.

The autopsy later revealed that she had died of an overdose of heroin, probably in the form of black tar, probably on the third or fourth day the kids had missed school. While we were waiting for the unnecessary ambulance, Tammy told us that her mother had lost her job at the Safeway a couple of weeks ago because of her drug problem, which was really a disease she couldn't help. She had told Tammy and Mickey that she knew she shouldn't be using drugs, that they were bad, and she was trying to stop, but it was really, really hard. The main thing, though, was that they must never, ever tell anybody because if the police ever found out, they'd come and either take Mom away or take them away from her.

Tammy took DARE at school, and she knew that this was true. Everybody agreed you shouldn't live with people who used drugs.

Which was why Tammy hadn't told anybody.

And this hadn't been the only time with Mom. Sometimes she would disappear into her bedroom for a couple of days. This was just longer than usual. Tammy didn't want to look in because sometimes her mom would get mad if she checked up on her. She didn't want her children to see her doing drugs. She was ashamed of it. In a day or two more, Tammy thought, her mom would probably come out of her bedroom, or she would go check when they were really out of food, and then they'd go back to school and Mom would go shopping and get them something to eat. Meanwhile, Tammy just fed herself and Mickey from what was left in the kitchen. She rationed it so it wouldn't run out. She needed to protect her brother, too, along with her mom.