Treasure Hunt

She sighed. “All right. Oh, and, Wyatt?” she said. “Also Jim. Don’t forget about him.”

“No chance, Tam.” He was putting on his coat. “He’s at the top of my list.”

“That was that same detective with the Hunt Club,” Lola Sanchez told her husband after she’d shut the door to his private office at the Mission Street Coalition. “He wanted to know what we did after the COO meeting. And then he asked about last Tuesday, a week ago, the night Dominic was killed. He didn’t say so, but I’m sure he’ll be calling you, maybe next.”

Lola, tightly wound even when she was at her most relaxed, was in nowhere near any kind of a calm state at the moment. The color was high in her strong, attractive Aztec face; her black hair, normally swept back and up, had come out where she’d pulled at it during her call with Mickey.

Jaime was up and around his desk before she’d even finished. He got her down on the couch against the side wall and sat next to her, holding both her hands in both of his. “You don’t need to worry, love. Len will not let anything happen to us. We have an understanding.”

“Yes, but we’ve had understandings with him before. He really looks out for no one but himself. You know this. We know it. We’ve seen it.”

Jaime, poker-faced, squeezed his wife’s hands. Without question, Lola was right, and Len Turner’s character worried him deeply, but the ugly truth was that if you wanted to be in the game in San Francisco, Turner was your go-to guy. He controlled much of the money and enforced most of its distribution.

But of more immediate concern was his wife’s propensity to panic. Jaime himself didn’t necessarily believe that because a private investigator wanted to know what they’d been doing on the nights of the two murders, he had any actual suspicions. And beyond that, a private investigator was not local or federal law enforcement. No one had any real reason to be looking at anything he or his wife had done, but Lola’s temperament was always a consideration.

According to plan, she was going to be ru

He leaned in and gave her a light kiss. “Just forget about Len Turner,” he said. “The main thing is that you and I don’t contradict anything that either of us says. We have a consistent story and no one will even think to question it. So what did you tell this person you’d exactly done Monday after the meeting? So that I can say the same thing. I do hope and trust that, whatever it was, you said you were with me the whole time. ¿Sí?”

31

The rain had stopped.

As Hunt drove back to his place, he caught sight of a line of blue in the sky to the west. Normally, the coming improvement in the weather would have elevated his mood. But today it could have suddenly turned balmy, bright, and warm and he might not have noticed at all. Instead, as he drove with his jaw clamped shut, he couldn’t help but be aware of the dampness of his palms, a dry mouth, the pinch of the gun he still had tucked into his belt at the small of his back.

At some point, he reached behind him, got ahold of the gun, and laid it on the passenger seat beside him.

By the time he pressed the button to open his garage, he was breathing deeply through his nose, all of his senses on full alert, his world closed down in an immediacy to the here and now that would have surprised and possibly embarrassed him if he’d been aware of it. Which he was not.

Even before he actually entered, just as he was turning off Bra

Again, his eyes sca

It occurred to him, now much too late, that maybe he should have called to see if Devin and Sarah were nearby at the Hall of Justice, and could come by-it was only a few blocks-to accompany him when he went in. Gone from his mind was the slightest thought of providing her sanctuary from the police any longer.

But he’d already a

“Oh, God.” Alicia’s hand at her mouth, her eyes wide. “Thank God it’s you,” she said. “I heard the garage and was just standing here inside, afraid to move. Scared to death, really.”

Hunt released the tightness of his grip on the gun in his pocket. “You and me both,” he said.

“I can understand me being frightened,” she said. “But what are you afraid of?”

“Lots of things. But right up there at the top is coming into my home when I know it’s not empty.”

“Yeah. That could be creepy. I could see that.”

“I’m sure you could. But in this case it’s not hypothetical.”

When Hunt’s meaning hit her, her face clouded over. “You’re not saying you’re really afraid of me, are you?”

“I don’t know if afraid is exactly the right word. For the time being, let’s go with cautious.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.”

“By the same token, it’s not something that you’re going to talk me out of.”

“You can’t think I killed Dominic.”

“I can’t? Why not?”

“Just because… because you can’t. I didn’t.”

“That’s what Mickey says too.”

“Well, Mickey’s right. You ought to believe him, if not me.”

“It’s not a question of believing.”

“It’s not? What is it, then?”

“It’s opportunity, motive, access to the murder weapon, or weapons.”

A brittle, small laugh escaped into the space between them. “Oh, so I’m a suspect in two murders now? Dominic and Nancy, I suppose.”

“While we’re at it,” Hunt said, “maybe three.”

“Sure, why not?” she snapped out, then shook her head in a very convincing show of disgust. “Please.”

But Hunt wasn’t in any kind of conciliatory mood. “You want to step back and let me in? Then we can continue this discussion.”

She backed away from the door, pulling it along with her. Hunt stepped over the threshold, threw a quick glance first over her shoulder down the hallway to the right, then over to his left. “Okay,” he said, reaching for the doorknob and closing it behind them.

“Who’s the third murder victim?” she asked.

“We’ll get to that,” Hunt said. “Meanwhile, what I’d like you to do is go down to the TV room and sit there for a minute and wait for me. I’ll be right with you.”

“Has someone else been killed?” she asked. “If somebody was killed last night, I was with Mickey the whole time. I couldn’t have killed anybody.”

“Maybe not,” Hunt said. He pointed. “TV room. Please.”