Treasure Hunt (33 page)

“I don’t think so,” Mickey said. He didn’t want to give Hunt the option of ordering them out—not an impossibility—before he’d had a chance to argue for his position. “It might be better as a surprise.”

 

 

“Nobody ever cooks for me,” Mickey said, “except in restaurants.”

“Well, I do now.”

At ten-fourteen on this Wednesday night, Alicia was standing over a bowl of half a dozen broken eggs in Hunt’s kitchen by his four-burner Viking stove. Mickey had stolen one of Hunt’s short-sleeved sweatshirts and he and Alicia had maneuvered it down over his cast and now he sat—nearly reclined, actually—at the kitchen table. She’d already set out a couple of plates and utensils and had bread going in the toaster. He held his just-opened third beer in his right hand.

Pouring the eggs into the skillet, she pinched some salt and pepper over them, then opened the spice cabinet over the kitchen counter and took down a small bottle of yellowish liquid. “Truffle oil? Normal people have truffle oil?”

“Don’t leave home without it,” Mickey said. “Sure.”

“Should I put some in?”

“Every chance you get.”

In a small stream, she added some of the magical stuff, gathered the eggs with a spatula, then turned off the heat as the toast popped up. After buttering it, she put a slice on each plate, ladled the eggs onto each, covering both pieces of toast completely, then topping the mass with another pat of butter.

Mickey picked up his fork and took a bite. “These are perfect,” he said.

 

 

After they’d finished their eggs and Alicia had washed up, they were back in the den. Mickey had perked up when they’d first arrived, and that burst of energy had carried him through their meal. But now he sat slumped down in the reading chair, feet up on an ottoman, head on a pillow, covered with a blanket that Alicia had found next to the pillow on the top shelf of Hunt’s bedroom closet. “The couch opens up.” His voice sounded thick and groggy. “You can sleep there.”

“What about you?”

“I’m good here. I’m almost asleep already.”

“Sorry, Mick. You’re mangled and battered. You get the bed. Period.”

“Are we going to have a fight about this?”

She was already pulling the cushions off the couch. “No. You’re going to get in the bed as soon as I get it made.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ve got my trusty sleeping bag and pad in the back of my car out there.” She pulled out the couch mattress, which was already made up for guests with a sheet and a blanket. Then, pulling down a corner of the blanket, she turned to face him. “Do you need help getting up?”

“No.” But even as he said it, he winced at the attempt.

“Stop.” She stepped over and took off his shoes, then held his feet up while she moved the ottoman out from under them. Next she removed the blanket and draped it over the bed.

With his feet flat on the floor, he took her hand with his good arm and lifted himself into a sitting position while she went to one knee in front of him.

“Okay,” she said. “Good arm around my neck. Easy, easy.”

Suppressing the urge to moan, he was up, still leaning on her.

She guided him over a few steps, then helped him down so that he was sitting on the bed. Finally, she put his pillow down where his head would be, lifted his feet, and turned him so that he could recline fully. She pulled the oversheet and both blankets over him and tucked them in. Then she lowered herself and sat on the edge of the bed. “How’s that?”

Clearly, the movement had cost him. Any boost he’d felt when they’d first gotten here had dissipated with the adrenaline and the beer. Now a light sweat had broken on his forehead and he was breathing through the pain in his ribs, slowly and deeply through parsed lips. “Good.”

“Would you tell me if it was bad?”

“Maybe.” He broke a tired smile. “Probably not.”

“You macho guys.” She gently wiped his forehead with a corner of the oversheet, then tucked it back around him. After a minute her shoulders settled and she let out a long sigh. “I’m so sorry, Mickey.”

“For what?”

“Getting you into this.”

“You didn’t get me into this. I got me into this.”

She brooded on that for a long beat. “Not really. If I . . .” She exhaled heavily again. “Anyway, I don’t know how I can thank you. I don’t know what I’d be doing right now if it wasn’t for you.”

“You’d be fine.”

“No. I’d be running, I think. Though I see now how dumb that would be.”

He shook his head ever so slightly. “There’s no need to run. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

“But I wouldn’t have known that if not for you. I’d have just screwed up more.”

Mickey put his hand softly on her thigh. “You haven’t screwed up. You didn’t do anything wrong. Look at me. Alicia, look at me. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

She turned to face him, but couldn’t hold his gaze. Rather, her mouth trembled and she closed her eyes. She put her hand over his as though grasping it for support. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Mickey studied her face, on the verge of tears. And then heavy drops formed and fell at the same time from both of her eyes.

“Hey.” Mickey squeezed her leg. “Hey, now, it’s going to be all right.”

But she was shaking her head from side to side. “No. I have screwed up. I did do something wrong.”

“No, you didn’t. You just—”

“I did, Mickey, I did. I . . . I lied to those inspectors. I’ve even been lying to you.” Now she looked straight down at him. “That last morning when I came in to work? Dominic’s last day?”

“What about it?”

“He did fire me. He said I couldn’t work at Sunset anymore. He couldn’t see me anymore either. He said we could never see each other again.” Her shoulders began to shake, and a deep wrenching sob broke from her throat.

 

 

Tamara got ready for bed and then turned on the television to watch the late news.

Generally preferring to read or, in the old days when she had a social life, to hang out with friends, she almost never watched TV. But tonight it was the only thing she could think of to keep herself from imploding with frustration, concern, and anger.

Mostly anger.

Jim Parr still hadn’t made it home. Where the hell had he gone, and why wouldn’t he have called if he’d known he was going to be so late? But of course, he didn’t have a cell phone, had never bothered to learn how to use one. As if this took some sort of special dexterity or brains. She had already decided that she and Mickey were going to buy him one immediately if not sooner. Of course, then he probably wouldn’t pick it up when the damn thing rang on his belt. He had nothing but scorn for her and Mickey “being the slaves to technology” anyway.

Beyond that, she would be good and goddamned if she would try getting through the Gestapo switchboard at San Francisco General again to try to talk to Mickey. She did consider testing her Volkswagen and driving down there, but in the end decided that, since it was past visiting hours, she’d have less chance actually seeing him than she would talking to him on the telephone. And wasn’t it just the perfect karma for today that Mick’s cell phone had died in the accident so she couldn’t call him directly?

That was really special, and further proof that God hated her.

And when Wyatt Hunt had dropped her off at her home earlier, he told her that he had a date with Gina Roake, and it was far too late to interrupt them, even if she thought Wyatt might have been able to help in some way. Which she didn’t.

Finally, she knew she could call the police and report her grandfather as missing, except that it was decidedly premature for that. She knew from work that authorities would do nothing about a missing person report until that person had been missing for at least three days. Beyond that, Jim had been home most nights for the past six months since Tamara had lived here, but at least three times he’d wound up staying out somewhere mysterious and didn’t seem to feel the need to explain where or to check in with his grandchildren. She’d thought it was just drinking and probably passing out at the apartment of one of his bocce-ball companions, but then she’d discovered the plastic container of Viagra (certainly not Mickey’s) when she’d been cleaning up one day, and a little later had overheard him bragging to Mick that he’d “gotten lucky.”

But, the whole tenor of the evening nagging at her, she thought she’d better at least check the late- night news to see if there was anything about a body of an old man being found in a ditch or somewhere. But though there was no shortage of murder and mayhem in and around the greater Bay Area, there was no mention of anyone who could have been her grandfather.

At the end of the program, the smiling weatherman informed her that the northern storm whose lower edge had arrived in the city this morning would really slam them tomorrow. It would be cold and wet, great news for a drought-starved state. And more good news—it was expected to drop up to four feet of snow in the Sierra.

Somehow underwhelmed by all the terrific weather and other news, Tamara hit the remote, pulled the covers over her head on the Murphy bed, turned onto her side, and went to sleep.

 

 

 

 

Hunt liked to run most mornings
, but he wasn’t a fanatic. When the weather turned this ugly, he thought he could let a day go by and not miss it too much. He’d pump some iron at home and maybe get in a sprint workout on the court and could still be showered and shaved, dressed, and ready to head for work by eight.

With his windshield wipers slapping away, at a few minutes after six o’clock Hunt depressed the garage door button on his car’s visor and started to turn in, only to abruptly slam on his brakes. Just there to his right, parked along the wall, was a dark blue Honda Element. A frown creased his brow, and he considered jamming his car into reverse, backing out of there, and calling the police, telling them he had an intruder.

Instead, though, he scanned the open space in front of him. The Cooper’s lights were still on, and he could see at a glance that no one was lying in wait for him, although someone could conceivably be using the Honda for cover.

His heart pumping in his ears, he pushed the visor button and heard the garage door beginning to close behind him.

Moving the Cooper forward, he next pushed the dashboard button to shut off his engine, pulled out his keys, and opened his car door. His car’s beams now were out, and crouching low, he scampered over to the light switch next to the metal door and brought up the room lights.

Nothing. And nothing looked to have been touched. On this side of the warehouse, anyway.

Hunt owned a couple of guns. He generally did not carry them with him, and didn’t have them now. They were locked into a hidden safe under a pull-up board in the floor in his bedroom.

Note to self,
he was thinking.
When you’re working on any aspect of a murder case, carry your piece. You just never know.

But if that was today’s lesson, it was too late to benefit from it now. Again he considered letting himself out into the downpour, using his cell phone, getting a police presence or some reinforcements. But again, something stopped him.

It was all so quiet. His alarm should have gone off.

Every nerve on full alert, he walked over to the Element and dared a quick look inside. Through the slightly tinted window, he could see that the backseats had been folded up to the sides. There looked to be a pile of clothes covering the floor. All but tiptoeing now, he crossed his basketball court and got to the inner door, which was unlocked, and opened it without a sound. The rooms on this side of the warehouse would only be naturally lit by the high windows in the far wall, and little of that light penetrated to this hallway, which was close to pitch-black.

Now he didn’t hesitate at all, but picked his steps as quietly as he could into his bedroom. Dim light from the windows here relieved the blackness of the hall, but not by much. Over in the corner, he lifted the edge of the throw rug.

By now he was breathing hard and drops of sweat were beginning to stand out on his forehead. Somebody was still in or had been in his place. And if he was going to meet them, even if it was someone he might know from somewhere (enough that they knew about his alarm and its secret code), it was going to be on his terms.

He pulled up the floorboard and silently lifted it away. The last time he’d closed his safe, as was his habit, he’d set it so that the combination was mostly set and needed only a half turn to the right. This time, it worked as it should, and he reached in and lifted out his .380 ACP Sig Sauer P232. The gun was loaded and he released the safety and snicked a round into the chamber.

Then walked back out into the hallway, turning on the lights as he went.

 

 

Hunt was by no means over his adrenaline rush and his anger and he spoke in a whisper, all the more intimidating for its control. “You could have so easily gotten yourself killed. Both of you. I can’t believe how stupid this is.”

They were all sitting at the kitchen table. The gun, safety now back on, rested on the counter behind them. Mickey was still barefoot in his jeans and Hunt’s sweatshirt, augmented by the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Alicia, barefoot, wore her jeans from last night, though she’d thrown on a brown turtleneck sweater from the stash in her car.

Alicia raised her eyes to meet Hunt’s. “I’ll go if you want me to.”

“No!” At his outburst, Mickey clutched at his ribs.

Hunt’s expression dark, he turned to his employee. “That’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard, Mick.”

“And where’s she supposed to go?”

“How about back home? How about to her regular life?”

Mickey, very slowly, shook his head. “She’s not going to have a regular life until this is over, Wyatt. Juhle and Russo think it’s her. You told me that yourself.”