A fitful sun broke through onto the throng of arriving mourners. Juhle at first hung back on the periphery of the property, getting the lay of the land, but then he nudged Hunt, who buttoned his suit coat against the steady breeze, and the two of them began to stroll down the row of Minicams.
Hunt pegged the crowd at already between two and three hundred. He recognized quite a number of the city's elite and powerful milling about, possibly waiting to be interviewed themselves-life as one big photo op. They stopped and listened for a minute as the mayor, Kathy West, extolled Judge Palmer's virtues to the blonde from Channel 4. Chief of Police Frank Batiste led a phalanx of his top brass, decked in their dress blues, up into the cathedral's mouth. A woman Juhle knew as another federal judge shared an anecdote with the hunk from Channel 7.
Many, many civilians, of course, kept arriving in a steady stream as well. Juhle pointed out the judge's wife, Jeannette, and her sister, Vanessa, who was flamboyant even in black. Palmer's secretary and his clerk.
An elderly couple caught Juhle's attention for a moment. He knew them. It was right there…then he snapped his fingers and said, "Carol Manion, and I'm thinking spouse."
Hunt spotted Dismas Hardy-in black pinstripes looking nothing like his bartender persona-walking with a very pretty redheaded woman and his two partners, Wes Farrell and Gina Roake. Farrell gave him a somber nod.
Hunt saw Gary Piersall by one of the vans up ahead, standing with his hands in his pockets, the walking dead. After giving Juhle a quiet heads-up, when they got up to him, Hunt touched the attorney's arm lightly. "Mr. Piersall. Good morning."
"Mr. Hunt. Inspector…Juhle, right?" Piersall extended his hand. The men shook. "It's a sad day," Piersall said. "Are you making much progress?"
"Not enough." Juhle gestured with his head to the interview going on in front of them. "Who's that?" he asked.
"Jim Pine," Piersall said. "A client of mine. He and the judge were acquainted."
Hunt threw Piersall a sideways glance to see if he was joking. But no, this was the drill for today. Hunt realized that Piersall wasn't going to be debriefing him on their discoveries in Andrea's office. "He runs the prison guards' union, doesn't he?" Hunt asked, telling Juhle.
Piersall's eyes flicked between them. "Yes, he does."
"What's he talking about?" Juhle asked.
"Apparently, some irresponsible parties have been trying to establish a connection between the judge's death and some recent actions he'd been contemplating with respect to union matters. Mr. Pine is debunking that speculation as ridiculous, which, of course, it is."
"Really?" Juhle said. "That's your position? Because I must tell you, I've heard a little bit about it myself, and it doesn't sound so far-fetched to me. Especially with the Andrea Parisi situation."
"Well, inspector, if that's the direction your investigation is leading you, it's a small wonder you've not made much progress. Now if you'll excuse me, it looks as though Mr. Pine is about done, and we've got to be getting inside." Piersall leveled a last glare at Hunt and stepped around him to get next to his client.
"Let him go," Hunt whispered, moving Juhle along. "It's an act for Pine's benefit. He's got to be the good attorney in public. He told me last night that he was scared to death."
"Of Pine?"
"Keep walking. Yes, of Pine."
The light going on in his head, Juhle stopped in his tracks. "You saw him last night. That's how you found Parisi's car. You were there on something else."
"I was there on what I found this morning, Dev. I just didn't know it then 'cause I hadn't found it yet."
"Well, I've got to have a few words with Mr. Pine."
"And he's going to talk to you?"
"I'm a cop, Wyatt. It's not like he gets to choose."
"He'll be lawyered up. He's already lawyered up. It'll just waste your time. You know it as well as I do."
"You got a better idea?"
"You know," Hunt said, "I think I do."
They decided to check out the inmate who'd escaped from prison.
On the plus side, San Quentin occupies a large waterfront site with harbor views. Juhle was telling Hunt that he thought a developer could make a fortune here with a small city of condo complexes and an upscale mall, a marina with bay-front dining. The main buildings currently on the property-enormous, industrial-looking concrete structures in a square around an inner yard-would have to go, of course, and they'd have to think up some way to purge the bad karmic load that had accumulated from the decades that the facility had spent housing, feeding, guarding, and executing its inmates. But once they got that done: "They give it a fancy name. The yuppies would be lined up for a mile to bid on the suckers. Hey, 'Q by the C'-get it? Just the letters?"
"I get it. You missed your calling, Dev. I'm serious." Hunt driving, they had left the main road a mile before and joined a surprising albeit short line of vehicles that were now pulled up to the guard's station at the gate. Three hundred yards farther, past the cluster of administration buildings, they saw the entrance to the prison proper. Guard station, double fencing, barbed and razor wire. "How does somebody break out of this place?"
"Good question. That's what we're here to find out."
Juhle had called the warden's office on the way up to make arrangements for their visit-as a homicide inspector on an active case, especially one of this import, he had theoretical access just about anywhere he wanted to go-and they only spent a minute at the guard's station with their identification and signing in.
It was by now early afternoon on a Friday, and half of the parking lot off to their left was filled with the cars of other visitors who had come up the road with them-wives, girlfriends, children, lawyers. But Hunt had been directed to his right, to the administration building, and he parked in a visitor's space in front of it. The wind here whipped off the bay, cold and biting as they emerged from the car.
The warden, Gus Harron, projected a stern bureaucratic competence befitting someone who directed a business whose budget was over one hundred twenty million dollars a year. San Quentin housed over five thousand inmates, almost twice the capacity for which it had been built, and supported fifteen hundred or so combined guards and other staff. Harron wore a gray business suit, white shirt, dark gray tie. He carried a large frame that showed no sign of fat. Rimless eyeglasses seemed to intensify an already imperious countenance, but for all that, he came around his desk and shook hands pleasantly enough, then took a seat on a couch under one of his windows, bidding Juhle and Hunt to take the chairs that faced it.
"Did I get this right, inspector?" he began. "You're working on the Palmer homicide?"
"That's right. And Mr. Hunt's a private investigator who's been handling an investigation for one of his clients-a law firm named Piersall-Morton-that seems to have intersected my own at a couple of points." He paused. "Andrea Parisi works for Piersall."
Harron sat back, one leg crossed over the other, radiating the fact that the connection was intuitively clear. "And somehow both of your investigations are related to San Quentin?"
Juhle shifted slightly. "We don't know for certain, sir. We're interested in finding out as much as we can about the inmate who escaped out of here last Monday."
All amiability vanished from the warden's demeanor. "Arthur Mowery. He's the first escapee I've had in six years. You really need to contact the Department of Corrections personnel investigating that case. I can assure you, there'll be an exhaustive investigation and report into what happened."