"But…"
"Exactly. But Carol doesn't want an amicable settlement, she won't hear of any visitation. She's already lost Cameron within the last year. There is no way she's going to let this trailer-trash slut have anything to do with Todd, now her only son, and with the life she's given him. So when she comes over to the judge's on Monday night, she comes armed. She's ready to have the whole issue die right there with the judge and Staci."
"So where's Parisi come in?"
"I've given that some thought and think this works. Listen. We know that Carol didn't walk in firing. The judge was at his desk, right? With Staci over next to him. So they talked at least for a minute or two, maybe a lot longer. I figure Palmer told Carol that either he or Staci had talked to Andrea already, that she was going to be handling the visitation details, the documentation, something like that. So she called Andrea either that night or the next day and set up the Wednesday appointment."
"Uh-oh."
"What?"
"You were going fine up till then. Why would she have waited until Wednesday?"
"Maybe that was the first appointment Andrea had."
"But if we'd have identified Rosalier before then, Parisi would have seen the connection and come to the police."
"Maybe, but probably not. I don't think it necessarily means she would have said anything to anybody. She's a lawyer. Manion could have called, promised her a retainer to get them into an attorney-client relationship, then confessed the whole damn thing to her on Monday night, and she couldn't have breathed a word of it. Wouldn't have. Andrea could have met her thinking she was going to be doing her defense." After a minute of silence, Hunt said, "Dev?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
"I like it."
"Me, too."
"But we've still got no evidence."
"Right."
"Or sign of Andrea."
"Hey, Wyatt," Juhle said gently. "We may never get that. You understand?"
"I know. I'm not counting on it. The Manions aren't home, by the way."
"Did you go by there tonight?"
"Yeah."
"What for?"
"Maybe have a discussion with them."
Juhle took a breath. "I think we're getting into the realm of police work here, Wyatt. Maybe you've gotten us so close, I can start doing my job. You don't want to muddy those waters."
"Oh, okay."
"Where are you now?"
Hunt didn't answer right away. "Parked out in front of their place."
"Wyatt."
"I'm cool, Dev. Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything stupid."
"You're already doing something stupid. If Carol killed Andrea, it's a police matter."
"Of course. What else would it be?"
"It would be something you wanted to get out of Carol Manion on your own. Maybe some inkling that you'll be able to find Andrea?"
"No."
"What, then? Andrea's dead, Wyatt. Really. I'm sorry, but that's what it is. And I'd prefer it if you didn't even talk to any of the Manions, even if you get the chance. I mean it."
"Well, as I said, they're not home."
"Neither are you, and you should be."
"I will be soon."
"When, though, exactly?"
"When I'm done here."
When he hung up with Juhle, Hunt called Mickey Dade and tried to interest him in driving up to Napa, where he could find Manion Cellars, see if the proprietors were at their home up in wine country. Mickey showed little interest in this particular field trip. He'd already lost some taxi income running around for Hunt last night and earlier today. And now Friday was his busiest night with the cab, and he needed to make all the money he could if he wanted to get into his cooking class next week. Besides, Mickey told Hunt that he'd already been up in the area plenty of times and knew where Manion Cellars was. It wasn't like they were trying to hide the place, he said, since they'd gone to the trouble of building and staffing the visitors' tasting room and all. "If you can't find 'em, Wyatt, I'd consider a career change," he said. "I hear plumbing's got a lot going for it."
Hunt had gone up to the enormous Manion house when he'd first arrived and rang the doorbell, listened to its chimes peal and fade into the unseen vastness of the interior. For a while afterward, he'd sat in his car, hamstrung by ambivalence. He didn't know where the Manions were or if they were coming home here. And he wasn't really a hundred percent certain what he planned to do if they showed up and he got to talk with them.
But Hunt had come here on instinct, and now instinct stirred him again. He got out of his car and stood a moment, staring through the fog at the dark facade of the Manions' home. He crossed the street and started up the walkway to the front door but hadn't gone more than a third of the way when he heard the sounds of car doors opening and closing behind him. He turned, squinted against the sudden glare of a flashlight. Two men were advancing toward him.
"Hold it right there! San Francisco Police! Put your hands over your head!"
Instead, thinking it was either Juhle or some friends that he'd talked into hassling him for fun, Hunt spread his hands and started to take a step back toward them. "What are you…?"
"I said over your head!"
"He's reaching…!"
Now suddenly in a rush they came at him, one of the guys hitting him high and hard, manhandling him backward, stunning him before he could even react.
"Jesus! Hey! What the…!"
Then they were both on him, complete professionals who knew how to take a man down in a hurry and had obviously done it many times before. One of them, getting Hunt's hands behind him as they rolled him over into the wet grass; the other, with a knee in his kidneys, one hand squeezing on the back of his neck while the other hand patted him down, found the gun tucked into his belt, freed it from its holster.
"Well, well, well," he heard. He looked up into Shiu's slightly puzzled features. Hunt's arms got jerked back nearly out of their sockets, and as the handcuffs snicked on one wrist, then the other, Shiu bound him from behind.
Hunt still had a knee on his spine, a hand at the back of his neck. Still struggling, he managed a few words. "Shiu, it's me, Wyatt Hunt. Knock it off. You're making a mistake!"
"You made the mistake," the other voice said, "when you didn't put your hands up."
Grunting against the pressure on his neck, Hunt spit out the words. "I've got a license for the gun,". "Check my wallet, back right."
"I know who you are," Shiu said. "Just calm down and we'll sort this out." But the pressure on his back and neck never let up. Hands plucked the wallet from his pocket, the flashlight's beam danced over the manicured lawn. For a few seconds, a chorus of heavy breathing framed the night, but no one spoke.
Shiu finally said, "What are you doing here, Hunt?"
The knee came off his back, the hand off his neck. His assailant straightened up quickly and backed away. The flashlight beam shined in Hunt's face.
He rolled onto his side, blinked against the light. "You want to undo these cuffs?"
"Not just yet," the voice said. "I asked you a question. What are you doing here?"
Hunt gave them an answer he thought they'd like. "I'm helping out Devin," he said.
It didn't go the way Hunt planned.
For whatever reason, most probably because Juhle had decided to get some uninterrupted sleep before he went in early on a Saturday morning, he had his phone unplugged when Shiu called to give him the news.
Shiu and Al Poggio, the other cop in on the bust, were part of a group of about a dozen homicide inspectors who put in serious off-duty time for the Manions. In a city where policemen augmented their salaries by serving as rent-a-cops for everything from sports events to business conventions, from fashion shows to grand openings, the best job going was this kind of private security work. And hence, it was reserved for the elite such as homicide and select other senior inspectors. Paying fifty dollars per hour, the duties were laughably light and typically included nothing more than several hours per shift of television viewing-closed circuit, cable, and network.