And, of course, this picture in the paper today was black and white, so even the so-called distinctive background-the terra-cotta tower of the Manion home-left him unconvinced. Studying the face in front of him now, Juhle realized he had little confidence that this would result in any kind of positive identification of Todd Manion from someone who knew him today.
And yet Hunt, starting with this premise, had apparently run a new quarry to ground. He'd unearthed another believable scenario for the deaths of Palmer and Rosalier, maybe even for the missing and presumed dead Andrea Parisi. As Juhle and Shiu had done originally with Jeannette Palmer, and as he and Hunt, working in concert yesterday, had done with Arthur Mowery, Jim Pine, and the CCPOA.
Juhle put his coffee mug down on the table and stared off into nothing. He did not underestimate the importance that this case might have on his career, for good or for ill. If he blew it by a false arrest, a bad arrest, or no arrest-all potential yet distinctly different kinds of failure-he could kiss away his chances to make Police Officer of the Year. And without that, he believed, his citation for heroism would always be tainted, his reputation forever clouded. On the other hand, success in this case would go a long way toward proving that Lanier's confidence in him had not been misplaced, that his reinstatement as an active homicide inspector had been justified.
He wanted it so badly it made his teeth ache. But now Hunt's latest path to his own salvation was starting to look like it meant an investigation into one of the wealthiest, most politically connected, philanthropic families in San Francisco. And why? Because they had adopted a child, perhaps their own grandchild, eight years before.
He recalled Lanier's words to him the last time they'd met in his office. Lanier did not want to hear about any suspects, especially in this case, and especially coming from Juhle, without evidence to back up the accusation. Juhle's gall rose at the memory of what this discussion had been when he'd been arguing that Andrea Parisi had killed the judge and his girlfriend, and then herself-a scenario that was still, from the facts in evidence, plausible.
Last night, both exhausted and exhilarated by the accumulation of facts Hunt was presenting, he had found that this new theory had taken on a lustrous quality. Shenanigans in high places, coverups, conspiracies, class warfare. It had all sounded so sexy, so right.
But here, now, as the first light of day outside revealed the thick, gray blanket that had wrapped itself around the city in its sleep, Juhle sneaked a last peek at the picture of Staci's brother/son. Or was it her nothing? A vision of a child she may or may not have lost.
Juhle realized that he and Shiu would have to make all the calls that Hunt had made last night. And even if everyone repeated their stories faithfully-nowhere near a certainty-he would then have to arrange for Mrs. Keilly to fly up and identify Staci as her daughter.
And only then, perhaps, could he begin to make a case against Carol Manion, if he were still so inclined. If she was already the child's adoptive mother and legal guardian, she wouldn't have needed to protect those rights. But if she'd simply bought the child from Staci's parents and had falsified or forged documents or even had no documents, then Staci might have had every right to reclaim her child. Carol Manion would be nothing more than a kidnapper. Juhle could envision no scenario more likely to provoke a woman of power and influence to do something hasty, not to say deadly.
Could it be that simple, that basic, that much a question of class and greed?
Yes, he decided. It could be.
But in a situation such as this one, every move had to be by the book. The smallest procedural flaw would render all of his efforts useless. Lawyers would be lined up to find ways to toss evidence, dismiss charges, slander the arresting officers.
He would have to take it slow. He had wanted a fast and righteous arrest in this case more than he'd wanted to admit to himself. That desire had impaired his judgment at nearly every turn. He'd been flitting from theory to theory for the better part of this week, and each one had seemed workable until it became time to deliver any kind of proof.
So now here he was, up on Saturday at six o'clock. He'd already had his blast of caffeine, and he wasn't going back to sleep. He sipped more coffee, absently turning the pages of the newspaper. He paused briefly at the sports section, checked the no-surprise weather-morning and evening fog, partly cloudy afternoon, light winds, high of fifty-four in the city-and then his roaming stopped abruptly at the first page of the weekend insert.
And suddenly, he knew why the Manions hadn't been home last night while Hunt had waited outside their house for them. They were at Auction Napa Valley. As a matter of fact, they were profiled inside as one of the probable big bidders, as they'd been in years past. Nice, apparently recent picture of them, too, but alas, without Todd.
Juhle brewed himself another cup of coffee. He moved quietly back into his bedroom for his telephone, then walked back out to the living room window and gazed out into the gray. The paper had told him that Napa was expecting beautiful weather-no, perfect auction weather-today. Sunny, bright, highs in the mid-seventies. California was the land of the microclimate, and although Napa was only sixty miles or so from San Francisco, its weather was dramatically different and almost always better.
Checking his messages, he couldn't help but enjoy the midnight call from Shiu. So, against his advice, Hunt had stayed out in Seacliff after all and had reaped the rewards. It would be a riot, Juhle thought, if they'd actually put him in custody for a while. In the meantime, there was nothing Juhle could do now about his friend. If Hunt was still in jail, oh, well. Not Juhle's problem. Maybe they'd talk again after he'd slept off his long night. In any event, the entire incident could be worth months of abuse, and Juhle was tempted to call early, wake him up if he was home, and start on him right away.
But before he acted on that impulse, he thought he'd check in with the general-information desk to see if, contrary to his expectations, the skeleton staff that worked around the clock had received any calls on Staci's picture.
A surprisingly upbeat, wide-awake female voice greeted him with-if Juhle hadn't known this was impossible-what sounded like actual enthusiasm. "We've gotten seven calls since midnight, sir. And one so far from the paper this morning. Four of the callers identify him as the same person. A Todd Manion."
Juhle wasn't aware that any words escaped him in a whisper. "My God." Then, in his normal voice, "You've got names and addresses on these witnesses?"
"Of course."
"One of them wouldn't be Carol or Ward Manion, by any chance?"
"Just a minute. No. Who are they, the parents? The famous local Manions?"
"They might be."
"Why wouldn't they have called themselves?"
"That question occurred to me. Maybe they never saw the picture." Which Juhle supposed was possible if they'd been up partying in Napa all last night. It would be interesting, he thought, if they did call today when they eventually saw the paper. Or someone who knew them saw it and told them about it.
And more interesting if they did not.
Hanging up, all hesitance about calling due to the early hour banished now, he immediately punched in Shiu's home number and listened to his partner's voice on his answering machine. He should have guessed that he would still be sleeping: Shiu had been hassling his pal Wyatt and hauling down his off-duty money at the Manions until after midnight. He left a message. Wrestling with the decision for about twenty seconds, he then called Shiu's cell number and again got told to leave a message. Next, he paged him and entered his own cell phone number as the callback.