The Hunt Club (Wyatt Hunt)
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At first, The Hunt Club had a membership of one: private investigator Wyatt Hunt. Since then, others have joined with a common interest in obtaining justice. One member, inspector Devin Juhle, has just caught a major case: the shooting of a sixty-three-year old federal judge and his twentysomething mistress...
While Juhle works, Hunt plays, hooking up with TV star and legal analyst Andrea Parisi. But before Hunt knows it, Juhle's case will be of great interest to the members of The Hunt Club. Especially to Hunt himself-as Andrea's card is found in the wallet of one of the victims.
legitimate.” “How would I do that?” “Any way you could.” A hole opened in the conversation. Finally, I found a voice. “Haven’t you got a bunch of private investigators you use for that kind of work?” “Not a bunch, but some, yes.” “Then I don’t get it. Why me?” “Well, licensed, gun-toting PIs are expensive, at least if they’re any good. Usually the firm does a preliminary investigation before we make the determination to bring in one of our PIs. We normally like to think there’s some reason
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
another moment. Oh, she supposed she was glamorous enough, to be sure. Her dark hair, a little below her shoulders, gleamed with red highlights—natural, thank you, since she was only thirty-one years old. A bridge of pale freckles rose off each smooth cheek and crossed a nose Modigliani might have painted. Perhaps in a technical sense her chin was too small, her lips too full, but for television, they were if anything a plus. Still, the mirror caught the trace of doubt, of what might be a flash
myself be so easily ousted from a career I cared about. I figured I could outlast Mayhew. He needed good, solid caseworkers or he would begin to look bad from the outside. I figured it would be a waiting game, and I’d play it until the worm turned, then I would get assigned back to the street. And thereby win. Wrong. Late one Friday afternoon in February, alone at my cubicle—both Bettina and Lionel gone AWOL earlier in the day—with a stack of complaints that needed to be evaluated before
had pressed him to consider from early on, and Juhle had flat out rejected. Hunt decided to be conciliatory. “That’s right, Mary was your ID on Staci, wasn’t she? Anyway, she told Tamara he was her brother.” “Did she get a name?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Of course not. That would be too easy.” “Right.” They got to the fourth floor, crossed the hallway to suite A, and Juhle opened the door. The drapes were still open as Juhle and Shiu had left them the other night, and the room was fairly