Free The Hunt Club by John Lescroart Page A

desk. “But maybe bam bam bam. Three shots.” Stepping over the woman, he leaned and pointed to a spot on a bookshelf at about the level of his waist, at what appeared to be a gap between two books. “There’s a book pushed back in there. I’m guessing we got a slug.” He looked some more. “Also good spatter all around it, pretty much the same height.”
    â€œWhere do you see that?”
    Juhle ignored the question. He wasn’t here to give a class. “But only with one of them.” He stepped back, scanned the bookcase over the woman’s body. “Small caliber,” he said. “No exit.” He crossed over to his right, where a clutch purse was half-wedged into the cushion of a reading chair. He pulled on a pair of plastic gloves. “This ought to tell us who she is,” he said.
    But it didn’t. It contained some cosmetics, a pack of Kleenex, eighty-five dollars and change in cash, a holder for a diaphragm, and a package of Trident chewing gum but no driver’s license. No identification of any kind.
    Shiu threw a look to the office door. “Where are those guys?”
    Juhle shrugged. The crime-scene team would get there when they did.
    â€œI wonder if anybody heard anything.”
    Juhle wondered if his partner was making these inane comments to fill the dead air, like Dandy Don Meredith on a slow football night. Did Shiu construe this as helpful? The thought made his scalp itch. As for himself, he had no idea if anyone in the neighborhood had heard anything and didn’t really wonder about it. He knew that canvassing the residents in the surrounding area was in his and his partner’s immediate future. They would find out if anyone saw or heard anything, usual or not. They’d also double-check the 911 log to see about any possibly related calls. But he said, “Unless somebody was right out front, they wouldn’t have heard anything. In fact, a bullet this small, I’m surprised there was enough firepower to knock him out of his chair.”
    â€œHe could have been halfway up. After the first shot to her.”
    More inanity. Could have, should have, might have been—all of it a waste of breath until they actually had some evidence. Worse, preconceptions formed without evidence interfered with your ability clearly to see the evidence when you actually got it. A big part of the job was to work a case from the facts and not from imagination.
    Juhle continued to look around, checking the floor, behind the drapes, just in case. Behind a leather wing chair, leaning over, he made the mistake of putting pressure on his hand as he pushed himself out of his crouch, and he swore as the pain from his broken bones shot up his arm.
    â€œIs that still bothering you?”
    â€œContinuous. I’ve been trying to figure out some game I can challenge Malinoff to where I can hurt him back. Except he’s stronger and quicker than I am at everything. And that’s when I’m not crippled and hurting. I’m going to have to cheat. Maybe hire someone to hurt him.”
    â€œYou can’t do that, Dev. You’re a cop,” Shiu said. “Kids look up to you.”
    â€œOh, yeah, the role model thing. I forgot for a minute. But I wouldn’t cheat, anyway, Shiu. It’s against my religion.”
    â€œYou don’t have a religion.”
    â€œYeah, I do. Just not a formal one like you do. And one of its main rules is don’t cheat.”
    As far as Juhle knew, Shiu was probably the only Asian Mormon in the state of California. And now he couldn’t pass up the opportunity for his continuing missionary work. “That’s a main LDS rule, too, Dev. You’re halfway to being one of us. With some training and prayer, you could—”
    â€œShiu.” Juhle went to put up his hand, but the pain stopped him, and he grimaced again. “Haven’t we done this? We’re in the city of tolerance,