The Hunt Club Read Free Page A

supervisors splitting hairs and playing power games, to so many of my fellow emergency response workers putting their experience to work dodging calls when they bothered to report in at all, most people in the department seemed to take their cultural cues from Mayhew. We were all county employees after all, covered by the union and essentially invulnerable to discipline. Without a motivational deputy director, caseworkers who cared about the work and about the kids tended to burn out after a few years. Now most of those who remained stayed on because they couldn’t be touched—between accrued vacation and sick days and cheating on your time card in a hundred clever ways. Fully a third of the caseworker staff did nothing substantive ever. A couple never even came in to work, and it didn’t seem to matter to Mayhew or the lower-ranking supes, who were then spared the hassle of having to confront them.
    Bettina, still on the job, was having some substance issues herself in the wake of her divorce, and now I preferred to work alone.
    Well, there was nothing for it but to go ahead. I was here now. And Keeshiana Jefferson needed help now. I had to go in and assess how bad it was. I took a step off the curb.
    â€œHey.”
    I turned, stepped back, double-taking at the absolutely impossible sight of another white guy in this neighborhood. Then, the features congealed into something vaguely then very familiar. “Dev?” I said. “Devin Juhle?” Juhle had been the shortstop to my second base on my high school team. Before college separated us, he’d probably been my best friend.
    The other man broke an easy if slightly perplexed grin, then his own recognition kicked in. “Wyatt? What are you doing here?”
    â€œWorking,” I said, more or less automatically reaching for my wallet, my identification. “I’m with CPS. Child Protective Services.”
    â€œI know what CPS is. I’m a cop.”
    â€œYou’re not.”
    â€œAm, too.”
    â€œYou’re not dressed like a cop.”
    â€œI’m an inspector. We don’t wear a uniform. I’m with homicide.”
    I threw a quick look across the street. “You’re saying I’m too late, then?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œKeeshiana Jefferson.”
    â€œNever heard of her.”
    A rush of relief swept over me. At least Keeshiana wasn’t the victim in the homicide Dev was investigating. I might be in time after all. “Well, hey,” I said, “good to see you, but I got a gig in there.”
    Juhle put a hand on my arm. “You’re not going in there alone?”
    â€œThat’s my plan.” Seeing Juhle’s concern, I added, “Not to worry, Dev. I do this every day.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œHere, there, everywhere.”
    â€œAnd do what?”
    â€œTalk to people mostly. Sometimes take a kid out.”
    Juhle cast a worried glance over to the projects, then back to me. “Are you packing?”
    â€œA gun?” I chortled and spread the sides of my parka wide open. “Just cookies and chips in case somebody’s hungry. I really gotta go.”
    â€œWhat’s the exact address?” Juhle asked me. “I’m hanging here anyway with my partner, looking for witnesses. I’ll stay close.”
    â€œNo need,” I said, “but I appreciate the offer. But really, catch you later. I gotta go check the place out now.”
    The wooden door to the barrack unit closed behind me, and the hallway went almost pitch-dark. Someone had painted out the long glass windows on either side of the door. I let my eyes adjust for a few seconds, then tried the light switch, which had come into view. It didn’t work.
    There was a stink in the hall, the familiar trifecta of mold, urine, animal. I also noted a whiff of pot and tobacco smoke, although the stronger smells predominated. The wind howled outside as it tore between the buildings,