The Hunt Club by John Lescroart

the good.
    As I zoomed in on videotape, Wilson came out onto his porch and, with his face set in a scowl, peered perfunctorily up and down the street. No doubt after getting Juhle’s anonymous call, he thought it was me who’d flattened his tire in a fit of pique and then lit out. Certainly I wouldn’t be so foolish as to wait around and take credit for the nuisance. Apparently satisfied, shaking his head in anger, he started down his front steps with a firm tread. He didn’t put a hand to his sore back. He didn’t reach for the metal banister that ran along the steps.
    Down in the street, he circled the car. When he saw the flat, he swore violently—audible back even where I was filming—and turned a quick and, I thought, rather athletic full circle one more time, checking for a perpetrator. Swearing again, he stood still for a while, hands on his hips. I thought I might have captured enough on video already, with him walking easily down his twelve front steps, but more would be better.
    I waited.
    He did not disappoint. Opening the trunk, he leaned over (without bending his knees, I noticed) and rummaged a moment, then lifted out an apparently heavy bag of golf clubs, setting it down on the pavement. Another duck into the trunk produced the jack, and in under a minute, he had the thing in place, pumping with the tire iron, lifting the car.
    I looked behind me at the corner and saw Juhle and Manning standing there, looking like a couple of guys taking a walk. We waved but stayed in place for another couple of minutes, watching as Mayhew undid the lug nuts. When he was just about finished, I stood up with the video camera and advanced, recording the whole way, getting to within about ten feet of him just as he pulled the tire from the wheel and stood up with it in his arms.
    I kept the camera on him. I believe I may have been smiling. He half-turned, holding the tire, stepping toward the back of the car. Seeing me, he came to a shocked and abrupt stop.
    â€œYo, Wilson,” I said. “How’s the back?”
    His eyes grew large and frightened as I lowered the camera and, pointing a finger gun at him, pulled the trigger. “Gotcha,” I said.
    That brought the bonus. Mayhew whirled halfway around, dropped the tire, and reached down for the tire iron that he’d used to lever up the jack. With an animal cry, he lunged at me as I danced away, capturing the Kodak moments as he continued to advance, swinging the iron as he came at me. If his back was hurting him, he didn’t show much sign of it. But he was getting close now as I ducked and swirled away from another swing.
    And then from behind me, Juhle’s welcome voice: “Hold it right there! Police! Drop the weapon!”
    The cavalry pulled up on foot and kept coming. Now nearly frothing at the mouth, Mayhew whirled on Juhle and Manning as they got him by the arms and tried to restrain him. He continued to resist them. The tire iron clanged to the street.
    I caught it all on videotape. The steps, the golf clubs, pumping the jack, lifting the tire up, swinging at me with the tire iron, and—my personal favorite—the resisting of his arrest. This last guaranteed that the fraudulent back claim would now go all the way to the DA. Without resisting arrest, the DA might otherwise find himself tempted, coerced, or outright bought into forgetting about the fraud. With the assault on working homicide inspectors, he would then have to charge it all. Even Mayhew’s connections would not be able to put a lid on the story once it came out that he had attacked two cops who just happened to be passing by and, witnessing an attack with a deadly weapon in progress, had charged in to restore order.

    â€œDismas Hardy,” Amy said, “this is Wyatt Hunt.”
    We shook hands. Hardy was probably in his mid-fifties. He certainly looked good for the role of managing partner of one of the city’s top law firms. He wore