The Hunt Club by John Lescroart Page A

a gray suit with the thinnest of maroon pinstripes. Maroon silk tie, monogrammed silk shirt. High-end all the way, but he came across as one of the good guys. Plus, he’d had the good sense to hire Amy.
    â€œMs. Wu tells me you’ve made the firm some money this morning. We appreciate it.”
    â€œIt was my pleasure. In fact, I can’t remember when I’ve had more fun.”
    Amy spoke up. “As I mentioned to you when I first brought it up, Diz, Wyatt had a bit of history with Mr. Mayhew. I thought he’d be motivated.”
    â€œStill,” Hardy said, “one day. That’s impressive. Nobody does this stuff in one day.” He nodded appreciatively. “I’m glad Amy thought of you.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    Hardy rested a haunch on the corner of his large cherry desk. “So now the question, Wyatt,” he said, “is what can we do for you?”
    I’d of course considered the payment issue, but it didn’t rule my thoughts. Now I found myself saying, “Maybe this is one of those times when the work is its own reward.”
    Hardy grinned over at Amy. “This guy’s too much,” he said. Then, back to me, “Are you for real?”
    I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not the money.”
    â€œIn my experience, that’s not as often as you’d think. Can I ask you a personal question? How long have you been out of a job?”
    I shot a quick glance at Amy. She’d obviously had a somewhat substantive talk with Hardy before she’d invited me to look at Mayhew’s case. “A few months, but I saved while I worked, and money’s not a huge issue for me right now. I’ve kind of been trying to figure out what I wanted to do next.”
    â€œWell, if I’d just done what you did this morning, I’d be tempted to take it as some kind of sign. You ever think about becoming a private investigator?”
    I laughed. “Not even once.”
    â€œOkay, but you deliver results like today, and within six months, you wouldn’t be able to keep up with the work from this firm alone. I promise you.”
    Shaking my head, I still found the idea mostly amusing. “I don’t have any idea how I’d even go about it.”
    â€œWhat’s to know? You get a license, hang up a shingle, open your doors for business.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

This is now…

5 /
    U.S. Federal Judge George Palmer met Staci Rosalier when she took his drink order one day at MoMo’s, a San Francisco restaurant across the street from SBC Park, where the Giants play baseball. It was a warm September lunchtime, and Judge Palmer, known on sight to half the clientele and most of the regular staff, was sitting alone outside, awaiting the arrival of his appointment.
    Staci was in her first week there at the waitress job. When she took the great man’s order—Hendrick’s gin on the rocks—they exchanged the usual lighthearted, mildly flirtatious banter. In spite of the age difference, it struck neither of them as incongruous. Staci was an experienced and sophisticated waitress, used to dealing with the well-heeled and successful.
    And for a man at any age, Palmer’s physique was admirable, his face captivating, his smile genuine. He was also personable, witty, confident, well dressed. He exuded the power of his position. The job God wants, so the saying goes, is U.S. federal judge.
    As the crowd began to arrive, Staci fell into a rhythm with the work, and Palmer pretty much left her consciousness. She was after all serving half of the sixteen tables on one side of the outer patio, waiting on, among others, one superior court judge, the mayor’s chief assistant, a gaggle of high-powered attorneys, a table of four of the 49ers, a city supervisor.
    MoMo’s was a happening place and had what they called a big yoo-hoo factor.
    Over the next month or so, Judge Palmer came in