Read Online The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) by Marcia Muller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marcia Muller
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confit is passé?”
“This Treasure Hunting game—it’s getting interesting.”
“Tell me more about them,” I said.
Mick settled back into his conversational posture—leaning back in his chair, feet propped on an open desk drawer. “They’re a loosely knit national organization, brought together on the Internet. Each ‘chapter,’ as they call them, has a different name; in this city it’s the Night Searchers. In New York it’s the Canyon Creepers. In L.A. it’s the Smog Skimmers. You get the drift.”
“Right,” I said, ignoring the unintentional pun.
“All the information,” Mick went on, “except for real names, addresses, and so forth, is right out there. You tap into their website, where times and starting places for the hunts are posted.”
“Do you have to sign up with them, or what?”
“No. You just show up. It’s all anonymous.”
“And what is the purpose of these hunts?”
“Well, there’s a prize, usually something of considerable value, donated by the ‘hider’ for that particular game. But I think the real motivation is the creeping around, the danger of getting caught where you’re not supposed to be. That’s the real deal.”
“You ever been on one of these hunts?”
“No, but I’ve met people who have.”
“You want to go on one?”
“I’ve got the feeling I will, whether I want to or not.”
“Look up when the next one is.”
He swiveled to his keyboard. “Tomorrow night at seven thirty, starting in the Panhandle. A map is included.”
I hesitated. There was a possibility I’d run into Jay Givens if I went along, but the possibility of his finding my presence suspicious was greatly outweighed by the possibility of learning something. I said, “Print out two, in case we get separated.”
“D’you suppose,” Mick said, “that these Night Searchers have something to do with that vacant lot on Saturn Street?”
“Possibly. Were you able to line up appointments with the owners for me?” Earlier I’d texted him and asked him to do so.
“The Kenyon brothers, Chad and Dick, have more gatekeepers than President Obama. Their people say they’ll check with the Kenyons and call back, but they don’t call back—you know the routine. But there’s a weak spot in the gate—Chad. He’s a creature of habit, seldom varies his personal routines, dismisses his ‘keepers,’ as he calls them, when his private time begins.”
“So it wouldn’t be too difficult for someone to locate and approach him.”
“Right.”
“He married?”
“Nope, but he likes the ladies. In particular, beautiful Latinas.”
“Perfect.”
“Shar, what’re you up to?”
“I’m not ‘up to’ anything at all. If Julia’s still in the office, would you ask her to come in here?”
5:15 p.m.
Julia Rafael, a tall, strong-featured Hispanic woman whose shining black hair was today swept up on top of her head and secured with abalone-shell combs, swept into my office and flopped into one of the visitors’ chairs.
“ Dios mio , what a day!” she exclaimed. “And now I suppose you’re going to heap more cagada on me.”
When she’d first come to the agency, she’d never have talked to me in such a manner. A former teenage prostitute who had done time in the California Youth Authority, she had been turned around by the birth of her son, Tonio, and she’d been determined to make a good, if stilted, impression on a prospective employer. After months of working at the agency—months of hearing and seeing how the rest of us spoke and interacted—she’d finally let her real persona shine through. It was a persona we were all happy with.
“Yes, but this is the kind of shit you might not be too unhappy with.”
“Oh? What now?”
“A surveillance. Chad Kenyon. The details are in this folder.” I pushed it toward her.
She scanned it. “You sure I’m the right person for this? High roller, pricey haunts?”
“And a weakness for beautiful Hispanic women—or so
“This Treasure Hunting game—it’s getting interesting.”
“Tell me more about them,” I said.
Mick settled back into his conversational posture—leaning back in his chair, feet propped on an open desk drawer. “They’re a loosely knit national organization, brought together on the Internet. Each ‘chapter,’ as they call them, has a different name; in this city it’s the Night Searchers. In New York it’s the Canyon Creepers. In L.A. it’s the Smog Skimmers. You get the drift.”
“Right,” I said, ignoring the unintentional pun.
“All the information,” Mick went on, “except for real names, addresses, and so forth, is right out there. You tap into their website, where times and starting places for the hunts are posted.”
“Do you have to sign up with them, or what?”
“No. You just show up. It’s all anonymous.”
“And what is the purpose of these hunts?”
“Well, there’s a prize, usually something of considerable value, donated by the ‘hider’ for that particular game. But I think the real motivation is the creeping around, the danger of getting caught where you’re not supposed to be. That’s the real deal.”
“You ever been on one of these hunts?”
“No, but I’ve met people who have.”
“You want to go on one?”
“I’ve got the feeling I will, whether I want to or not.”
“Look up when the next one is.”
He swiveled to his keyboard. “Tomorrow night at seven thirty, starting in the Panhandle. A map is included.”
I hesitated. There was a possibility I’d run into Jay Givens if I went along, but the possibility of his finding my presence suspicious was greatly outweighed by the possibility of learning something. I said, “Print out two, in case we get separated.”
“D’you suppose,” Mick said, “that these Night Searchers have something to do with that vacant lot on Saturn Street?”
“Possibly. Were you able to line up appointments with the owners for me?” Earlier I’d texted him and asked him to do so.
“The Kenyon brothers, Chad and Dick, have more gatekeepers than President Obama. Their people say they’ll check with the Kenyons and call back, but they don’t call back—you know the routine. But there’s a weak spot in the gate—Chad. He’s a creature of habit, seldom varies his personal routines, dismisses his ‘keepers,’ as he calls them, when his private time begins.”
“So it wouldn’t be too difficult for someone to locate and approach him.”
“Right.”
“He married?”
“Nope, but he likes the ladies. In particular, beautiful Latinas.”
“Perfect.”
“Shar, what’re you up to?”
“I’m not ‘up to’ anything at all. If Julia’s still in the office, would you ask her to come in here?”
5:15 p.m.
Julia Rafael, a tall, strong-featured Hispanic woman whose shining black hair was today swept up on top of her head and secured with abalone-shell combs, swept into my office and flopped into one of the visitors’ chairs.
“ Dios mio , what a day!” she exclaimed. “And now I suppose you’re going to heap more cagada on me.”
When she’d first come to the agency, she’d never have talked to me in such a manner. A former teenage prostitute who had done time in the California Youth Authority, she had been turned around by the birth of her son, Tonio, and she’d been determined to make a good, if stilted, impression on a prospective employer. After months of working at the agency—months of hearing and seeing how the rest of us spoke and interacted—she’d finally let her real persona shine through. It was a persona we were all happy with.
“Yes, but this is the kind of shit you might not be too unhappy with.”
“Oh? What now?”
“A surveillance. Chad Kenyon. The details are in this folder.” I pushed it toward her.
She scanned it. “You sure I’m the right person for this? High roller, pricey haunts?”
“And a weakness for beautiful Hispanic women—or so
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