Treasure Hunt Read Online Free Page A

describing how he’d come upon the body. He thought this was pretty cool in spite of how young he looked, and how disheveled, which he suddenly realized was what sleeping out under trees could do to you.
    But when they identified Mickey as “an associate with the Hunt Club, a private investigating firm,” it occurred to him that maybe his unshaven mug and slept-in clothing weren’t the best advertisements in the world. That realization brought him up short—the idea that he might actually be a liability of some kind for Wyatt’s business. Maybe while he was cleaning up his apartment and his physical surroundings, he thought it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to work on his own hygiene and appearance.
    But then his image left the screen and Channel Four’s perky anchorwoman was going on with more about the crime and the victim. Because of his grandfather’s longstanding job as Como’s driver, Mickey knew a lot about him, but he hadn’t ever really focused on the breadth of his charitable work. Now he learned that Como had either founded or sat on the boards of no fewer than six major charities in San Francisco—the Sunset Youth Project (of which he was executive director), Braceros Unidos, the Mission Street Coalition, the Rainbow Workshops, the Sanctuary House for Battered Women, and Halfway Home.
    The police investigation was continuing, but so far there were no suspects.

3
     
     
     
     
    Cleanly shaven and showered, in slacks, a button-down dress shirt under a Mountain Hardware jacket, and tennis shoes, Mickey walked down to Golden Gate Park, then, in another quarter mile or so, found himself at the de Young Museum.
    Off to his right loomed one of his favorite recent additions to the city’s landscape. Adjacent to the museum, a strange- looking tower thrust itself nine stories up into the now-darkening sky. The exterior of the tower looked to be made of metallic panels—copper?—into which the builder had punched various imperfections, from bumps to indentations to holes. More unexpectedly, especially upon the first viewing, the tower twisted as it went up. What started as a rectangle at the base shifted as it rose until at the top it was a gravity-defying parallelogram. From the top—an enclosed viewing platform—Mickey had been pleased to recognize that the bottom of the tower was aligned with the east-west grid of the park, while the top’s orientation was turned to match the grid of the city’s downtown streets.
    Inside now, he stopped a minute to listen to the jazz quintet playing in the lobby—a Friday-night tradition—then took the elevators up to the top. No charge. He’d been up here no fewer than forty times, and every time the place worked its magic on him. The windows were huge, both wide and tall, and through them the entire city revealed itself beneath and all around him. And since, because of the tower’s twisting nature, it wasn’t really obvious that there actually was a physical building under him, it always felt like he was floating.
    The sun had just disappeared into the ocean and the purple western sky was now ablaze with gorgeous orange-red clouds. The Golden Gate Bridge was right there, just off to his right. And back behind him, the high-rises of downtown had just started to twinkle with their evening lights.
    But tonight he wasn’t here for the views. Because of its parallelogram shape, the floor came to a point on both the north and south ends. Mickey looked left and then made his way to the corner, where, as he’d suspected and hoped, his sister—in a cowl-necked sweatshirt and camo pants—sat on the floor, apparently mesmerized, hugging her knees.
    “They just let you sit here all day?” he asked.
    She looked up and shrugged. “I’m not bothering anybody.”
    Mickey went down on one knee. “Were you planning to come home sometime?”
    “Sure.”
    “When?”
    “Eventually.”
    “Good. Just so I know not to rent out your space.” He paused. “Oh, and in case