As a reader hooked on the Dismas Hardy series of mystery novels by John Lescroart, I was initially disappointed to realize I had picked up the first Wyatt Hunt novel. As I began to assimilate the character background of the new protagonist, I was glad that I had picked up this novel. I realize that Lescroart’s efforts with this cast of characters since The Hunt Club hasn’t met with critical acclaim, but I enjoyed this one and believe I will read further into the series.
I like The Hunt Club for four reasons: 1) I resonate with the compassion quotient reflected in his social work experience and fanatic diligence in pursuing a resolution to each case; 2) I enjoyed being outside the courtroom, jurisdictional battles inherent in the Hardy series (although I savor those battles when I’m reading in that series) in order to have a different perspective; 3) it seemed refreshing to assemble a new ensemble of characters around the same kind of suspenseful, tight writing to which I’ve become accustomed when reading Lescroart; and 4) it isn’t often that I am completely taken off-guard by the perpetrator behind the main mystery and I love it when the author can make me feel foolish without sacrificing adequate foreshadowing.
The mystery in The Hunt Club starts with a double murder (including that of a federal judge) and escalates into a missing person/probably murder case on top of the marquee murder. Hunt has to determine whether the missing person is missing because of a connection to the marquee murder or whether something else is involved. As Lescroart artfully weaves investigations between Dismas Hardy and Abe Glitzky in his iconic series, this novel knits together the private investigation of Hunt and the official investigation of his officer friend, Devin Juhle (a high school teammate). I particularly enjoyed the way both investigators (using different and sometimes, complementary approaches) constructed theories about the case and, in most cases, doggedly destroyed their own cases through rigorous investigation. Idealistically, this is what would happen, but it reads like fiction to this reviewer when the headlines in my local paper talk about forced confessions that are disproved after years in prison by new DNA evidence. Maybe I like reading Lescroart because he writes of justice as it ought to be.
Even when the investigators were following up on what I considered the best lead in the novel and there were hints that I should be watching out for the eventual villain, I acted like the half-clad ingénue in a cheap horror film when the entire audience is shouting for her not to open that door. I blundered right into the author’s trap and deserved to be blind-sided by the ultimate revelation.
Ah yes, the joys of a mystery reader who is partially correct—just enough to be “dead right” if one were really in the investigator’s shoes. I love it when that happens and Lescroart managed to get me. However, it may be that he got me because my mind is slipping. This is the second time this month, via different authors, that a mystery has fooled me. Still, it won’t dampen my enthusiasm for Lescroart’s work. His mysteries rarely hit me as profound, but they invariably satisfy.