John Lescroart - The Motive

And now Mrs. Hanover didn't want to talk to the investigating officer. On the face of it, Glitsky couldn't even begin, and wasn't remotely inclined, to consider her request. If Cuneo's questions had rattled or upset her, or made her uncomfortable in any one of a number of ways, all the better-maybe he'd come upon something relevant to the murders she was trying to hide. She was not going to be able to avoid Cuneo. It was out of the question and he told her as much. "I'm sorry," he said in conclusion, "but witnesses don't get to choose who interrogates them."

"All right," she said, her voice thick with regret. "I tried." Then, almost as an afterthought, added, "I might have known that you'd stick together."

"That who would stick together?"

"You. The police."

"Well, in this case, yes we do. It's a general rule, for obvious reasons, that suspects are rarely anxious to talk to inspecting officers."

He heard an intake of breath. She whispered, "Suspects? Did you say suspects?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So now I'm a suspect? I thought I was a witness." Her voice went up in pitch and volume. "I volunteered everything I told Inspector Cuneo, both at the fire and then here at my house. How can I… how can you think I had anything to do with this?"

"I don't think that."

"But you just said I was a suspect."

His hand tight on the receiver, Glitsky threw a glance at the ceiling. This had gone far beyond where it should have already, and now he felt he needed to explain himself and his position, always a situation he'd rather avoid. "No," he said. "I said that suspects often didn't want to talk to their inspecting officer."

"But the inference was there, that I was one of them."

Glitsky spoke with an exaggerated precision. "Mrs. Hanover, since we have no suspects at all that I'm aware of, everyone is technically a potential suspect. That includes you, though it doesn't move you to the head of the pack. You asked if you could somehow avoid talking again to Inspector Cuneo, and I was telling you why that wasn't allowed."

Some steel now in her tone, she pressed him. "All right, then, what if I were to make a complaint about him? Who would I go to for that? What would happen then?"

"What kind of complaint?" She hesitated for a minute. "Inappropriateness." "In what sense? What kind of inappropriateness?" Another breath, another pause. "Sexual, I would say."

Now it was Glitsky's turn to go quiet. The silence hung with import. Finally, treading carefully, he said, "There is an Office of Management and Control in the department that investigates these kind of allegations. I could put you through to them right now."

But this time she jumped in quickly. "I don't want to go there. Not yet, anyway."

"Why not? If Inspector Cuneo assaulted you…"

"He didn't assault me. It's just, I mean, it was clear he was coming on to me, and I'd just prefer if I didn't have to see him again. He makes me uncomfortable. I'm not trying to get anybody in trouble here. I'm willing to talk to anybody else you send out, but Inspector Cuneo makes me nervous. That's all I'm saying."

"Did he touch you?"

"Several times. Then he squeezed my arm before he left, said I could call him at home anytime, gave me his number. It was definitely… inappropriate. He was hitting on me."

"But you don't want to lodge a complaint?"

"That just seems a little strong for what it was. I don't want to overreact. I don't really want to get him into trouble…"

"He may already be."

"No! I really don't want that. But look," she said, intensity now bleeding through the line. "Really. I just didn't want to see him, that's all. You could come out if you need to talk to me, or anybody else. I'm not trying to avoid anything with the police, and he didn't do anything so blatant that I feel like I need to file a complaint."

"All right, but if you don't file a complaint, then officially nothing happened," Glitsky said. "That'll be the story."

"But nothing really did happen." "He didn't touch you?" "Yes. I already said that."

"Well, that's something. It's grounds for a complaint." He wanted to add that if she wanted to know what he'd do if he were in a similar position, he would file immediately. But he couldn't say that. It was completely her decision, and couldn't be any of his.

"Well, maybe, but even so… I'll think about it."

Hardy and Glitsky were at the counter of the Swan Oyster Depot on Polk Street, way in the back, eating fried oysters and iceberg lettuce salad with Louie dressing. Hardy nursed a beer while Glitsky, incognito without his hat on and with his old flight jacket covering the uniform, stuck with his standard iced tea. "And of course," Hardy was saying, "if you get the message through to him in any official way at all, he'll either accuse her of lying or you of making it up." He sipped his beer. "It just gets better and better, doesn't it?"

"I've got to tell him. I can't not tell him."

"I thought that was why you needed to see me so urgently. So I could advise you how not to do just that."

"But I've got to."

"Okay, then. Now maybe we can enjoy this fine lunch." "If she-Hanover, I mean-doesn't file a complaint, it didn't happen."

"I thought we were done with the discussion."

"So it's really not a department matter."

"If you say so. On-duty cop hits on pretty witness- I'm assuming she's pretty…"

"I haven't seen her, but it doesn't matter."

"Of course not. I jest. But pretty or not, witness gets hit on…"

"Possible suspect gets hit on."

"That, too. But whatever, she gets hit on, maybe even assaulted, depending on your definition of the term, by an on-duty officer. You're saying that it's not a department matter?"

Glitsky chewed ice from his tea.

"I'm hoping you've already written a memo to file, at least." Reading Glitsky's face, he went on. "Okay, and this is your legal adviser talking, do that first, as soon as you get back to your office. Then at least you're covered if it gets bigger or, God forbid, Cuneo rapes her or kills her or something." He wiped some dressing around the plate with a crust of sourdough. "It's got to get official in some way. Don't tell Cuneo directly. Take it to Batiste, man to man. He'll support you."

"Maybe not. He's none too pleased with me at this exact moment-the Chronicle picture. Besides which, he won't want to be bothered. It's my problem."

"No. Your problem is that you think it's your problem. We've already determined by the process of rigorous debate that this is a police department matter, and

Frank's the chief of police. So it's his problem more than yours. He'll probably fire Cuneo, in fact."

"Not without a complaint he won't."

"Call Hanover back. Convince her to file one."

"Good idea. Except what if she's the killer?"

"That would be bad luck, I admit."

"More than that."

"And how likely is that anyway? That she's the killer?"

"I don't have any idea. I'm completely out of the loop on Cuneo's suspects or anything else, for that matter. She sang me a long song about money that gives her plenty of motive, but it sounded like everybody else in the family knew the same tune. And you know a guy like Paul Hanover always had some deals going on. You see the profile on him Channel Four did last night? He had his hands in a dozen pots, and not just here in the city. Or Missy. Nobody knows squat about her either, except that she spent a lot of money on the house."

"Well, there you go."

"What?"

"Who'd she spend the money with?"

"I don't know. The contractor, I'd guess." He put down his tea, wrote a note to himself on his memo pad. "But that's not your worst idea."

"Thank you. But back to Cuneo…"

"Always back to Cuneo."