John Lescroart - The Motive

"I wish I could, but they weren't."

Hardy hated that answer and must have shown it, because she hastened to explain. "I could show you in my calendar. It's really nothing sinister. Wednesdays they've all got something at school until five or six. Saul's got band. Polly's in the school play and Heather has yearbook. She's the editor. And since we all knew Will would be gone that night, I told them I could use a night off from cooking and to catch up on my bills. So I said why didn't they all rendezvous at school and go out for a pizza."

"Which they did?"

"Right. I assume so. I didn't ask."

Hardy took in a breath. "So you were home alone, paying bills and watching television until you saw the fire on TV?"

"That's right." She came forward. "I wasn't there, Dismas, at Paul's. I really was right here. All night before I went out."

"Okay, then," he said. "Although it would be a plus if we had any way to prove it. Did you call anybody? Go out to borrow some sugar?"

She brightened for a beat. "I called Mary, my sister-in-law. I wanted to tell her what Paul had said."

"That's good. And when was that?"

"As soon as I got home. I had to tell somebody."

"Okay, what about later?"

"Like when?"

"Five, six, seven?"

She shook her head. "I was just here, puttering around, having something to eat. One of the neighbors might have seen me pull in, or the car in the driveway."

"That would be helpful," Hardy said, "but let's not hold our breath." He thought for a beat. "So you don't really have an alibi."

"I was watching television. I've got the dish. Maybe there's some way they can verify that I was using it."

Hardy made a note, decided to leave the topic for one that was potentially even more explosive. "Okay, Catherine. This one you're really not going to like. Did you come on in any way to Inspector Cuneo?"

Her jaw clamped down tight. "No, I did not."

"Because he's going to say you did."

"Yes, I suppose he will."

"And you did nothing that he might have construed as some kind of sexual advance?" "Dismas, please."

He held up his hands. "I've got to ask. It wouldn't be very much fun if he had something that he dropped at trial."

"Let's not say 'trial' yet, all right?" She shook her head. "But no. There was nothing."

"Because from what I'm hearing tonight, he can't have much of a case. Unless he finds something like gasoline or gunshot residue on your clothes, which isn't going to happen, is it?"

"No."

"Okay, then. So what's probably happening is exactly what you said. That he heard about your accusation of sexual harassment…"

"But I didn't file anything! I didn't do anything with it."

"Yes, you did. You told his boss. Cuneo looks like a horse's ass and maybe worse. So now he serves the search warrant on you as a pure hassle, telling you that in spite of you going over his head, he hasn't been pulled from the case, he's still got his mojo working and you'd better not say anything else against him."

She considered that for a long moment. "Well, in a way it's almost good news, I suppose," she said. "It means they don't really think I killed Paul. They're just mad at me."

"That may be true," Hardy said. "But don't underestimate how unpleasant cops can make your life if they're mad at you."

"Well, I'm not going to talk about the harassment anymore. He'll see he made his point and just leave me alone."

"Let's hope," Hardy said. "Let's hope."

At a little after nine the next morning, the extended Glitsky family was sitting in bright sunshine at one of the six outdoor tables on the sidewalk in front of Leo's Beans & Leaves, a thirty-year-old family-run tea and coffee shop/delicatessen at the highest point of Fillmore Street, just before it fell precipitously down to the Marina. Abe and Treya were splitting a smoked salmon quiche, drinking tea, while Rachel was happily consumed with negotiating a toasted bagel and some slices of lox from the knee of her grandfather Nat.

Who was trying to lecture his son. "Abraham, listen to what you say yourself, and you have your answer. You are the deputy chief of inspectors. This Cuneo putz is an inspector, which puts him under you. Am I right?"

"Technically."

Nat was closing in on eighty years old, but his mind was sharp enough that already this morning he had com

pleted the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. He gave Treya a conspiratorial glance. "So 'technically' he gives me." Then, to Abe. "What's to be technical about? Take him off the case."

"How am I supposed to do that, Dad?"

"What, this is a mystery? You've got rank and the mayor on your side. You just do it."

"And why? Because I don't like him?"

A shrug. "There's worse reasons, I can tell you. If all else fails…"

Treya jumped in to her husband's defense. "But Abe can't do it without cause, Nat," she said. "He'd have to bring charges of obstruction or even of insubordination against him…"

"Or the sex stuff. How about that?"

"That, too," she said, "if he had any proof."

"Although since our witness-or should I now say suspect?-declined to file a complaint," Glitsky put in, "proof is not forthcoming." He took a bite of quiche and washed it down. "Anyway, even saying that I do show cause and try to get him busted off the case, he'll just grieve it with the P. O.A."-the policemen's union-"and probably win, seeing that it was his case to begin with and I'm the interloper. That's how the union's going to see it, I guarantee. Here's a good cop minding his own business, doing his job according to the book, and suddenly the brass shows up, no doubt going political…" He shrugged. "You see where this is going."

"But it makes no sense," Nat said.

"Okay," Treya said, "and your point is?"

"That was my point. It's all backwards."

"Dad, you've got to catch up with the times. Making sense is a low-priority item. The city's got way more important things to worry about than making sense."

Nat came back at his son. "So you're saying you've got to work with him? Cuneo."

"No, not really. I've tried that. He seems to have rejected it."

"So what's that leave? You quit the case?" "Can't do that either."

"So?"

"So I play his game."

"Which is?"

"Ignore the other guy. I go about my business. I gather evidence, pursue leads. I investigate. Maybe find something he missed."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Treya said, "if he's missing the boat entirely."

Glitsky drank tea and nodded. "That would be sweet and wouldn't shock me either. But he obviously got a warrant pulled, so he got enough to convince a judge. In any event, he's in a hurry to cut me out, moving fast and maybe loose, and the evidence might not back him up.

"As far as I know, he's not even aware of Tow/Hold or Hanover's other business. Or even the other family members. There's just a lot out there and Cuneo's only looking at one part of it, and one that just more or less fell into his hands on top of that. Usually, it doesn't work that way."

It was Glitsky's first time in the mayor's private residence, an East Coast-style four-story brownstone a few blocks down from the crest of Nob Hill, in the neighborhood of Grace Cathedral, the Fairmont and Mark Hopkins hotels.

He'd called Kathy West and asked if he could drop by for a few minutes, so she was expecting him and answered the door herself. She wore a light yellow no-nonsense blouse and a skirt of stylish brown tweed and low heels, and Glitsky had the impression that she was planning to go out shortly to another of the endless appearances that seemed to make up her life. After greeting him cordially, she led him through the house and outside to a nice-sized garden and patio of red brick, with a circular table and umbrella, a small fountain bubbling up out of a well-tended flower bed, a hot tub and a large, built-in barbecue. Surrounding homes, the same height as the mayor's, lent to the place a refined feeling of privacy, while a corridor through the adjacent backyards let the sunshine in.