John Lescroart - The Motive

Hardy subpoenaed his tax records-his top grossing year was 1999, when he had earned $123,000. Last year he'd earned $91,000.

Catherine's response to all of these claims? A curt dismissal, a refusal to even discuss it. "He's delusional."

For the record, the kids more or less sided with her. But she was in jail and their dad was home full-time, paying her legal bills (out of his four-million-dollar inheritance), peddling the line that he was on Catherine's side, he wanted to help her, he felt sorry for her. She was sick, but a good woman. He would still love her and take her back if she ever got "better." He never, not once, came to visit her in jail.

Then there was Hanover's partner Bob Townshend, who got a call from Paul on the afternoon of the very day that he was killed. Catherine had just come to visit him and he'd felt threatened. She was near hysteria over the imagined infidelity of her husband. She freaked when Paul had told her that he was going to change his will in Missy's favor sooner rather than later. Townshend told Hardy that Paul had made an appointment for the following week to do just that.

Hardy had fought the good fight to keep much of this testimony out of the trial, but Judge Marian Braun had taken it under submission and Hardy couldn't shake the suspicion that she would let some, if not most, of it in. Braun herself was one of the worst possible choices of trial judge from Hardy's perspective (only Leo Chomorro would have been worse). As soon as she'd been assigned, he considered using his 170.6 peremptory challenge-for which no reason need be given and which can't be denied-to get Braun off the case. But then he stood the risk of drawing Chomorro. In fact, he wouldn't put it past the Master Calendar to arrange to assign Chomorro to punish him for his arrogance. In the end, he'd kept her on.

There was more. Catherine's alibi for the night of the murders had been blown by none other than her own youngest daughter, Heather, who kept a diary that Cuneo had discovered during his interview with her. Supposedly out having fast food for dinner with her brother and sister, in fact she'd had "a ton" of homework and she'd had Saul drop her off at the house and "scrounged" something to eat since neither her mom nor dad were home, which was "like, getting to be the norm lately."

Called on this, Catherine admitted to Hardy that she'd lied to him about that. A low point, to say the least. Catherine was sorry. She'd been trying to save face with him. She didn't want him to know that she could be the kind of insecure, snooping bitch who would actually go by the house of Will's illicit paramour, Karyn Harris, to make sure she was still not home. Every day for four days! And Ms. Harris hadn't once been there.

Hardy had subpoenaed the flight manifests of every airline that flew from any Bay Area airport to any Southern California airport on the days in question. No Karyn Harris. The plain truth was that whether or not her husband had been having this alleged affair, Catherine's alibi crashed.

Further, Glitsky, looking under rocks for other scenarios, both because of his own agenda vis-a-vis Cuneo and because of his work at the mayor's request, had come up empty. The "other dude" play, the argument that some mysterious other person had committed the crime, was ever popular among defense attorneys. Indeed, Hardy had used it to good effect during other trials. But if there was another dude in this case, Glitsky with the full weight of his position hadn't been able to unearth him. The Tow/Hold people had lost their contract with the city in June and nobody else had died, or had even caught a cold, as far as Hardy could tell. The mayor abandoned personal interest in the investigation.

With new evidence against Catherine appearing regularly, even Glitsky grudgingly came to consider the possibility that Cuneo had been right. For his own reasons, Glitsky still seemed ready to jump up at the slightest scent of another lead, but they had been scarce to begin with, and dwindled to none. And that left only one alternative-that Paul Hanover's death, and Missy's, had come at the hands of Hardy's client.

There were days Hardy considered the possibility himself.

Now, with his breathing under control, he got up and went into the bathroom where he drank a few handfuls of water and threw some more in his face, then toweled himself dry. Back in bed, he lay on his back, uncovered.

Silent up to now, apparently sleeping, Frannie reached out and put a hand over his hand in the night. "Are you all right?"

"Just nerves," he said, "the trial." "I guessed." "No flies on you." "Can I do anything?"

"It's okay. I'll get back to sleep in a minute." He squeezed her hand. "I couldn't find the car," he said as though the words made any sense.

"The car?"

"In my dream. Missy's car." The one he and Catherine were going to go and make out in, in the dream, as soon as they could find it, but he left that part out.

"What about it?"

"I don't know where it is. I mean, I still don't know where it is."

"You know everything that's possible to know about this case, Dismas. You've lived and breathed it for most of the past year. How many binders do you have?" These were his black, three-ring binders for testimony, evidence, motions, police reports, everything that comprised his records on the case.

"Twenty-six."

"Is that a new record?"

"Close anyway. But I know there's nothing about the car. How could I have forgotten that?" "I don't know. Is it important?" "No. I mean, I don't know why it would be. It's just a question I can't answer. We start in a few hours, Fran. I can't have questions I don't know the answers to. Not now."

Frannie turned onto her side, moved over against him. "If it's important, you'll have it when you need it. But right now, what you need is sleep."

He let out a long breath. "I'm a mess."

"You're fine."

"I can't believe Marian didn't recuse herself."

"That's good news, remember. Grounds for appeal. You told me yourself."

"Or venue? How could she leave the damn trial here? The jury's tainted. I can feel it."

"I've got a question for you."

"What?"

"Are you going to play this whole thing over in your mind before morning?"

"No. I hope not." Then, "You're right. I've got to stop."

"Okay. So stop then. Go easy on yourself." He put his arm around her. "Did I just say you were right?" "Yep."

"You are."

"I know." She kissed the side of his face. "Let's say we go to sleep, okay?"

"Okay." Then, as sleep approached, "I love you, you know."

"I know," she said. "Me, too." And kissed his cheek again.

Within two minutes, Hardy's breathing was deep and even.

Frannie, it took longer.

Hardy was dressed in a dark blue suit with a white shirt and red-and-blue rep tie. It was 6:42 by the clock on his stove. He had poured his coffee first thing as always, taken a drink, then realized that if Treya hadn't gone into labor during the night, Glitsky would be awake and at home.

He answered on the second ring with a cheerful, "This better be important."

Hardy didn't waste time with chitchat, either. "Where's Missy's car?"

"I don't know. Bolivia?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Are we a little wound up this morning? Oh, that's right. The trial…"

Hardy cut him off. "Do you know that? Is the car really in Bolivia?"

"Do I have any idea? I'd be surprised. Bolivia just seemed like a good answer at the time. What's this about?"

"Last night I had a dream and realized I didn't know anything about her car."

"So what?"

"So I don't know what that means. Why did I dream about it if it doesn't mean anything?"

"I give up," Glitsky said. "Because dreams are random?"

"Not as often as you'd think. I realized it's something I've never looked at. I wondered if you had."