John Lescroart - The Motive

"That's right. That's what they're going to think."

"So how are we going to fight that?"

"I don't know that yet, Catherine. I don't know. But the most important thing right now, the only thing right now, is that you can't react in front of the jury. Don't let them see you do more than look disgusted."

In the end, Hardy couldn't keep it from the jury. Cu-neo's testimony was that Catherine had offered him at least dinner and maybe more. He'd certainly gotten that impression, anyway. He'd had to rebuff her, reminding her that she was a suspect in a murder investigation. She did not take the rejection well and, scorned, had refused to answer any more of his questions. After a while, he'd decided to leave. For the first time, he began to regard her as a possible suspect.

And then, the damage done on that front, Rosen brought it back to Glitsky. "I'm curious, Inspector, did Deputy Chief Glitsky give you any explanation of why he, too, would be investigating the death of Paul Hanover?"

Hardy stood up. "Objection. Hearsay and irrelevant." "Mr. Rosen?"

"Your Honor, this goes to Deputy Chief Glitsky's bias and motive to skew testimony in this case. If he perceives he's under political pressure to obtain a certain result in this case, his recollection, conduct and testimony are all highly suspect."

"Your Honor," Hardy countered, "the deputy chief hasn't testified-he's not a witness so far, so there is nothing to impeach. This testimony, if relevant at all, only comes in after the witness says something that makes it relevant. If that happens later, then it happens, but it's premature right now." Hardy knew he was going to have to face this sooner or later, but he wanted Abe to bring it up first. Have him explain his status in the case in his own terms first, and not take the stand already burdened with the jury's preconception that he was somehow suspect. Hardy knew he was right-that Braun should have waited until there was a foundation to admit the testimony. But she wasn't having any.

The judge took a breath. "Counsel, given what I've heard so far, I'm going to let this in now, subject to a motion to strike. But you're on a short leash here, Mr. Rosen. Keep this very focused."

Hardy didn't like it, but the order of testimony was something within the court's discretion. Rosen had the recorder read the question back to Cuneo-the gist of which was whether or not Glitsky had tried to explain why he would be investigating Hanover's death.

"Yes, he did. He said that Mayor West asked him to become involved."

Mention of San Francisco's mayor brought a pronounced buzz to the gallery, but it died quickly. No one wanted to miss the next question. "Did he tell you why?"

"No, sir. He was my superior. It was a fait accompli. I just assumed it was something political and didn't worry too much about it."

Hardy objected-speculation-and Braun sustained him. But it was a small and insignificant victory amid a string of setbacks. And more to come. "Sergeant, how did Deputy Chief Glitsky's involvement affect your investigation?"

"Well, the most immediate effect was that he warned me off talking to the defendant."

"Warned you off?" Rosen displayed his shock and amazement to the jury. "What do you mean, warned you off?"

"He said that she was threatening to file a sexual harassment lawsuit against me and if I knew what was good for me, I should leave her alone."

"And how did Deputy Chief Glitsky tell you he found out about this?"

"She called him."

"Did he say why she called him?"

Hardy was up again, this time citing speculation and hearsay. He was sustained again, and he took a breath of relief and sat down.

But Rosen never skipped a beat. "Inspector Cuneo, did the defendant in fact file a sexual harassment complaint against you?"

This, of course, had been something Catherine and Hardy had discussed from the beginning. In the end, they'd decided that to bring the complaint after she'd been charged with the murders would only be seen as frankly cynical and duplicitous. So they'd opted against it. Now, of course, it looked like that might have been the wrong decision.

Cuneo actually broke a tolerant smile. He shook his head. "Of course not," he said.

"She did not?"

"No, sir. She did not." Treya and Zachary still slept.

Glitsky had no luck running down the car. It had not been reported stolen, and it was not listed among the city's towed vehicles. He had called around to nearby public garages, where she might have leased a parking space. Nothing. This, in itself, Glitsky thought, was provocative. Where was the darn thing? He placed a call to traffic and ran a check on the booted vehicles, and struck out there, too. Odd. Although he knew it was entirely possible that someone had boosted the car one fine day and then decided-hey, a Mercedes-to keep it. D'Amiens, being dead and all, wouldn't be likely to report it stolen.

But what Glitsky did get was an address where D'Amiens had lived at one time, when she registered her car. Embarrassed for not having discovered it earlier, when it had always been as close as a computer check with the DMV, he reminded himself that the French woman had never really assumed any prominence in his investigations. She was the invisible victim, an adjunct to Paul Hanover, nobody in her own right.

That's probably what she still was, he thought, but at least here was a trail he hadn't been down. It might take him somewhere. Or maybe it would lead him to 235 Eleventh Avenue and stop there. With something of a start, he realized that the place wasn't four blocks from where he sat at his kitchen table. In five minutes, he'd written a note to Treya, should she wake up. He was just taking a walk around the block. He'd be back in twenty minutes.

Outside, the day hadn't gotten any nicer. A thick cloud cover hung low over the city, and the fine drizzle of an hour before held visibility to a quarter mile or so. Glitsky wore his favorite weathered, brown-leather flight jacket with the faux-fur collar. He walked with his hands in his pockets, taking long strides, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

Like most ofthe other buildings in the neighborhood- indeed, like Glitsky's own-the place was an upper-lower duplex, with D'Amiens's address as the street-level unit. He went to the small covered entryway and rang the doorbell, its gong reverberating. After no one answered, he peered through one of the small glass panes in the door, and could make out some furniture, a rug and a bookshelf in a home that seemed to be very much like his own.

"Hello?" An old woman's tremulous voice with a Brooklyn accent echoed down from above and behind him. "They're not home. They're working. Can I help you?"

Looking up into the stairway that led to the upper unit, he stayed below on the bottom step. As a large black man, Glitsky knew that the welcome mat wasn't automatically out for him. He got out his wallet, opened it to his badge, and said, "I'm with the police department. Do you mind if I come up?"

"They're not in trouble, are they? They seem like such nice people." Then, with another thought. "Or dead, are they? Oy, tell me they're not dead. God, not again."

Glitsky stopped on the fifth step. "Again?"

"My last tenant, Missy. Such a nice girl. An officer comes…" She made a hopeless gesture. "And just like that, he tells me she's gone. Lost in a fire."

Until this moment, Glitsky had been under the impression that Hanover's fiancee had been residing at the house on Alamo Square. But apparently she had kept this address as well. Still, he wanted to be sure. "Missy D'Amiens, you're talking about?"

"God rest her soul."

"Yes." He touched the mezuzah on the doorpost. "You're Jewish, I see. So am I."

She squinted at him, not at all sure she believed him.

"Abraham Glitsky." He extended his hand, which she gingerly took.