John Lescroart - The Motive

"okay." Treya, now up on an elbow, interested. Even cloistered as she'd been, she'd been aware of the latest news stories, the conspiracy theory. The Hanover case, like it or not, was part of their lives, and probably would be for some time. "What?"

"She had a checking account and a safe-deposit box, a big one." He drew a breath. "She closed the account and the box on May seventh, five days before she was killed."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know." He looked over at her. "Eighty-eight hundred dollars, plus whatever was in the box."

Hardy was in his kitchen with Glitsky. The overhead light was on-it was still black out through the window over the sink, though the rain seemed to have stopped. The clock on the stove read 6:24. From the back ofthe ground floor came the muted sounds of Hardy's children knocking around, using the bathroom, getting ready for school. From upstairs, the shower. The house waking up.

Hardy, awakened by Glitsky's call forty-five minutes earlier, was in one of his dark gray courtroom suits, white shirt, muted tie. He blew over his mug of coffee, took a sip. "Missy signed it out herself?" he asked.

"There's no other way to get it."

"Wire transfer."

"She'd still have to sign something." "Yeah, but she could have done that months ago." "But somebody would have had to place the order, right? Either way, it doesn't matter. She signed the with

drawal form, took it in cash. They had the hard copies still there."

"How'd you get a look at them without a subpoena?"

Glitsky considered, hesitated for a second. "That's a state secret that could get the manager fired. I know her. But forget the logistics for a minute. She got her hands on more than eight grand. Maybe a lot more. No way to tell. Five days before she got killed."

Hardy put his mug on the counter, boosted himself up next to it and picked it up again. "Where'd she get that much money?"

"Hanover. She inflated the remodel costs and skimmed. I'm thinking she might have had as much as a few hundred thousand dollars in her safe-deposit box."

"A few hundred thousand? You've got to be kidding."

"No."

"If that's true, she was leaving him." Not a question.

"Had to be."

"He didn't have a clue, though." "You know that?"

"According to Catherine. They'd evidently been arguing about this cabinet appointment, and that's why she was gone during that last day, but Paul told Catherine it would blow over. Missy wasn't leaving him. No way."

Glitsky's frown was pronounced. "So he didn't know."

"I hope it's true and he didn't just lie to Catherine to rile up the family. That might have been what got them both killed." Suddenly Hardy brought himself up short, a palm against his forehead. "Lord, what am I thinking? I'm sorry, Abe, trial time. The focus is a little narrow. How's your boy?"

"He's all right," Glitsky said evenly. "Top one percent of kids in his boat."

"There's a relief."

"A bit." But Glitsky didn't trust himselfwith optimism too long if they kept talking about Zachary's health, so he went right back to business. "I thought I'd do it legal today. Get your sorry signature on a subpoena so we can have copies of the records by next week."

"You mean Missy's bank records?"

Glitsky nodded. "I thought you could help me get 'em as essential to this case. Tie it into Hanover's estate and missing money. You sign a subpoena, the records just come to court. Rosen won't care that we've got them."

"I've got one for you," Hardy said. "How'd you get on this in the first place? Missy."

"You got me on it," Glitsky said. "The car." Mirroring Hardy, boosting himself on the counter by the stove, he told him about the series of unusual findings he'd happened upon as he had followed up leads on Missy, from the address he'd gotten at the DMV site, to Ruth Guthrie her landlady, to the bed and bath store where she hadn't worked, which had led to the checking and other accounts and the bank.

"Wait a minute," Hardy said when Glitsky had finished. "So you're telling me that before she showed up here in San Francisco when? Three years ago? You still don't know anything about where she came from?"

"No. She came from somewhere they speak French, apparently. But how she got here? She dropped out of the sky. Although there's a social"-a Social Security number-"on her Bank of America accounts, and I was going to run that, too. If you'll sign off on the subpoenas." In fact, it was no big deal for Hardy to request Missy's bank records, and both men knew it. Preparing the subpoena wouldn't take Hardy five minutes. "I'm just saying it might help, Diz."

Hardy felt a wash of fatigue-the coffee wasn't kicking in quickly enough. He brought his hands to his eyes, then grabbed his mug and tipped it up. "I know it might," he said. "Sorry. I'm thinking about eyewitnesses. If I could just see how I can use this D'Amiens thing. If she had all that cash on her, plus the ring, and Catherine knew about it… but if anything that only strengthens her motive."

"I'm not guaranteeing any of this is going to help your case," Glitsky said. "I'd just like to know more."

"So would I," Hardy said, "perennially. Sometimes it's just not in the cards."

"True, but it'd be dumb not to look."

"Not if it doesn't help my client, which is pretty much all I'm thinking about right now."

Glitsky shrugged. "Your call. I'm going to do what I can anyway."

Hardy threw a veiled and vaguely malevolent glance over his coffee mug. "There's a surprise," he said.

When Hardy came around the corner in the hallway and saw Catherine in the holding cell behind the courtroom, she was sitting hunched over almost as if she'd been beaten, as though huddled against further blows. When he got to the cell door, she looked over quickly but, smoothing her hands down over her face, didn't get up, didn't change position. When the bailiff let Hardy in, he went and sat beside her. Her face hadn't completely dried. Putting an arm around her, he drew her in next to him, and she broke down.

He let it go on until it ended, just allowing her to lean against him until she'd sobbed it all out. When her breathing finally slowed, he gave her the handkerchief he'd learned always to have with him, then gave her a last buck-up squeeze with his arm and stood up. He walked over and stood by the bars, giving her some space while she got herself back together. He consulted his watch. They weren't due in court for another twenty minutes, plenty of time. Finally, he went back to her and sat.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I don't know what…"

"It's all right."

She nodded. "I've been trying to keep myself from thinking about my kids, but today's Polly's birthday." She took a shaky breath. "Now I've missed every one of them since I've been in here."

"I know."

"I still don't know where to put any of this. How this can be happening to me." She gestured at the surroundings. "None of this is in my life, Dismas. Even after all this time, I can't understand how I've gotten here. I keep telling myself to just be strong and bear up and don't give them anything they can use. But then I think, so what? It's already been too long. I'm not their mom anymore."

"You're still their mom, Catherine. They visit here every chance they get."

"But I can't… I mean…" Again, she bowed her head, shaking it slowly side to side, side to side. "This isn't getting us anywhere. I'm sorry."

"First, one more apology and I start pulling out your fingernails. You've got every right to be miserable and lonely and afraid and have all of this get to you. Second, we don't always have to be getting anywhere. That's for in there." He indicated the courtroom. "Here we can just sit if we want."

She nodded again, then reached over and took his hand. "Can we do this for a minute?"