The Motive

by John Lescroart

  “No, it isn’t. You’ve lived here all along?”

  “Mostly, after college and then a couple of years back in Boston. I know you’ve been living here. I’ve seen you in the papers.” He heard her sigh. “Anyway. I called you because I think I need a lawyer. Apparently I’m some kind of a suspect in a murder case.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “You know? Already?”

  “I mean, I’d heard about Catherine Hanover, the name, but I didn’t know she was you.” The next words slipped out before he could stop them. “I thought you weren’t ever going to change your name.”

  “I wasn’t, but it seemed important to Will, so I guess when push came to shove, I abandoned my high principles and sold out my old feminist beliefs. And how about you? I thought you weren’t ever going to work nine to five.”

  “Touché,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. You sounded just like your old self.”

  “Well . . . I’m still sorry. I have no idea where that came from or why it came out.”

  “It’s okay, really.” Again he heard the oddly mnemonicthroaty chuckle. “You’re probably still feeling guilty about how you dumped me.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted, and again before he could think added, “that could be it.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying, since he hadn’t consciously thought of her in years.

  Frannie appeared below him at the flight of the stairs, looking up with some concern, mouthed, “Is everything all right?”

  Nodding, Hardy gave his wife a smile, then turned and started up the steps again. “But now you’re in trouble?”

  “I think I must be. The police came by this morning with a search warrant and looked through my house and my car.”

  Hardy sat down in the reading chair in his bedroom. This was a new development that hadn’t yet made the news. If they’d already served a search warrant on her, the case had progressed far beyond a casual suspicion based on a possible motive. Somebody in the investigation was already into evidence and causality. And it was not Abe, who surely would have mentioned this to him either last night or downstairs just a few minutes ago. That left only Cuneo, and the realization made Hardy’s stomach go tight. “So you’ve talked to the police?”

  “Several times.”

  “Without a lawyer?”

  “I didn’t think I needed one. I didn’t know I was a suspect. The first time was down at the fire . . .”

  “You were at the fire?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was my father-in-law’s house and I saw it on the news and ran down to see what was happening and if I could help.”

  “And you talked to cops down there?”

  “Yes, somebody Cuneo. And an arson inspector, too. And since then a deputy chief. Glitsky. But they just wanted to know about Paul. My father-in-law. Paul Hanover.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “How can you know all this?”

  “It’s a big case, Catherine. Everybody in town knows about it.”

  In the phone, her voice grew smaller. “That’s right, of course. But are you saying I shouldn’t have talked to the police? I was trying to cooperate.”

  Hardy, one hand rubbing his forehead, said, “No. Cooperation’s okay. I’m just being a lawyer. Sometimes it’s bad luck to say anything to the police.”

  “But I didn’t think I was a suspect.”

  “No. I know. That’s their favorite.”

  “So I’m in bigger trouble than I thought?”

  He didn’t want her to panic and spouted out a white lie. “Maybe not. I don’t know. What were they looking for at your house?”

  “The clothes I was wearing when I was at the fire. They were in my closet and I think the hamper.”

  “So you hadn’t washed them yet?”

  “I guess not.” Then, on a higher note, the worry clear in her voice. “Is that a problem, too?”

  “I don’t know about ‘too.’ I don’t know what the problems are yet, Catherine. What did they do with the clothes?”

  “They took them away. They said they’d bring them back. They were going to analyze them for . . . I don’t know what. Something.”

  “Did they take anything else?”

  A silence.

  “Catherine?”

  Now he heard a definite strain in the pitch of her voice. “Some cuttings of the fabric from the trunk of my car. It had some gasoline on it. See, a couple of weeks ago I helped this woman who’d run out of gas . . .”

  “Catherine?”

  A sob broke over the line.

  Hardy stopped to lift the lid and stir the gumbo, then went and stood in the entrance to the dining room. Glitsky was sitting at the table, apparently content to wait for Hardy’s descent after his business call and pass the time with Frannie, who had poured herself a glass of Chardonnay. The kids were nowhere to be found. Hardy stood in the door to the dining area, hands in his pockets, leaning against the jamb.

  “So, Abe,” he said, “you searched her house this morning and just didn’t get around to telling me because . . . ?”

  Glitsky’s face clouded. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a search warrant for Catherine Hanover’s clothes and her car. They found gasoline in her trunk.”

  “Who did? I didn’t . . .” He stopped. “Cuneo. Why didn’t he . . . ?”

  Hardy knew the answer. “He didn’t want your input in the first place, and now he’s proving he didn’t need it. He wants the collar himself.”

  “But . . .” Glitsky was reduced to sputtering. “We haven’t . . .”

  “Obviously, he’s not interested. He’s got his suspect and he’s in a hurry.”

  Glitsky’s mouth was tight, his scar in high relief through his lips, his blue eyes flat and hard. “She under arrest?”

  “Not yet. Apparently. Though she might be anytime.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “No. But she’s got herself worked into a pretty good panic right about now. I don’t know what she’s going to do.”

  “She wants you to represent her, then?” Glitsky asked.

  “That’s what she called for.”

  “And you wisely suggested she get somebody else, right?”

  “Not exactly.” Hardy took a deep breath.

  Frannie said, “Why would he do that, Abe?”

  Glitsky looked across the table. “Because your husband doesn’t want to have anything to do with Catherine Hanover.” Back over to Hardy. “I’m correct here, am I not?”

  Before Hardy could reply, Frannie asked, “Why not?”

  “Because of Dan Cuneo, that’s why not. He’s already got Diz and me together in his brain. Now if Diz gets involved in this case . . .” Suddenly he turned his head. “What’s ‘not exactly’ mean, Diz? This really wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “No, I know that. But there are other issues.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as I know her.” His eyes went to Frannie. “Catherine Hanover is Catherine Rusk,” he said.

  “And Catherine Rusk is?” Glitsky asked.

  “His first girlfriend.” Frannie assayed a brave smile that didn’t quite work.

  “Well, I’m happy for her,” Glitsky said, “but she’s not his girlfriend now. You are.” Again he looked at Hardy. “Tell her, Diz.”

  Hardy broke his own tired smile. “I’m pretty sure she knows, but for the record”—he walked up behind where Frannie sat and placed a kiss on the top of her head— “you’re still my girlfriend.”

  She patted his hand where it rested on her shoulder. “I’m so glad.”

  “Okay,” Glitsky said, “that’s settled. Now you’ve got to let Catherine go.”

  “That’s my intention.”

  “Good. You had me worried there for a minute.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to worry you some more, either of you”—he squeezed Frannie’s shoulder—“but I thin
k I’m going to have to see her tonight. She needs some help and she needs it now.” He sat down next to Frannie. “She’s a wreck, hon. Crying on the phone. She didn’t know who else to call. I’ve got to go see her this one time. She was desperate.”

  “You don’t have to go see her,” Glitsky said. “Send one of your minions.”

  “Did you ever try to find a minion on Saturday night, Abe? Besides, she called me. Maybe I can calm her down. I know her.”

  “You knew her,” Glitsky snapped. “You don’t know her anymore.” He turned to Frannie. “You tell him. This is dumb.”

  “He makes his own decisions, Abe. You may have noticed.”

  Hardy kissed her cheek and stood up. “Sorry. I know it’s Saturday night, but she’s really in a bad way, Fran. I won’t be too long.”

  She patted his hand. “I’ll deal with it. We were just vegging with a video anyway.”

  Glitsky was getting up, too. “Don’t let her hire you.”

  “That’s not my plan. I’ll get her calmed down and give her some tips to get her through the weekend, like don’t talk to any more cops; then we’ll see where we are.”

  Hardy couldn’t help but notice that Catherine hadn’t conceded much to the passage of the years. His first reaction on seeing her was that it was nearly unfair. She’d kept her body in terrific shape, and her face, always her best feature, was if anything more interesting and attractive than it had been when she was eighteen. A couple of lines around the eyes gave her a sense of experience, humor and maybe even a hint of wisdom. Smooth skin, a strong chin, well-defined cheekbones and an assertive nose would make her face at home on a magazine cover. She looked Frannie’s age, although he knew she had twelve years on his wife.

  She opened the door and he consciously had to stop himself from commenting on her attractiveness, a compliment that for all its truth would not have been appropriate.

  And she wasn’t alone. “This is my husband, Will, our boy, Saul, Polly and Heather. This is Mr. Hardy.” She explained to the children, “He’s going to be my lawyer for a while until all this with the police gets sorted out. I hope not too long.”

  Not even inside the door and Hardy felt blindsided, confronted with two of the character traits that he suddenly remembered had led to them breaking up so long ago. The first manifested itself by the presence of her family. On the phone, Hardy had gotten an impression so strong that it was a conviction that Catherine was alone at home, in a panic. She had no one else to turn to, certainly not a husband, a nuclear family gathered around.

  Now here she was in their bosom, and Hardy felt a bit abused that he’d been coerced into leaving his own family on a Saturday night, thinking it was an emergency, when it was really just Catherine being overly histrionic, and being not entirely truthful because of omission—the coward’s lie.

  And then the comment in her first breath about him being her lawyer. He remembered all too well—she used to make assumptions and jump to conclusions based on the belief that whatever it might be, people wanted to do it for her. And she’d been so desirable that usually it wasn’t an issue. Doing what she wanted instead of what you wanted was a small enough price to pay because when you were with her, in her presence you felt that life was good.

  “We weren’t going to the game, Dismas. I said I wanted to go to the movies, remember? I just assumed . . .”

  And here—he hadn’t told her he was going to be her lawyer, although obviously she now assumed he was. Why wouldn’t he be? When in fact, he’d rather consciously avoided making any kind of overture or commitment in that direction.

  But Polly, chirping up, brushed away the thoughts. “Were you really my mom’s boyfriend?” she asked.

  Hardy downplayed it. “A long time ago in high school. We were good friends.” He glanced at her to verify that this was her version of events as well and got an infinitesimal nod of acknowledgment.

  Next, her husband, Will, stepped up and shook hands.

  “Thanks for coming by. After this search this morning, we didn’t know what to do. Obviously things are further along than we thought, but how they could think Catherine . . .” Shaking his head, he abruptly stopped.

  Will was a step or two above conventionally handsome. Tanned and trim, he had a boyish face. His handshake was not strong, and the smile left a strange impression of distance, if not outright discomfort. “But you know more about all this than we do,” he concluded.

  Hardy took the opportunity to clarify things. “I really don’t know too much beyond what I’ve read in the papers. After you catch me up, we’ll have to see how bad things are. You may not need a lawyer at all.”

  But Catherine didn’t let him off. “No, I need a lawyer, Dismas. I’m sure of that. After this morning . . . the search was just so, so weird, in a way. This Inspector Cuneo, he must be thinking . . .”

  Will shook his head, his voice with an edge to it. “Let’s not go there yet. We don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s not going to find anything on Catherine’s clothes, but if he does . . .”

  Catherine turned on him. “There’s nothing to find, Will. He’s harassing me, pure and simple.”

  Hardy, drawn in, had to ask. “Who is? Cuneo?”

  She nodded. “Who else? But here you are standing in the open door. Please come in, Dismas. I’m not thinking. This has got us all so upset.”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s upsetting.” He looked at the assembled children. “How are you guys doing? Holding up?”

  Saul said, “My mom didn’t kill Grandpa.”

  “No,” Hardy replied, “I’m sure she didn’t.”

  “It’s bullshit!”

  “Saul!” But Catherine’s rebuke had no teeth. “Mr. Hardy’s here because he knows I couldn’t have done anything like that. That’s why I called him. And it’s why we need to talk.”

  Will spoke up. “Mom’s right, kids. It’s adult time. We’ll be right out front here if you need us.”

  Saul didn’t particularly like it, but the girls went without hesitation and, in a moment, so did he. Hardy took the moment to look around the room, then at Catherine. “At least they didn’t tear the place up down here, did they?” he said to her.

  “No, it was all upstairs,” Will said.

  Catherine’s tone brooked no objection. “I think he asked me, Will, if you don’t mind.”

  “No,” Hardy said, “that’s all right.”

  A hard look passed between husband and wife. “She’s right,” Will said. “It’s her problem, really. You two work it out.” And with that he was gone.

  Hardy and Catherine remained in the living room, sitting facing one another at the far end by the fireplace. Their eyes met and held for an instant. Catherine drew a breath, made an attempt at a smile, another one. “I don’t know where to begin,” she said at last, “except to tell you that . . .”

  “Wait,” Hardy said, “Catherine, please. Just one second.” Now that he had her alone, he was going to set the record straight. “I came over here to talk to you because you sounded like you were in trouble and you needed some emergency legal advice. I’m prepared to give that to you, free and for nothing, because I do feel like I know who you are, and of course there’s our history.”

  She seemed to be suppressing some amusement. “You do sound like a lawyer.”

  “That’s because I am a lawyer, Catherine. And I don’t know if there’s even a case here, much less if I’m prepared to take it on. If they discover some evidence and you become a legitimate suspect . . .”

  She shook her head, stopping him. “It’s not about the evidence, Dismas. It’s about Inspector Cuneo.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I made him mad and now he’s out to show me I wasn’t going to get away with it.”

  “With what?”

  An hour later, Hardy had the whole story from Catherine’s point of view, as well as she could piece it together. She believed that her accusation of Cuneo’s sexual advances was at the base of everything th
at had happened up to now, and took the position that the search wasn’t so much about evidence as an example of pure police hassle. She had no idea why her clothes might be important. Readily admitting her concerns about the family’s future finances, especially if Paul and Missy were to marry, she also told him about her conversations with Glitsky. Finally,they’d exhausted everything she’d brought up and decided to take a break.

  Without any conscious decision, Hardy had spent the hour asking questions, giving answers and generally acting as though he was already, de facto, taking the case.

  In the kitchen, she brewed up a pot of decaf and they crossed over to the table in the breakfast nook. Hardy slid in on the bench and sipped at his coffee as she lowered herself onto one of the chairs. “This is just so strange,” she said quietly. “How many times do you think we sat like this either at your place or mine and drank coffee and did homework together while it was dark outside?”

  “A lot. But I’m not sure I remember much about the homework.”

  “No. We always did homework before.” Hardy felt the “before” hanging in the air between them. Then she said, “That was the rule. Don’t you remember? We were such serious students.”

  “We were?”

  “Listen to you. Mister never got a ‘B’?”

  Hardy shrugged. “I got some ‘B’s. Especially in college. But grades weren’t what I put my energy into, anyway.”

  “I know. I remember where you put your energy.”

  Hardy’s mouth twitched and his eyes flicked across at her, then away. “They were good times.” He brought his cup to his mouth and sipped. “Do you realize that my daughter’s as old now as you were then? Is that possible?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Rebecca.”

  “I love that name. Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Going on two years. Darren. Nice kid.”

  “Are they serious?”

  “Probably. They’d say they were, anyway, first true love and all that.”