The Motive

by John Lescroart

“That’s right.”

  “All right, now let’s go back to the woman, who is now across the street, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “The woman you initially thought was Missy D’Amiens?”

  “I thought she must have been Missy D’Amiens. I didn’t think she was.”

  “Ah.” Hardy brought in the jury with a look, then went back to the witness. “What made you change your mind?”

  “She walked differently.”

  “She walked differently? How do you mean?”

  “I mean, she had a different walk. I think it’s rather clear. She didn’t walk the same.”

  “So you’d studied Ms. D’Amiens’s walk?”

  This brought another rolling round of laughter to the gallery, and Willis glared out at it with nearly the same intensity as Braun.

  “I noticed it. As one notices things. I didn’t study it.”

  “All right, then. So this evening you simply noticed Ms. D’Amiens’s walk?”

  “Yes.”

  Hardy heard a sound behind him, a dull thud. He guessed it was Rosen letting his hand fall in frustration to the table, but he didn’t dare slow down enough to turn and look. He didn’t know if Willis realized what he’d just said, but he was certain some members of the jury had.

  “All right,” he said. “But let me ask you this. If you were looking at Ms. D’Amiens’s walk, how did you see her face?”

  “I just,” he stammered. “I just saw it.”

  “As she came abreast of where you stood in your bay window?”

  “Yes.”

  “Directly across the street?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you only saw her in profile?”

  This stopped Willis for an instant. “Yes,” he said with a resurging bravado. “Yes, I guess I must have, mustn’t I?”

  “I believe so,” said Hardy. He wasn’t going to push on Willis any harder now. He’d already wounded him badly and the jury would resent him for it. Instead, he took a beat, a breath, then asked quietly. “Mr. Willis, your bay window is on Steiner Street, facing due west, is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it faces the sun as it sets, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the sun was out on the day of the fire, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Low in the sky, since it must have been at least seven fifteen and possibly as late as seven forty-five when the woman came out of Hanover’s house? Mr. Willis,” Hardy continued, “to review for the jury, you saw a woman whom you initially took to be Missy D’Amiens leave the Hanover home at around seven thirty. You saw her again in profile only across the street from your bay window, looking directly into a setting sun, in the course of which you were in the middle of an alcoholic beverage made with two shots of spirits and one of fortified wine. Is all of this correct?”

  “Yes,” Willis said. “As far as it goes.”

  “I think it goes pretty far, sir,” Hardy said. He turned and walked back to his table and sat down next to Catherine, who reached over and gripped his arm.

  “Redirect, Mr. Rosen,” Braun intoned. “No? All right, Mr. Willis, you’re excused.”

  In Farrell’s office, Hardy was prepared to beg if need be. “Wes, I need this.”

  “You needed her missing alibi, too, Diz. Which I dutifully provided, if you recall. But even assuming the lovely Theresa Hanover would see me again . . .”

  “I thought she had a crush on you.”

  “I may have overstated that slightly. But as I say, even if she would see me again, Sam and I have a date tonight.”

  “You have no children. You can have dates every night.”

  “We do, in fact. And every one a treasure. But this one is actually planned. We’ve got reservations with some pals at Farallon.”

  Hardy grimaced. And Farrell, horizontal with a legal brief open on his chest up until now, straightened up on the couch with a deep, theatrical sigh. “For informational purposes only, what do you want to know this time?”

  “How much she knew about Missy D’Amiens. If she ever dug to find any dirt on her. If she might have been blackmailing her.”

  Farrell nodded. “Just the kind of stuff I might easily work into a casual conversation. You realize she’ll understand pretty quick what’s going on? Didn’t the cops ask her any of this?”

  “Cuneo didn’t, no.”

  “And you expect me to find this out in a couple of hours?”

  “Sooner if you want to make your dinner.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Your usual, Wes. Charm, brains, psychology. Whatever it takes.”

  “You really think she did this?”

  “I really think it’s not impossible. I’d like to have some kind of song I can get the jury to dance to.”

  Farrell threw his abandoned brief down onto the floor at his feet. He swore in resignation, then looked up at Hardy. “All right, I’ll give her a call.”

  “Thank you. And do me one other favor, would you?”

  “Of course. It goes without saying. I live to perform favors for all and sundry. What is it?”

  “Be careful.”

  29

  The money got Glitsky nowhere. The Social Security number, or SSN, turned out to be valid, although inactive because of the death of the person to whom it was issued.

  He’d spent three hours with Lisa Ravel and learned that Missy D’Amiens was a careful and perhaps sophisticated money mover—over a twenty-odd-month period, and with the exception of the straight pass-throughs of large sums to Leymar Construction, she had never moved a sum of money, either to cash or to another account, greater than ten thousand dollars. Occasionally, when the balance in her checking account wouldn’t be completely depleted before the next deposit was due, she would withdraw all the cash down to a few hundred dollars, and sometimes this would be as much as four thousand more dollars destined for her safe-deposit box. In all, Glitsky’s rudimentary math revealed that she might have squirreled away nearly four hundred thousand dollars.

  And that meant that, for at least a few days before she died, she’d had access to that much money in cash. Maybe she’d even carried it with her, on her person, somewhere—in a backpack, a briefcase, a shopping bag. If the wrong person even caught a glimpse, then this, Glitsky knew, was plenty to get yourself killed over. What he didn’t know and couldn’t figure out was why, other than Hardy’s theory that she had been planning to leave Paul Hanover, she’d withdrawn it just when she had. He was beginning to think it had to be some sort of blackmail. A payoff had gone wrong in the Hanover home, and the witnesses/victims hadn’t survived.

  Coincidence, he believed, was not an option.

  But there was something he’d clearly overlooked and that now beckoned as the next, maybe the only, logical step left for him to take, although the specific destination remained murky. Why did he care so much about Missy D’Amiens? Was it just a desire to prove that Cuneo had been wrong all along? Or was it that his gene for justice wasn’t being served? He kept discovering more facts about her, only to learn that in some ways he seemed to know less. But he couldn’t stop himself. All of this money, her sophistication, the duplicity about where and whether she worked, her exotic and unknown background—all of these factors contributed to the fascination. She was the key to something significant; he was certain of that. Maybe it wasn’t the key to her own murder as well, but her story begged for a resolution, and Glitsky felt that if he could provide one, it might help to close a circle for him as well.

  And, not incidentally, though he couldn’t predict exactly how, he believed it might have an impact on Hardy’s trial.

  He called Paganucci while he waited for Lisa Ravel to finish her xeroxing, then thanked her for her time and expertise. When he exited the building, his driver was waiting on the Kearny Street side, heading downtown. Even with the late-afternoon rush hour, it didn’t take them fifteen minutes to get back to the Tow/Hold headquarters a few blocks south
of the Hall of Justice on Townshend.

  A large brownish brick warehouse that now screamed desertion—from the street the place looked as though it hadn’t seen any sign of life in a decade. The large auto bay doors were closed at both the front and sides. Several windows, high up, on all three visible sides, were broken black, jagged holes, and the others, covered with cobwebs, dust and soot, were opaque. Paganucci pulled up in front of the entrance with its peeling white paint and faded logo and lettering. He put the car in park, turned it off, got out and opened Glitsky’s door to the gritty and wet wind.

  Much to Glitsky’s surprise, the door was open. He entered and turned into the administrative office that had been drywalled into the semblance of a planned room. A dozen or so gray metal desks squatted in the bullpen behind the counter. The tops of each of them were bare except for a computer terminal, a telephone, a blotter and a two-tiered metallic in/out basket. He saw no one, but heard a radio somewhere, and walked by the counter, then behind it, following the sound. Within the larger office, a smaller unit sulked in one corner, and here Glitsky found two slightly beyond-middle-aged men playing cards—it looked like gin rummy—on another desktop, this one completely bare.

  “Who’s winning?” he asked.

  The fat man facing him raised his eyes and showed no surprise at the sight of a large uniformed black police officer filling his doorway. “Glen,” he said, his breath rasping with the exertion. “But not for long.”

  “Ha!” Glen didn’t even turn around to look.

  Glitsky stepped into the room. “I’m trying to locate a car.”

  “Got a license for it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welp.” The fat man put a “p” on the end of his “well,” punctuating it further with a little pop of breath, as though the syllable had nearly exhausted him. He placed his cards facedown in front of him. Wheezing, he lifted himself out of his chair, squeezed his way out from behind the desk. He extended a hand as he passed, said, “Horace” and kept going into the outer office. “Stay here, you don’t mind. Watch him he don’t cheat,” he said.

  “Ha!” Glen said again.

  Horace got himself situated behind one of the outer desks, fiddled with the mouse, waited for the screen to brighten. “What’s the number?”

  Glitsky gave it to him. 4MDC433.

  Horace’s fingers moved. He waited, staring at the screen, each labored breath the sigh of a bellows. After a bit, he nodded. “Yep. Mercedes C-130?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Your lucky day,” he said. “They took it here. Space N-49. Your car?”

  “No. A crime victim’s.”

  Horace made a sympathetic clucking sound through the rasping. He leaned in closer and squinted at the screen. “Mitchell Damien? He okay?”

  “She,” Glitsky said. “And she’s dead.”

  From the other room. “Hey, Horace! You playing or what?”

  “I’m what is what. Keep your pants on.” He shook his head in displeasure at his opponent’s impatience, then came back to Glitsky. “Welp”—a deep breath—“so what do you want with the car?”

  “I just want to look at it. See if she left anything in it that might identify her killer.” He left the doorway of the smaller room and got close enough to Horace where he could see the screen. “Does it say where you picked it up?”

  “Sure. Two hundred block of Eleventh Avenue.”

  “That’s where she lived.”

  “There you go.” Horace leaned back, ran a hand around his florid face. “There’s nothing in it—that don’t mean nobody stole nothin’. Means there wasn’t nothing in it when it got here.”

  “Okay,” Glitsky said. “Could I trouble you to print out a copy of the record for me?”

  “Sure. Take two seconds.”

  For whatever good it would do, Glitsky thought. Already today, he had added sixty-some pages of Bank of America records to the D’Amiens folder he’d been developing. Just being thorough. But it would be foolish to abandon the practice now.

  Horace pulled the page from the printer by the counter and handed it over. Taking Glitsky’s measure one last time and seemingly satisfied, he walked with great effort all the way back across the outer office, to a large white panel, about six feet on a side, that swung out to reveal a numbered grid of eye-hooks, most of which held sets of keys. He picked the one off of N-49, walked back and handed it to Glitsky.

  “You’ve got the keys?” Glitsky asked. “She left her keys in the car?”

  “No. Car sits in the lot this long unclaimed, generally it’s going to auction, so we need keys. We used to have a couple of locksmiths on staff, even, but those days are gone now. Still”—he pointed—“those ought to open the thing up. It’s inside, about two-thirds of the way back. They’re numbered. You can’t miss it. I’ll flick on the lights for you. Bring the key back when you’re done. I’m off at five thirty, so before then. Or come back tomorrow.”

  Glitsky looked at his watch. He had forty-five minutes. “Today ought to do it,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “What if he doesn’t call her as a witness?” Glitsky, referring to Theresa Hanover, was in Hardy’s office throwing his darts. Hardy, weary but still rushing with adrenaline and elation—he thought he’d basically kicked ass with all of the eyewitnesses—sat crossways on the love seat perpendicular to his desk.

  “He’s got to call her. She’s the motive. The jury’s got to hear how badly Catherine wanted the money, and from her own sweet reluctant mother-in-law. It ought to break hearts.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I introduce our alternate theory on cross. Theresa’s own motive, every bit as good as Catherine’s, her own lack of alibi, her attendance at the fire itself, the ring and paying the cash for the car, plus whatever Wes might be finding out even as we speak.”

  “And the judge will let you do all that?”

  “Maybe not the cash for the car. But the rest, maybe, at least the beginning of it. I’ll be subtle. Besides, I think her honor is beginning to thaw. The eyewitness testimony was Rosen’s case and, if I do say so myself, it took a pretty good hit today. I’d hate to jinx my good fortune, but if I’m Rosen, I’m a worried man about now.”

  “And Theresa’s his last witness?”

  “She might be. Close to it, anyway. Which is why I’m going to need you around. You’re next up after I call Catherine.”

  “For the defense. I love it.” Glitsky threw the last dart in his round and was walking to the board. Halfway there, he stopped and faced his friend, his expression black. “Starting tomorrow? All day?”

  Hardy nodded. “Most of it, anyway. But look at the bright side, like you always do. I ask you questions and the answers eviscerate Cuneo.”

  But Glitsky was shaking his head. “I don’t like him any more than you do. More than that, between you and me, this whole conspiracy thing he’s on about terrifies me. He’s too close, and maybe he’s got other people thinking. I go up on the stand against him, it’s going to look personal, and he’s going to itch to pay us both back personally if he can. Tell me you haven’t considered this.”

  “Of course. As things now stand, he’s a threat, I grant you.”

  “A big threat. And I’m not just talking careers.”

  “I get it, Abe, really. But what’s the option? I’ve already creamed him on cross. He can’t hate me worse than he already does. Or you, probably.”

  “But above all, he’s a cop, Diz. Cops don’t testify against cops, maybe you’ve heard. So you think Theresa’s a reluctant witness? Wait’ll you get me up there.”

  “You really don’t want to go on? Get the son of a bitch?”

  “I’d rather get the murderer.”

  “And that’s not Catherine.”

  Glitsky wasn’t going to fight him on that. “All right,” he said, “but I hope you’re real aware that my friends in uniform are not going to double their love for me after I snitch out a cop on sexual harassment.” Glitsky go
t to the dartboard and slowly, pensively, pulled his round from it.

  Reading the body language, Hardy came around square on the love seat, sitting up. He spoke quietly, with some urgency. “All you’ll be talking about is what Catherine said to you, Abe. That’s not you accusing Cuneo of anything. Catherine will say what happened. You’ll simply say she reported it before she got arrested.”

  Glitsky barked a bitter little laugh. “That distinction might not sing to the troops.”

  “It’ll have to. I need the testimony.”

  “I know. I know. I just wish . . .”

  “You’d found something else?”

  A nod. “Almost anything. God knows I looked. I thought between the banking and the car something would have popped, but nothing.”

  “Really nothing? At all?”

  Glitsky indicated the folder of D’Amiens’s stuff he’d brought up with him. “You’re welcome to look at all the fascinating details, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  “I won’t. But if it’s any consolation, maybe I won’t need it.”

  “For your client, maybe not. But there’s still the murders. And whoever did them is still walking around on the street.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a lot of that, Abe. It happens.”

  “Granted, but that’s no reason to accept it.” The words came out perhaps more harshly than he’d intended. “I don’t mean . . .” Glitsky let the phrase hang, then laid Hardy’s three darts on the polished surface of the desk. “I’m going home,” he said. “I’m done in.”

  Hardy knew lawyers who couldn’t get to sleep until nearly dawn for the duration of their trials, others who crashed after dinner and woke up at three thirty in the morning. The one constant seemed to be the disruption of sleep patterns. For his own edification and amusement, Hardy played it both ways, which tended to wreak havoc on his life and psyche. Two days ago, up at five a.m., asleep at one a.m. Then, this morning, Glitsky’s call again around five. Now here he was at his office, no dinner inside him, eight p.m. He’d called home an hour ago and told them he would be late. Don’t wait up.

  Hardy had been going through the D’Amiens folder Glitsky had delivered. The precise relevance of all this continued to be elusive, although Hardy couldn’t escape the same conclusion that Glitsky had reached. It may not have been what killed D’Amiens and Hanover, but some other intrigue was definitely going on in her life. Blackmail, extortion, money laundering. Something. He’d been surprised enough to learn about the siphoned money, but even the smaller details rankled. He hadn’t known that she’d kept up her rent on the place on Eleventh Avenue, for example. Not that it mattered, but still . . . or why she would have lied about her employment. The fact that she’d written the Leymar checks out of her own account.