The Motive

by John Lescroart

  A long pause. Then a longer pause. “You said you were tired of killing, but that you had to do it. But killing me now will accomplish nothing. So I’m giving you another minute to think it over, then I’m leaving. Shoot me or not, run or stay, it’s over. You know that.”

  He gave her the promised moment to think. Then he stood.

  “Don’t come any closer!”

  “Now I’m going to walk around you.”

  “No! Don’t you move! I’ll kill you, I swear to God I will.”

  “I don’t think you will,” he said. “It wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

  He was moving up to where she sat, giving her a wide berth. She stood up, too, and took a step back. Going slowly and smoothly, never stopping, he leaned over to pick up his jacket; then putting it on, he continued past her, feeling the gun trained on him at every step, until his back was to her now and there was nothing to do but reach for the doorknob and pray that he was right.

  Never looking over his shoulder, he closed his hand around the metallic orb and gave a yank, then stepped out into the downpour and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Half an hour later, eight Davis city police cars were parked in the streets surrounding and in the parking lot in front of the apartment building. The rain had resumed its regular steady drifting. The police switchboard had received three calls from the immediate neighborhood in the past twenty minutes reporting what sounded like a gunshot.

  But no one was disposed to take unnecessary chances. The policemen had gone door-to-door in the apartment building, rousting the six students who lived there, getting them out of harm’s way. Matt Wessin used the bullhorn and informed Missy that she was surrounded by police and had sixty seconds to throw out her weapons and give herself up.

  When the minute was up and there had been no response, Abe Glitsky held up a hand to Wessin and his men and, all alone, walked across the few open feet of parking lot to the front door. He stopped for an instant, drew a breath and gathered himself before he pushed.

  Slumped over to her right, the terrorist, the killer, the lover, the martyr was on the couch where he’d been sitting not so long before. Glitsky took a step into the room. His chin fell down over his chest. Always professional, still and always an exception to the rule, Missy D’Amiens had shot herself in the head.

  In a moment, Glitsky would turn and nod to Wessin and the routines would begin. He tried to imagine some other way it could have gone, something he might have done differently.

  But it had all been ordained and set in motion long before he’d been involved. He was lucky to have escaped with his life, when so many others had not.

  That was going to have to be enough.

  34

  On a sunny Saturday evening a couple of weeks into April, Hardy was driving with his wife, top down on the convertible, on the way to Glitsky’s. A week before, he’d come across a CD of Perry Como’s greatest hits, and since then had been alienating everyone close to him— especially his children—with his spontaneous outbursts into renditions of “Papa Loves Mambo” and “Round and Round” and others that were, to him, classics from his earliest youth, when his parents used to watch the crooner’s show every Sunday night. Now, as his last notes from “Hot Diggity (Dog Ziggity Boom)” faded to silence along with the CD track, Frannie reached over and ejected the disc.

  “You really like that guy, don’t you?”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “I know there’s something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it’s just that he’s before my time.”

  “Perry? He’s eternal. Besides, you don’t hear polkas often enough nowadays. If you did, the world would be a happier place. I’m thinking of trying to find an Oktoberfest record so we can have more of them on hand at the house.”

  “The kids might kill you. On second thought, I might kill you.”

  “No. You’d all get used to it. Pretty soon all their friends are coming over for polka parties. You’re the hostess wearing one of those cute Frau outfits. I can see it as the next big new thing.” He broke into a snatch of the song again.

  “Dismas.”

  He stopped. After a moment, driving along, he turned to his wife. “Okay, if polka isn’t going to be your thing, do you want to hear an interesting fact?”

  “I live for them.”

  “Okay, how about this? The ‘zip’ in ZIP code? It stands for ‘zone improvement plan.’ Did you know that?”

  She cast him a sideways glance. “You’ve been reading that miscellany book again.”

  “True. Actually, my new life goal is to memorize it.”

  “Why?”

  “So I’ll know more stuff.”

  “You already know too much stuff.”

  “Impossible. I mean, the ‘zip’ fact, for example. Zone improvement plan.” He looked over for her response.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Come on, Frannie. Did you know that? Don’t you think that’s neat to know?”

  “No, I do. I said ‘wow,’ even. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “It sounded like a sarcastic ‘wow.’ ”

  “Never.”

  “Okay, then.” They drove on in silence for a moment.

  “Zone improvement plan,” Frannie suddenly said after half a block. “Imagine that.”

  Hardy looked over at her, a tolerant smile in place. “Okay, we’ll drop it. But only because there’s yet another unusual and interesting fact you may not know, and probably want to.”

  “More than I want to know about what ‘zip’ stands for? I can’t believe that.”

  “This dinner tonight at Abe’s? He asked me what kind of champagne to buy.”

  “Abe’s drinking champagne?”

  “I got the impression he intended to.”

  “Wow. Not sarcastic,” she added. “When’s the last time you saw him drink anything with alcohol in it?”

  “Somewhere far back in the mists of time. Certainly not in the past few years.”

  “So what’s the occasion?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s got to be a good one.”

  Hardy found a spot to park within a block of Glitsky’s house, and figuring he’d won the lottery, pulled his convertible to the curb. Setting the brake, he brought the top back up, turned off the engine and reached for the door handle. Frannie put a hand on his leg and said, “Do you mind if we just sit here a minute?”

  He stopped and looked questioningly over at her. “Whatever you want.” He took her hand. “Is everything all right?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  “If everything was all right with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean with us?”

  “Us. You. Everything.”

  He stared for a moment out through the windshield. He squeezed her hand, turned toward her. “Look at us right now. Look at where we are. It’s a good place.”

  “Not if you’re unhappy in it.”

  “I’m not unhappy. I wouldn’t trade this, what I’ve got with you, for anything. What’s got you thinking this?”

  “It just seems you’ve been . . . distant, especially since the trial, now that you’ve stopped seeing her every day.”

  He said nothing.

  “It makes me wonder if what we have isn’t enough for you.”

  “Enough what?”

  “Enough anything. Excitement, maybe. Fun. It’s all kid stuff and routines and bickering sometimes.”

  “And you think Catherine was more fun? That it was fun at all?”

  “You want me to be honest? I think you loved every minute you spent with her.”

  This was close to the bone. Hardy chose his words with some care. “That’s not the same as wanting to be with her now. It seems to me that the way this marriage thing works is you keep making a choice to be in it every day.”

  “Even if it makes you unhappy?”

  “But it doesn’t make me unhappy, not at all. To the contrary, in fact. And
here’s an unfashionable thought: Unhappiness is a choice. And it’s one I don’t choose to make.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “What I want is what we’ve already got. But I guess I’m not communicating that too well, am I? For which I apologize. Really. Maybe you ought to leave me for making you worry.”

  “I would never leave you. I don’t even think about it.”

  “Well, you know, I never think about leaving you. Ever. We’re together, period. The topic’s not open for discussion. We’ve got our family and our life together, and nobody has as much fun together as we do ninety-nine percent of the time. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

  A silence gathered in the closed-in space and finally Frannie sighed. “I’m sorry I need reassurance once in a while.”

  “That’s acceptable. I’m sorry if I’ve been distant.”

  “I’m sorry you’re sorry.” She squeezed his hand. “Between us, we are two sorry campers, aren’t we?”

  “Apparently.” He caught her eye, broke a trace of a grin. “Two sorry campers on their way to break bread with People Not Laughing.”

  “Sounds like a good time. Should we go on up?”

  As one, they opened the doors of the car and stepped out into the warm evening. The neighborhood in early dusk smelled of orange blossoms, coffee and the ocean.

  People Not Laughing was in his kitchen with a cold bottle of Dom Perignon held awkwardly in his hands. He’d already struggled first with the foil wrapper, then with the wire, and now he was looking at the cork as though it was one of life’s profound mysteries.

  “Don’t point it at your face!” Hardy said. “They’ve been known to just blow off and take out the random eyeball.”

  “He’s not used to this,” Treya said, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “So how do you get it off?” Glitsky asked.

  Hardy reached for the bottle. “Why don’t you just let a professional handle it? My partner will attend the window.”

  “The window?”

  Frannie bowed graciously, crossed to the window over the sink and threw it open. Hardy turned to face the opening. “Now, one carefully turns the bottle, not the cork, and . . .” With a satisfying pop, the cork flew out the window into the warm evening. “Voilà.”

  And then the glasses were poured and the four adults stood together in the tiny kitchen. “If I might ask,” Hardy said, “what’s the occasion? Frannie’s guess is you’re pregnant again.”

  Glitsky let out a mock scream.

  “Read that as a no,” Treya said simply. “But I’ll propose the toast, okay? Here’s to former homicide inspector Dan Cuneo. May his new position bring him happiness and success.”

  Hardy looked at Glitsky. “What new position?”

  “He just got named head of security for Bayshore Autotow. Marcel called me this morning and thought I’d want to know. Cuneo’s out of the department with a big raise and great benefits.”

  “How did that happen?” Hardy asked.

  “Well, you might not be surprised to hear that his stock in homicide fell a bit after Hanover, Diz. He felt that people were starting to look over his shoulder when he picked up new cases. They even made him take a new partner whose main job seemed to be to keep him in line. I guess he saw the writing on the wall.”

  “Yeah, but I’d heard he was up for the Tow/Hold gig way back when, not Bayshore.”

  “Right, but it’s the same job. If he’s qualified for one, he can do it for anybody.”

  “It’s the qualified thing I’m thinking about. If he was known to be in such low standing in homicide . . .”

  Glitsky’s face was a mask. “I heard Harlan Fisk might have put in a good word to Bayshore on his behalf.”

  “But Harlan . . .”

  “Kathy West’s nephew Harlan, remember.”

  “Okay, but why would he . . . ?” Hardy asked.

  Treya jumped in. “You can’t blame Cuneo for wantingout of homicide. They obviously didn’t want him anymore. Now this new job gets him off the force and everybody’s happy.”

  “So it’s over,” Hardy said.

  Glitsky nodded. “He was essentially through when you finished with him in court, Diz. But now he’s not just through. He’s really, truly gone.”

  “That really does call for a toast,” Frannie said.

  But Hardy had a last question. “I’m just wondering how it happened. I can see Kathy passing the information along to Harlan, but how would she have heard about an opening like that?”

  A glint showed in Glitsky’s eyes. He shrugged with an exaggerated nonchalance. “Somebody must have told her,” he said. Without further ado, he raised his glass. “Well, dear and true friends, here’s to life. L’chaim!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book was born in fire.

  I knew it would begin with a blaze in a San Francisco residence. I also knew next to nothing about the workings of fire departments or arson inspectors. So I asked my friend Josh Marone, a Santa Rosa fireman, if he could introduce me to some of his colleagues, which he was kind enough to do—thank you, Josh, for getting the ball rolling. Also in Santa Rosa, thanks to Paul Lowenthal and to Mark Pedroia, senior fire inspector, and especially to Charles J. Hanley, division chief, Santa Rosa Fire Department. Chas in turn introduced me to Thomas A. Siragusa, assistant deputy chief, San Francisco Fire Department; and Brendan O’Leary, fire investigator, Arson Task Force, San Francisco Fire Department. Thanks to all of these gentlemen for the fun and informative sessions.

  Other technical advice came from forensic odontologist James Wood, DDS; from Curtis Ripley, for the criticalceramics instruction that too many of us neglect; on banking matters, from Kelly Binger and John DiMichele of Yolo Community Bank in Woodland, California; on general legal and other really cool stuff, from Peter J. Diedrich. Additionally, Peter S. Dietrich, MD, MPH, provided some very fine libations over the course of the past year and still found the time and energy to correct medical errors in the first draft. Thank you to one and all. If any of the technical details in this book are wrong, it’s entirely the fault of the author.

  Throughout this entire series of San Francisco books, and this one is no exception, my collaborator, Al Giannini, has been a terrific source and inspiration on all matters related to criminal law and the justice system. His judgment and expertise in these areas are second to none, and I’m blessed to count him among my closest friends.

  At Dutton, Carole Baron continues to set the standard for great publishers/editors. Her wonderful personality, intelligence, sensitivity and taste make her an absolute pleasure to work with, and my great hope is that I continue to write books that she considers worthy of her time and commitment. On a more day-to-day level, Mitch Hoffman is a talented editor who endures regular doses of author angst without apparent ill effects. A careful and disciplined reader, Mitch brings a clear focus and passion to the editing process, and this finished book is vastly superior to its first draft in large part because of his insight and suggestions. I’d also like to acknowledge some of the terrific backstage folks at Dutton: the publicity team of Lisa Johnson, Kathleen Matthews-Schmidt and Betsy DeJesu; webmaster Robert Kempe; and Richard Hasselberger for another great book jacket.

  Out in the real world, many friends and colleagues play more or less continuing roles in my career and my life. My incredible assistant, Anita Boone, goes a long way toward making every workday productive, efficient and fun. She’s also a mind reader (which helps, believe me), an unparalleled genius of an organizer and a tireless and cheerful detail person, who bears no resemblance whatever to Dismas Hardy’s Phyllis, and that is high praise indeed. My great friend, the talented novelist Max Byrd, is a much-cherished regular source of both inspiration and motivation. Don Matheson, perennial best man, remains just that. Frank Seidl, besides keeping me up on my wine knowledge, has a knack for joy that is infectious and much appreciated. Karen Hlavacek is a fantastic proofreader whom I can’t thank enough. On general principles, I’d just like to acknow
ledge my brothers, Michael and Emmett; Kathryn and Mark Detzer; Rick Montgomery; Glenn Nedwin; Andy Jalakas; Tom Hedtke; Tom Stienstra (“Men love him. Fish fear him.”); and Bob Zaro.

  Several characters in this book owe their names (although no physical or personality traits, which are all fictional) to individuals whose contributions to various charities have been especially generous. These people (and their respective charities) include Lisa Ravel (SutterMedical Center Foundation); Mary Monroe-Rodman (Court Appointed Special Advocates—“CASA”—of Yolo County); and Jan Saunders (Monterey County Library Foundation).

  My children, Justine and Jack, inform and enrich every moment of my life and my writing with their great selves. I love you both immensely.

  Last, but by no means least, I’d like to thank my agent, Barney Karpfinger, for all of his continuing efforts on my behalf. I am forever in your debt, my friend, and remain delighted to work with you every day.

  Read on for a preview of John Lescroart’s

  riveting novel

  BETRAYAL

  Available from Signet

  “Mr. Hardy?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Hardy, this is Oscar Thomasino.”

  “Your Honor, how are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. Am I bothering you at an inopportune time?”

  “No, but whatever, it’s no bother. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, admittedly this is a little unusual, but you and I have known each other for a long time, and I wondered if I could presume slightly upon our professional relationship.”

  This was unusual, if not to say unprecedented, but Hardy nevertheless kept his tone neutral. “Certainly, your honor. Anything I can do, if it’s within my power.” A Superior Court judge asking an attorney for a favor was a rare enough opportunity, and Hardy wasn’t going to let it pass him by.

  “Well, I’m sure it is,” Thomasino said. “Did you know Charles Bowen—Charlie?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’d remember him. Flashy dresser, bright red hair, big beard.”