The Motive (48 page)

“Well, at least he’s a happier jerk.”

“Four million dollars’ll do that. Did she say anything about the money?”

“I believe the subject came up.” Farrell stood up and walked over to the wet bar, opened the refrigerator and took out a bottled water. “You drinking?”

“No.”

“Probably smart.” He closed the refrigerator and turned. “Okay, money,” he said. “She seemed slightly bitter about the whole Missy thing, to put it mildly. She and Paul split up before he got super rich, and after the kids had moved out, so she fell into the crack there between alimony and child support.”

“Yeah, but the community property…”

“Peace, my friend, I’m ahead of you. So she took away about three hundred grand from the marriage, grew it up to a million some, all invested in guess what?”

“I bet I can. High-tech?”

A nod. “So now it’s considerably less, the exact figure not forthcoming. But the smart guess is a lot, lot less.”

“So she needed the money for herself, too. Not just the grandkids.”

“It wouldn’t kill her. Hasn’t, in fact. Each of the kids has already cut her in, again no exact figures.”

Hardy whistled. “So she’s made out like a bandit here.”

“She’s better off than she was. Let’s go that far.”

“And no alibi?”

Farrell nodded. “No alibi. And one other interesting tidbit.”

“I’m listening.”

“She bought a new car.”

Hardy cocked his head to one side. “With the estate money?”

“Uh-uh, before that. Early last summer.”

“How did that come up?”

“I told you. She likes me. I have my ways. But the fact is, she traded in her…you’re going to love this…her black C-type Mercedes…”

“…for a red Lexus convertible, and paid cash for the difference,” Hardy said.

Frannie brought her wineglass to her lips. It was Wednesday—trial or no trial, the traditional Date Night—and they were at Zarzuela waiting for their paella and sharing a plate of incredible hors d’oeuvres—baby octopus and sausages, anchovies, olives and cheese. “How much are we talking about?”

“Maybe as much as forty, fifty thousand dollars.”

“And this means?”

“It means she got a lot of cash from somewhere late last May or early June.”

“How about from her savings?”

“Maybe. But also, maybe, from pawning a ring.”

Frannie looked carefully at a baby octopus she’d picked up with her fork. She put it back down on the plate and went for an olive instead. For his part, Hardy didn’t appear to see or taste any of it, which didn’t mean he wasn’t putting away his share.

“You’re seeing how this plays for me, aren’t you?” she asked.

He smiled, nodded, reached across the tiny table and touched her hand. “A little bit.”

“You think she might have done it?”

“No idea. But she could get the jury thinking it might not have been Catherine. Reasonable doubt.”

“But what do you really think?”

“I think she had motive to spare. She hated Paul and Missy. She has no alibi.”

“What about the eyewitnesses who say it was Catherine?”

Hardy hesitated for a long moment, then broke a rueful grin. “I’m hoping they die of natural causes before they testify.”

All at once the bantering quality went out of Frannie’s voice. She put down her fork and looked squarely at her husband. “Let me ask you something, really,” she said. “How do
you
handle them?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the eyewitnesses. What do you tell yourself?”

His wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth. He set it back on the table. “I think they must have made a mistake.”

“All three of them? The same mistake?”

He scratched the side of his neck. “I know.”

“You think they mistook Theresa for Catherine?”

“No. Though the Hanover men seem to go for the same basic physical type. But Theresa’s got fifteen years or more on Catherine. I can’t really see it.”

“How about Missy, then?”

“That’s a better call if she wasn’t dead.”

“Except she is.”

Again. “I know.”

“So who’s that leave?”

One last time. He twirled the stem of his glass, met her eyes. “I know. I know.”

Glitsky entered his duplex dripping. He hung his wet raincoat on the peg by the front door, then his hat over it. In the little alcove, the light was dim and the house quiet. There was a light on in the living room to his right, but assuming that everyone else was asleep—it was nearly nine o’clock—Glitsky turned left into the dark kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

Nothing appealed.

He decided he’d go check in on Treya and Zachary and then come back out and fix himself something to eat when he heard a suppressed giggle from the living room. In a couple of steps, he was in the doorway, and Rachel jumped from the couch, finally yelled “Da!” and broke into a true, delighted laugh, running across the rug at him to be gathered up. But the real cause of the baby girl’s hilarity and surprise was Glitsky’s son Orel, a sophomore now at San Jose State about fifty miles south of the city, sitting on the couch next to Treya and holding his little half-brother easily in his arms. “Hey, Dad.” The boy was beaming. “I’d get up, but…”

“We thought you’d never wander in here,” Treya said. “What were you doing in there?”

“Foraging.”

Treya seemed transformed—whether by the reasonably good news of the afternoon about Zachary or by Orel’s appearance Glitsky couldn’t say—but the change was dramatic. She’d put on some makeup, brushed her hair back, donned a nice maroon blouse tucked into some pre-pregnancy jeans. Most important, there was life in her eyes again.

Glitsky went down on a knee in front of her, shared a kiss with her and Rachel, patted Orel on the leg. “It is so good to see you,” he said. “How did you…?”

“Nat,” he said. “What, you weren’t going to tell me I had a brother?”

“No. I mean, yes, of course. We just…we didn’t think you could get up midweek anyway,” Glitsky said.

“
To see my new brother?
Are you kidding me?”

“Plus, there was…” He looked to Treya for help.

But Orel, obviously, had heard. “Chill, Dad,” he said, “it’s all right.”

“All wight,” Rachel echoed.

And Glitsky kissed her again and said, “I know it is.”

Frannie and Hardy had just gotten back from their dinner when he got the call from Braun’s clerk at ten fifteen. Apologizing for the late hour, she informed him that her honor had denied his motion for a hearing on deliberate
prosecutorial misconduct, but that she would reconsider a motion for a mistrial if Hardy cared to renew it. Might that be his intention now?

He told her no.

Well, in either case, the judge wanted him to know that she would entertain such a motion until nine thirty the following morning, when court went into session. After that, a mistrial would be off the table and the trial would continue with the eyewitness testimony.

Now, at Glitsky’s, the two babies were asleep, and the two adults and one near-adult sat at the kitchen table with cups of tea sweetened with honey. The pizza carton still covered most of the table in the middle of them, but none of them paid any mind. The mood was still far from euphoric—in the circumstances, how could it be otherwise?—but the sense of imminent doom was gone.

They were catching up, family news and gossip. Treya’s daughter, Raney, had just been back home for winter break from Johns Hopkins in December, along with all of Abe’s boys—Isaac from L.A., Jacob all the way from Milan, and Orel from San Jose. And of course Nat and Rachel. A full reunion. By now a large extended family, the Glitskys had celebrated both Hanukkah and Christmas before the dias-pora had flung people to the far corners again.

“I’m just glad Nat got to see everyone one last time,” Glitsky commented, “especially.”

“What do you mean, one last time?” Leaning back on two rear legs of his kitchen chair, Orel’s face clouded over. “Nat’s okay, isn’t he?”

“I think so. Why do you ask?”

“Because you just made it sound like he’s dying of something.”

“Not that I know of. But he’s in his mid-eighties, Orel. He’s not going to live forever, you know.”

Orel brought his chair down, leaned into the table. “Jeez, Dad. You kill me.”

“What?”

“What. Things don’t always turn out bad. That’s what.”

“I don’t think they do.”

“Yes you do. Look at me. Remember when I was thirteen
or fourteen after Mom died and I started to stutter and you thought I wasn’t ever going to stop?”

“Okay. So? Nobody else really thought you were going to stop, either.”

“Yeah, but I did, didn’t I? And then you weren’t ever going to meet anybody else good enough again after Mom, were you?” He turned to his stepmother. “And look right here at this very table. Voilà. Good enough, and that’s saying something.”

Treya inclined her head with a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Yes, but…”

“But then, if you remember, you had a heart attack and somehow got completely better enough to be walking around and actually get shot a year later. Oh, after having your great little baby girl who’s sleeping down the hall even as we speak.”

“Wait, wait. Time out.” Glitsky made the signal. “In all fairness, let’s acknowledge what really happened over that time, aside from my miraculous recoveries. All right, you got over your stuttering. But your mom did die. I did have a heart attack, and then got shot and then had a few minor complications after that for a year or so, if
you
remember.”

“I do remember, Dad. But here’s the deal. You got better after the complications. You didn’t die.”

But Glitsky wasn’t going to give up his worldview without a fight. “Yeah, I got better in time for them to demote me down to payroll.”

“From which, I might point out, you got promoted over half the guys with your seniority and now you’re deputy chief. Way farther than you ever thought you’d go.”

“Or wanted to.”

Orel, shaking his head, turned to Treya. “Am I the only one who sees this?” Then, back to his father. “Sometimes—I really do think and you might consider—sometimes it’s half full, Dad. On the way to full. You know? Not half empty.”

Glitsky took a breath, sipped at his tea. “Everybody does die, Orel. That’s a fact.”

“I’ll grant you that, but they
live
first. That’s the part that counts. The living part. You can’t wait around doing nothing because everybody’s going to die. I mean, in a hundred years, we’re all dead, right?”

“Do we have to talk about dying?” Treya asked.

Orel sighed. “I’m not talking about dying. I’m talking about living.” He seemed at a loss for words for a moment, twirling his mug on the table. “Guys, look. I know it’s been a tough few days…”

“You don’t know,” Abe said.

“Okay, right. Not as much as you, I admit. But didn’t you tell me that already the kid’s beaten the odds you heard at first? I mean, wiped them out? Top one percent of heart ir-regularities, right?”

He looked at the two parents, who looked with heavy-lidded eyes at one another.

Orel lowered his voice. He didn’t want to browbeat. “Didn’t your doctor even say he could have a normal life?”

“But might not,” Glitsky said.

“Yeah, but I might not, either. You might not. Okay, so maybe the odds are slightly less for Zachary right now…”

Glitsky interrupted, putting his hand across the table over his son’s. “O,” he said gently, “you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not all roses with the prognosis, believe me.”

“I do believe you. Obviously, it’s hard. Obviously, I don’t feel it as much as both of you. But my question is what does it get you to always keep expecting the worst? That Nat’s going to die before the next time we’re all together. That Zachary won’t get a chance to live? Look at what you’ve got right now, Dad. Look where you are. In spite of it all, things have worked out pretty good, haven’t they? I mean, doesn’t that count?”

In their bedroom, later. Glitsky getting out of bed, leaning over the bassinet, picking up Zachary for basically the first time.

“What are you doing?” Treya asked.

“Just holding him.”

He sat on the side of the bed, the baby in his lap. Behind him, Treya shifted closer to him. Her hand rubbed his back, came to rest on his leg.

“I’m thinking Orel’s right,” he whispered. “I never believe things are going to work out, and then they do, and I still don’t believe it.”

“I wouldn’t beat myself up over that. You’re fine the way you are.”

“No, I miss things. I haven’t held this guy yet—I don’t know if you’ve noticed….”

“I noticed, sure.”

“Well, that’s because I thought he’d die and then if I’d never held him, it wouldn’t be as bad. I wouldn’t feel it as much. Of course, then I also wouldn’t have felt this while he’s here.”

“Right. I know.”

A small night-light glowed dimly near floor level at the door and provided the only light in the room. But it was enough to see by. Glitsky moved the blankets out from around his baby’s face. “He’s got your eyes,” he said.

“I think so. Your nose.”

“Poor kid.” Glitsky scooched himself up and around so he was leaning up against the bed’s headboard. Then, after a while, “I’d better enjoy every minute.”

“I think so. Both of us.”

The night settled heavily around them, Glitsky still holding the boy in his lap. “Out of the mouths of babes, huh?” he said.

“Orel’s a good boy,” she said. “Reminds me of his dad.”

“Except for that rogue positive streak.”

“Not a bad thing, maybe.”

“No.”

Another extended stretch of time in the shadowy dark. “Trey?”

“Yeah, hon.”

“The reason I got home so late. I found something out today. Completely off topic.”

“Off topic’s okay. What was it?”

“Hardy’s case. This Missy D’Amiens. The dead woman.”

“What about her?”

“She had a bank account—our branch of Bank of America, if you can believe it. You know Patti, the manager?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I asked her if I could look it up. The account. Completely illegal, of course. I need a subpoena. I need to go through their legal department. But she knows me….”