The Motive (53 page)

“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 got 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 3:30 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 5:00
A.M.
, asleep at 1:00
A.M.
Then, this morning, Glitsky’s call again around five. Now here he was at his office, no dinner inside him, 8:00
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.

If any kind of significance came to attach itself to these details, and so far none did, he’d have to try to find out from Catherine. Maybe she knew how Missy and Paul had specifically connected. There had to have been a mutual friend or acquaintance. Hardy didn’t believe Paul had just picked Missy up somewhere, although, of course, that was also a possibility. Maybe Missy had in fact set her sights on
Paul, just as his ex-wife and children suspected, for his wealth and standing.

The galling thing was that he didn’t even know why he was continuing with the exercise. Studying numbers, going over the monthly statements page by agonizing page. Deposits, withdrawals, deposits, withdrawals. At one point he looked up and said aloud, “Who cares?” But he kept up the routine. Halfway through, he made himself a double shot of espresso and brought it back to his desk.

No word at all yet from Wes Farrell.

When he finished he checked his watch again and saw that it was nearly 9:00. He stood and closed the folder, leaving it on the center of his blotter. All that work, like so much of trial preparation, to no avail. The worst thing about it, he thought, was that you very rarely knew what you’d need, so you had to know everything.

Cricking his back, he brought his coffee cup over to the sink, then crossed to the door and opened it. He vaguely remembered a knock on that door in the past hour or so, one of the associates telling him she was leaving, he was the last one left in the building if he wanted to set the alarm on the way out.

In the lobby, dim pinpoints of ceiling lights kept the place from being completely dark, but it was still a far cry from the bright bustling business environment it assumed during the day. Off to his right, through its immense windows, the Solarium’s plants and ferns and trees cast strange, shape-shifting shadows that seemed to move, which made no sense in the empty space. Hardy had once had some bad luck in the supposedly empty office, and now curious, he walked over and opened the door to the room. A small bird—sparrows got in through the side door from time to time—swooped down out of one of the trees and landed in the center of the conference table, where it eyed him with a distant curiosity.

Hardy flicked on the lights and walked around the outside of the room. At the door that led out to the small patch of ground that held the memorial bench they’d installed in honor of David Freeman, he stopped and turned. The sparrow was still watching him, too. Hardy opened the door all the way and went outside.

The sides of buildings rose on three sides around him. The “memorial garden” existed thirty-six feet above the Sutter Street sidewalk, with a grilled fence along the para-pet on the open side. Hardy sat down on the Freeman bench. It was very still here, and quite dark, with only the barest of muffled sounds coming up from the city below.

He let his burning eyes go closed. His breathing slowed. The passage of time ceased.

And then, suddenly, wide awake, he sat up straight, hy-peraware of the silence and emptiness around him. He brought his right hand up to his forehead, whispering, “Wait.” Staring unseeing for another several seconds into the open space in front of him, his head pitched slightly to the side, he sat as if turned to stone. He dared not move, afraid that the still-evanescent thought might vanish with as little warning as it had arrived. He looked at it from one angle, then another, trying to dislodge the force of it. There was the fact itself, and then, far more important, there was what it meant. What it had to mean.

What it could mean nothing else but.

When it appeared that the idea had set—unnoticed by Hardy, the sparrow had flown out to the bench, then off into the night—he went back inside, closing the door behind him. Back at his desk, he hesitated one more moment before opening the folder again.

It was still there, the fact that had finally penetrated. The only significant detail in the mass of minutiae. Just where it had been before, and not a mirage at all.

“I
t’s not a trick question, Your Honor.” Hardy was in Braun’s chamber first thing in the morning, on three hours of sleep, and was aware that a bit of testiness had found its way into his voice. It didn’t bother him too much. “I’m trying to accommodate my witnesses, some of whom, Mr. Rosen might admit, have lives outside of the courtroom. If they are not going to be needed until tomorrow or even next week, I’d like to let them go home or back to their jobs.”

“Reasonable enough, Mr. Rosen,” Braun said. “Let’s answer Mr. Hardy’s question, shall we? Is Theresa Hanover your last witness?”

“I don’t know how long she’ll be on the stand, Your Honor,” Rosen said.

“Then it’ll be a surprise for all of us. What’s your problem here?”

“No problem, Your Honor. I like to keep my options open.”

Hardy knew that Braun was not a fan of sarcasm, and so tried with some success to keep the irony in his tone to an acceptable level. “If he changes his mind and calls another witness, Your Honor, you have my word I won’t appeal.”

Braun’s reaction showed that he’d come close, but after the quick squint at him, she directed her words to Rosen. “Defense counsel will not hold you to your statement here, all right? Now, barring last-minute decisions that you’ll have every right to make, do the people currently plan to rest after Theresa Hanover’s testimony is complete?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” But she didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, she said, “Mr. Hardy, you’ve got your witnesses here, I take it.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good, then…” She started to rise from her couch, pulling her robes around her.

But Hardy interrupted. “There is one other small point we need to discuss, though.”

With a frown and a grunt of disapproval, the judge lowered herself back onto the cushions. “And that is?”

“Before I begin my case in chief, I’d like to recall one of the state’s witnesses for further cross-examination.”

Rosen didn’t want any part of this, and shaking his head in disbelief at his opponent’s gall, he immediately spoke up in both outrage and indignation. “
Your Honor!
Mr. Hardy has had his fair chance to cross-examine every one of my witnesses, and now because perhaps he’s remembered something that he’s overlooked or should have asked the first time, he shouldn’t be allowed a second chance. He can just call the witness during his case.”

Hardy simply stood at ease, a bland expression on his face, his eyes on the judge. “Your Honor,” he said, “further cross-examination of this witness may materially change the way I present my defense.”

Rosen didn’t believe it. “Sure it will. So first we’re supposed to let you know who I’m calling today so you can accommodate your witnesses, and then I tell you and you’re stalling anyway.” Though he’d addressed Hardy directly, and not the court, Braun didn’t seem to notice this morning. “I don’t have any other witnesses in court today except Theresa and Sergeant Cuneo. Anybody else we’ll have to subpoena again. It could take weeks. Is it one of them?” Rosen asked.