The Motive (61 page)

“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 wanting out 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!

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 critical ce-ramics 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 acknowledge 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 (Sutter Medical 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.

A
lthough he was now considered an official hero, Inspector Devin Juhle was coming off a very bad time. Six months ago, he and his partner, Shane Manning, were on their way to talk to a witness in one of their investigations at two in the afternoon, when they’d picked up an emergency call from dispatch—a report that somebody was shooting up a homeless encampment under the Cesar Chavez Street freeway overpass. As it happened, they were six blocks away and were the first cops on the scene.

Manning was driving, and no sooner than he had pulled their unmarked city-issue Plymouth into the no-man’s-land beneath the overpass, a man stepped out from behind a concrete pillar about sixty feet away and leveled a shotgun at the car.

“Down! Down!” Juhle had screamed as Manning was jamming into park, slamming on the brakes. One hand was unsnapping his holster and the other already on the door’s handle, and Juhle ducked and hurled his body against the door, swinging it open and getting below the dash just as he heard the blast of the scattergun and the simultaneous explosion of the windshield above him, which covered him with pebbles of safety glass. Another shotgun blast, and then Juhle was out of the car on the asphalt, rolling, trying to get behind a tire for shelter.

“Shane!” he yelled for his partner. “Shane!”

Nothing.

Peering under the car’s chassis—he remembered all of it as one picture, though the images were in different directions, so it couldn’t have been—he saw two bodies down on the ground by a cardboard structure and behind them a half dozen or so people crouched in the lee of one of the
concrete buttresses that supported the overpass, penned in so they couldn’t escape. At the same time, the man with the gun had retreated behind the pillar again. To the extent that Juhle was thinking at all and not just reacting, he thought the killer was reloading. But it was his only chance to get an angle and save himself and maybe these other people as well.

He bolted for the low stump of a tree that sat in the middle of the asphalt. It shouldn’t have been there—Caltrans should have uprooted the thing before they poured, but they hadn’t. Now there it was and he’d reach it if he could. Running low, then diving and rolling, he got to it in two or three seconds, enough time for the shooter, who had come out in the open again, to fire his next round, which pocked into the stump in front of him and sprayed him with wood chips and pulp.

Juhle, on his stomach and with the side of his face and body pressed flat to the ground, knew that the stump didn’t give him six inches of clearance and that the man was advancing now, sensing his advantage. He was still probably sixty or seventy feet away—and coming on fast. Once he got to forty feet or so, the shooter’s height would give him the angle he needed. The next shotgun blast and Juhle would be history.

There wasn’t any time for thought. Juhle rolled a full rotation, extended his gun gripped in both hands out in front of him, drew a bead, and squeezed off two shots. The man stumbled, crumbled, dropped like a bag of cement, and did not move.

Juhle called out for his partner again and again got no reply. Still in a daze, his adrenaline surging, he eventually got to his feet, his gun never leaving the downed man. In half steps, he warily crab-walked sideways toward him, with his gun extended across his body in a two-handed stance. When he got to his target, he saw that he had made the luckiest shot of his life. One bullet had hit the man between the eyes.

Which should have been the end of it. After all, Juhle had six witnesses to everything. Manning was dead, killed by the first blast. The car was a shot-up mess. It was clearly self-defense at the very least and heroism by any standard.

But not necessarily.

Not in San Francisco, where every police shooting is suspect. One of the homeless in the encampment, a highly intoxicated diagnosed schizophrenic, insisted that police had run up to the deceased and executed him for no reason. The fact that he claimed there had been five such officers and that he maintained that the man had not had a shotgun—in spite of Manning’s death by shotgun blast—didn’t even slow down the right-minded public nuisances of the antipolice crowd.

Beyond that, Juhle’s shot was so perfect that it led Byron Diehl, one of the city’s supervisors, to opine that perhaps the killing had, in fact, been an overreaction by an overzealous and enraged cop. Perhaps it had, in point of fact, been an execution. Nobody could hit a moving man with a pistol between the eyes at fifty or sixty feet. That just wasn’t a possible shot. The man with the gun might have already surrendered, laid his gun down, and Juhle—out of control because of the murder of his partner—had walked up and shot him point-blank.

The other witnesses? Please. Most of them wanted the shooter dead, anyway. Plus, they were naturally afraid of the police. If Juhle told them they’d better back up his story or else, they’d say anything he wanted. They were simply unreliable and their testimonies worthless. Except for the schizophrenic, of course, who was struggling with his substance abuse issues. The idiocy was so palpable that it may have been fun to watch but not to be part of.