The Motive (13 page)

H
ardy and Glitsky were at the counter of the Swan Oyster Depot on Polk Street, way in the back, eating fried oysters and iceberg lettuce salad with Louie dressing. Hardy nursed a beer while Glitsky, incognito without his hat on and with his old flight jacket covering the uniform, stuck with his standard iced tea. “And of course,” Hardy was saying, “if you get the message through to him in any official way at all, he’ll either accuse her of lying or you of making it up.” He sipped his beer. “It just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve got to tell him. I can’t
not
tell him.”

“I thought that was why you needed to see me so urgently. So I could advise you how not to do just that.”

“But I’ve got to.”

“Okay, then. Now maybe we can enjoy this fine lunch.”

“If she—Hanover, I mean—doesn’t file a complaint, it didn’t happen.”

“I thought we were done with the discussion.”

“So it’s really not a department matter.”

“If you say so. On-duty cop hits on pretty witness—I’m assuming she’s pretty….”

“I haven’t seen her, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course not. I jest. But pretty or not, witness gets hit on…”

“
Possible suspect
gets hit on.”

“That, too. But whatever, she gets hit on, maybe even assaulted, depending on your definition of the term, by an on-duty officer. You’re saying that it’s not a department matter?”

Glitsky chewed ice from his tea.

“I’m hoping you’ve already written a memo to file, at
least.” Reading Glitsky’s face, he went on. “Okay, and this is your legal adviser talking, do that first, as soon as you get back to your office. Then at least you’re covered if it gets bigger or, God forbid, Cuneo rapes her or kills her or something.” He wiped some dressing around the plate with a crust of sourdough. “It’s got to get official in some way. Don’t tell Cuneo directly. Take it to Batiste, man to man. He’ll support you.”

“Maybe not. He’s none too pleased with me at this exact moment—the
Chronicle
picture. Besides which, he won’t want to be bothered. It’s my problem.”

“No. Your problem is that you
think
it’s your problem. We’ve already determined by the process of rigorous debate that this is a police department matter, and Frank’s the chief of police. So it’s his problem more than yours. He’ll probably fire Cuneo, in fact.”

“Not without a complaint he won’t.”

“Call Hanover back. Convince her to file one.”

“Good idea. Except what if she’s the killer?”

“That would be bad luck, I admit.”

“More than that.”

“And how likely is that anyway? That she’s the killer?”

“I don’t have any idea. I’m completely out of the loop on Cuneo’s suspects or anything else, for that matter. She sang me a long song about money that gives her plenty of motive, but it sounded like everybody else in the family knew the same tune. And you know a guy like Paul Hanover always had some deals going on. You see the profile on him Channel Four did last night? He had his hands in a dozen pots, and not just here in the city. Or Missy. Nobody knows squat about her either, except that she spent a lot of money on the house.”

“Well, there you go.”

“What?”

“Who’d she spend the money with?”

“I don’t know. The contractor, I’d guess.” He put down his tea, wrote a note to himself on his memo pad. “But that’s not your worst idea.”

“Thank you. But back to Cuneo…”

“Always back to Cuneo.”

“Well, yeah. You blame me?”

Glitsky considered the question for a long minute. “No,” he said at last. He chewed more ice. “I could just finesse it.”

“How could you do that?”

“I just block his access to her. He’s on nights, right? I make it a point to take her statements during the days. He doesn’t have a reason to see her again.”

“Maybe he doesn’t need one.”

But Glitsky shook his head. “No, he won’t take it further if he doesn’t see her on duty.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“I’ve heard rumors. It’s a pattern.”

“So he’s done this kind of thing before?”

A shrug, then a nod. “And they don’t all resent it, either. The magic of the uniform, even if he doesn’t wear one. Marcel told me he had a thing with his shrink after she stopped seeing him professionally.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Would that I were. Apparently he thinks there’s no harm in asking, or letting a witness know you think she’s hot.”

“Any of these documented?”

“You mean as assault or harassment? Nope. They said yes.”

“So he’s just a dick? Pardon the pun.”

“At least that.”

The two men took a break to eat. Glitsky finished first and was chewing ice again when he said, “I’m going right to him, cop to cop. Tell him what she said, say he might want to be a little discreet.”

“Be his friend.”

“Exactly. Keep him close.”

Hardy swallowed his last oyster, tipped his beer up. “I’ve heard worse plans,” he said. “But do yourself a favor first.”

“What’s that?”

“Memo to file.”

Two o’clock, and Cuneo was blasting away with the Beach Boys. Not that Dennis Wilson was a rock drummer in the league of, say, Charlie Watts of the Stones, or any of the big band guys, but he beat the living hell out of his skins, and sometimes Cuneo just wanted to play loud and hard, not good. He was letting the cymbals ring at the end
of “Help Me, Rhonda” when he heard the knock on his front door.

“Hold on!” Barefoot, drenched with sweat, he was wearing a tank top over a pair of lime-green swim trunks. Because of his location he didn’t get a lot of action at his front door, so the knock was a little unusual in itself. And he’d been a cop long enough—thirteen years—that he carried the standard load of paranoia around with him wherever he went. His gun and shoulder holster hung from the back of one of the chairs in his kitchen, and he skipped the three steps over to it and had the weapon in his hand within about two seconds. “Just a sec,” he said. “Coming.”

But first he parted the gauzy white living room drapes and looked out. On the concrete apron that comprised his front yard was a city-issue car with a uniformed driver behind the wheel. Pulling the curtains further apart, he put his eye against the window and saw Glitsky standing at ease on his stoop, so he set the gun on top of his television set, went to the door and opened it.

Glitsky began in an amiable way, with a grotesque but perhaps sincere attempt at a smile. “Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but I didn’t know if my messages were getting through, and we need to get on the same page with this Hanover thing. It’s heating up pretty fast. You mind?”

“No. Sure. Good idea.” Cuneo, thrown off-balance, half turned back to his room. “I was just doing my workout. I haven’t got to my messages yet. I think we must have just missed each other last night. I stopped by your office.”

“That’s all right. I was in and out.” Glitsky cast a quick glance over Cuneo’s shoulder. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I? You got company?”

“No. Just me.” Cuneo backed up a bit and said, “You want to come in? We can sit.”

“Thanks.” A step into the room, Glitsky stopped. “Cool place, great location.” He pointed at the drums. “How long have you been playing?”

“A couple of years now. It blows off energy.”

“I hear you,” Glitsky said. “I haven’t had that since I gave up football. If you don’t include a baby. They can wear you out pretty good.” He scanned the room, apparently relaxed. “One of my boys, Jacob, is a musician. A singer, actually.
Opera, believe it or not.” Cuneo had no reaction to all the chatter, but Glitsky went on anyway. “We didn’t exactly play a lot of opera around the house when he was growing up, so I don’t know how he got the taste for it, but he’s pretty good. The downside is, he lives in Italy and I never get to see him.”

Glitsky sat himself on the edge of the love seat. He let a silence build, then broke it. “So I’m guessing you’re pissed I’m involved in this. I know I would be.”

Cuneo sat down at the drum kit, hit the kick drum. “Sure, a little, but what am I gonna do? Nobody asked me. But it’s my case.”

“Nobody’s saying it isn’t.”

“Well, pardon me, sir, but that’s just bullshit.”

Glitsky frowned at the profanity, the insubordination, although he’d invited it to some degree by coming to Cuneo’s home unannounced. “Actually, it’s not. As I thought I explained in my message, the mayor had a personal connection to Hanover. She wanted to be in on it.”

“And Lanier couldn’t get it from me, then let her know?”

Glitsky shrugged. “She knows me better.”

“Lucky for you.”

“Maybe. Some people might think that’s debatable. But the point is, as far as I’m concerned, you’re still the investigating officer.”

“And you’re what? My supervisor?”

“I was thinking, for this case, partner.”

Cuneo started a light but quick tattooing on the snare drum. Caught himself and stopped. Started again. “I’ve had most of my luck working alone,” he said.

“So have I.” Thinking this was about as far as this topic could take them, Glitsky decided to break the stalemate and move along to the facts of the case. “I talked to Becker and he told me some of your witnesses thought they saw Missy leave the house before the fire.”

The drumming stopped.

Glitsky continued. “So I’m assuming first thing this afternoon you were going to put out a net on her. Obvious, right? She was the shooter.”

“So?”

“So have you gotten with Strout yet?” He raised a hand, cutting off the reply. “That’s not a criticism, in case you haven’t. It’s a question.”

“I was planning on seeing him right after I saw you this afternoon.”

“Well, maybe I can save you a trip. I went by the morgue this morning. He ran dental records last night. It was Missy.”

The news finally sparked a show of interest. Cuneo’s whole body came forward, forearms on his knees, his eyes sharp now, focused. “How sure was he?”

Glitsky’s mouth turned up a half inch. “It was Strout.” Meaning that if he said it at all, he meant it completely.

Nodding in understanding, Cuneo asked. “So she went back inside?”

“That’s one theory.”

“She did him, went out to get the gasoline, spent a few minutes pouring it around, then lit it and did herself?”

“Except she didn’t.”

Cuneo cocked his head to one side, then remembered. “That’s right. She was shot pretty far around in the back of the head, wasn’t she?”

“Right. Physically possible, maybe, but not likely. More likely somebody else did both of them.” He spread his palms. “That’s where we are.”

Cuneo tapped his hands on his thighs. “So who did my witnesses see that they thought was Missy?”

“Maybe it
was
her. Who were your witnesses?”

“Neighbors.”

“So your take is maybe she went someplace and happened to come back in at the wrong time?”

“I don’t really have a take. Do you think it was about Hanover?”

“I don’t know. The mayor thinks it, though.”

“She give you any other information?”

“Nope.”

“So she might be someone to talk to?”

Nodding, Glitsky said, “Maybe. I intend to ask.”

“And then you’ll tell me what she says?”

“That’s the plan. We’re working together. And that being the case, I wanted to pass something along. I got a
call from Catherine Hanover this morning. The daughter-in-law?”

“Sure. I talked to her twice already. She called you?”

“She did. It seems we’ve been doubling up on her. I talked to her yesterday, and then evidently you came by to visit her after we’d talked, she and I?”

He answered warily. “Right. She told me you’d called her.”

“Well,” Glitsky said, “you won’t like this, but she said you came on to her.”

Cuneo’s face hardened down in an instant. “She said
what?
How did I do that?”

“You touched her.”

“I
touched
her. Where? Did she say?”

“Arm and shoulder.”

“Arm and shoulder. As if I’d remember arm and shoulder. And that was
coming on
to her?” Then, a different tone. “Is she filing a complaint?”

“No.”

“She says I came on to her, but she’s not filing a complaint? What’s that about?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Glitsky said. “Did you touch her?”

Cuneo paused for a second. “I really don’t remember.”

“It would be better if you did, one way or the other.”

“Okay then. No, I didn’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. If I did, maybe passing by her, it was so innocent I didn’t even notice.”

“So if you did that, maybe by mistake, you’re saying she must have overreacted?”

“Either that or just flat lied. It’s been known to happen.”

“And why would she do that?”

“That’s what I’m asking myself, especially if she’s not filing a complaint.” His fingers tapped a steady beat on the snare drum. Ta da dum, ta da dum, ta da dum. “Maybe I was getting close to something she didn’t want to talk about.”

Glitsky leaned forward. “Do you remember what that might have been?”

Cuneo drummed some more, thinking about it. “Nothing specific.”

“What did you go to see her about?”

“She was a witness who might have remembered something. You know how that is.”

“Okay.”

The fingers stopped. The silence this time thicker. “Okay what?”

Glitsky hesitated. “If you weren’t asking her about anything specific, and didn’t call on her for a specific reason—something she said the night before that bothered you, something like that—people might wonder why you went to see her in the first place.” He held up a hand again. “Just an observation if the topic comes up again.”

Cuneo threw him a long, flat stare. “So what did you call her about, then?”

“I called her because I was hoping somebody in the extended family might know who worked on Missy’s teeth, and she was the only contact I had. I lucked out.” Glitsky kept his voice calm against Cuneo’s clear rage. “Listen, I’m not accusing you of anything. If you say you didn’t touch her, you didn’t touch her. If you felt you had to talk to her a second time without a specific reason, that’s good enough for me. Good cops have good instincts.”