Free The Motive by John Lescroart Page A

arrest Holiday—Cuneo believed the event
had
to have been arranged by Hardy in some way—something went terribly wrong. Holiday, Gerson and three Patrol Specials that the lieutenant had brought with him as backup all wound up shot to death, the perpetrators never identified or, of course, apprehended.
    Promoted to homicide lieutenant to fill Gerson’s spot, Lanier had conducted the investigation into the incident. He had a talk with his longtime friend and colleague Glitsky and, no surprise, found nothing. Hardy had never left his office that day, either—ten witnesses there said so. There was no case against either of the men, although Cuneo in his heart of hearts continued to believe that somehow they’d both been involved. When he learned that Glitsky’s alibi for the time in question was Hardy’s law partner Gina Roake, his belief became near certainty.
    But though he took his questions to Lanier and then, on his own and top secret, to Jerry Ranzetti with the Office of Management and Control, which investigated internal affairs, he couldn’t get to anything approaching proof of wrongdoing. Ranzetti even told him that he’d run across issues—not exactly hewing strictly to the department’s best interests—with both Glitsky and Hardy working together in at least one other previous case. But not only were both men extremely well connected—tight with the DA, some supervisors, the chief of police, even the mayor—but knowing the system intimately as they both did, theyplayed it like maestros and made no mistakes. His interest piqued by Cuneo’s theory, though, Ranzetti did nose around for a while on the Gerson killing—after all, this was a cop shooting, and so of the highest priority—but he hadn’t been able to put either Glitsky or Hardy anywhere near the scene when the shootings had occurred.
    Then, the next thing Cuneo knew, Frank Batiste became chief and Glitsky the payroll clerk got himself promoted over half the rest of the qualified lieutenants to deputy chief. He considered the appointment a travesty and wasn’t particularly discreet about sharing his opinion with some of his fellow cops. Without a doubt, through Lanier or one of the other homicide people who’d heard him spouting off, Glitsky had heard of Cuneo’s disapproval—to say nothing of his allegations of criminal complicity and cover-up.
    Cuneo sat dead still,
The Thinker
, his elbow resting on his chair’s arm, his chin in his hand. That’s what Glitsky’s phone message was really about—he was serving notice. Cuneo had trash-talked and then tried to backstab him, and Glitsky had found out.
    Now it was payback time.
    Catherine Hanover lived in a small Moorish-style two-story stucco home in the Marina District, on Beach Street a block east of the Palace of Fine Arts. As was his wont when time didn’t press, Cuneo parked within sight of the address she had given him last night and sat in his car, watching and getting a feel for the place while he drummed on the steering wheel.
    What he saw was a low stucco fence that bounded a well-kept property at the sidewalk. The houses on either side were both noticeably larger, outsized for their lots. The Hanovers’ front yard wasn’t deep by any stretch, and a brace of mature trees canopied nearly all of it. He noted the black Mercedes-Benz C-Class sedan parked in the driveway, and the lights upstairs behind what looked like a functional wooden-railed deck. This area of the city tended to get more sunshine than points farther west, and the low evening rays painted the entire neighborhood in a mellow gold.
    Cuneo popped a breath mint, checked his hair in the mirror and opened the car door. A good breeze made him reach back in for his jacket.
    The genes were good in the family, he thought. The teenage girl who answered the door might have been a face model. “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?” Well brought up, too.
    He had his badge out, his polite smile on. “I’m Inspector Cuneo,