Free The Motive by John Lescroart Page B

San Francisco homicide. I was hoping to talk to your mother.” He turned the wattage up on his smile. “I’m assuming Catherine Hanover is your mother?”
    “You got it, every day. I’m Polly.” She half turned. “Mom! There’s a policeman out here to see you.”
    Over the young woman’s shoulder, Catherine appeared from around a corner. She carried a dish towel and was wiping her hands with it. “Well, invite him in, then.” As she came closer, he noticed a white streak of something high on her cheek. Her daughter saw it, too, and she took the towel and wiped off the offending stuff, whatever it was, and gave the towel back. A friendly look passed between mother and daughter, then Polly went back to wherever she’d been and Catherine, as lovely as he’d remembered, was standing in front of him. “Hello again,” she said with some formality. She touched her cheek. “Flour,” she said, “I’m making pasta. It gets everywhere, I’m afraid. Please, come in.”
    “Thank you.” He was already inside, closing the door. “Did you say you were making pasta?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Not the sauce, the actual noodles?”
    She favored him with a smile. “The actual noodles. Do you like homemade noodles?”
    “I don’t believe I’ve ever had them.”
    “You should try. They’re a lot of work, but worth it, I think.” In the light of day, Catherine’s face was nearly as perfect as her daughter’s, rescued from mere cuteness by deeply set green eyes and a strong nose. A striking, mature face. “My children are so spoiled. They won’t even eat store-bought anymore. It’s got to be my own. Maybe I should be flattered.” She twisted the towel, took in and let out a quick breath.
    Cuneo was standing next to her and reached out his hand. He touched her arm as though commiserating somehow. She backed away a step. “Anyway, you’re not here for that.”
    “No.” He stayed close to her. “We like to come by and see how everybody’s holding up. The day after is often worse for next of kin. Also, frankly, maybe things occur to you that might have gone right by in the emotion of the moment, like last night.”
    “Like what?”
    “I don’t know. Anything. Something your father-in-law might have been going through, or Missy said. Why he might have had a reason to kill her.”
    Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head to one side. “What do you mean?”
    “About what?”
    “Well, you were just talking about why Paul might have wanted to kill Missy. I thought you had decided that that couldn’t have happened. You, the police, I mean. That’s what the other inspector told me, anyway.”
    “The other inspector? Glitsky?”
    “That’s it. Glitsky.”
    “You talked to him already?”
    “Yes. He called a few hours ago. We talked for about fifteen minutes. I would have thought you two would have communicated together. Haven’t you talked to him?”
    Cuneo showed nothing. Smiling, shrugging, he made it clear that this was normal enough. He patted her arm again. “He’s on days. Sometimes we cross each other. It’s all right. But how did you get to Hanover not shooting anybody? That’s what you said, isn’t it?”
    “Right.” She had backed away another step and bumped her leg against one of the room’s chairs. Suddenly, she put a hand to her forehead. “What am I thinking, keeping you standing out here like this?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and led the way, pulled out a chair for him around an oval, well-used wooden table that overlooked the backyard. Then she was moving back across the kitchen. “Can I get you some water? Coffee? Anything?”
    “I’m good, thanks.” He sat, half turned, kept his eyes onher. Obviously appraising, obviously approving. He thought he was keeping it low-key, even subtle. “So,” he said as his fingers started tapping on the table, “Glitsky?”
    She finally tucked the dish towel into the refrigerator’s handle and now, with her hands