The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (18 page)

"I don't have anything to do with that."

"What're you talking about?" Sly turned
sour. "I call the company, they say they be sending somebody out
to talk to us, Momma and me. That ain't you?"

"No."

Gant rose, needing to use both palms on the arm of
the sofa to do it. "Then what the fuck you doing here?"

"I'm working for Alan Spaeth's lawyer."

Gant leaned toward me with his chest, but bumped me
with his stomach. "The fuck you shucking, man? Momma said—"

"—that I was here about your brother."

Sour turned mean. "You lie to my Momma?"

"No. Before I started with your mother, I told
her what I'm telling you now."

Gant bumped me again. “Motherfucker, mother-fucker,
mother-fucker! What am I supposed to do? I got obligations, you hear
what I'm saying?"

I moved back. "Mr. Gant—"

He took another step toward me, clenching his fists.
"I'm gonna throw you the fuck out of this house."

"Mr. Gant?"

"What?"

"I'm not Alan Spaeth, and there's nobody here to
hold you back."

Gant stopped talking for a moment, but he also
stopped moving.

I said, "I'm leaving now. Thanks again for your
time."

Figuring to keep an eye on things, I backed toward
the ornate entryway that led to the front door. Gant trailed, but
kept his distance.

He said, "What about the car, at least?"

"The car?"

"Woodrow's BMW car. When can I get that?"

A great guy and loving brother, Grover. "Up to
the police, and then Frank Neely, I'd guess."

"The lawyer-man at Woodrow's company?"

"Yes. He's handling your brother's estate."

"Bullshit, bull-shit, bull-shit! One more way
I'm fucked over in this thing."
 
Letting
myself out, I saw a junker Chevy parked behind the Mitsubishi, but I
was thinking that Grover Cleveland Gant sounded a lot like Alan
Spaeth supposedly did, that day at the law firm.
 

Chapter 10

JENIFER POLLARD'S ADDRESS turned out to be a
high-rise tower on a rolling hill just over the Brookline border.
Given the size of her building, I expected at least a doorman in the
lobby, but instead there was only an intercom system outside a
security door. Five seconds after pushing the button for her unit, I
heard a tinny, female "Hello?"

"Ms. Pollard?"

"Get on with it."

A trace of English accent came through the speaker.
"My name's John Cuddy. I'm a private investigator."

"I never saw any auto accident."

"It's about the death of Woodrow Gant."

A pause—long enough that I almost asked if Pollard
was still there—before the tinny voice returned with, "Are you
goodlooking?"

What do you say? "Moderately."

"Even if you're lying, a sense of humor might be
refreshing, mightn't it? Twelfth floor, and I'll meet you at the
lift."

A buzzing noise came from the security door, and I
went through into the lobby. There were only three elevators, the
middle one standing open. When I reached twelve, the door slid back
to show a woman leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor,
fists on hips.

Pollard was about thirty and tall, at least five-nine
in flat sandals. Clothes consisted of a floppy green sweater over
those long, black shorts that I think were developed originally for
biking but now qualify as walk-around casual. The Spandex in the
shorts might have had a girding effect, because while her legs were
long, the thighs seemed barely thicker than her calves. The effect,
however, was not so much anorexic as athletic. Add straight, auburn
hair that draped down on either side of a bony face more striking
than pretty, and I had the feeling I'd seen Pollard somewhere before.
Of more immediate concern, though, was the fact that her right hand
wasn't quite big enough to hide the bottom of a small can.

"Pepper spray?" I said.

The eyes went down to her right side, then came back
up at me, almost sleepily. "Just in case you really were lying."

“
I can show you some identification?"

She shook her head. “No, you look the part. Come
on."

Pollard walked with a loose—jointed elegance.
Trailing behind her down the corridor, I said, "Are you an
actress?"

"No," over the shoulder. "Model,
though. Why?"

"I thought your face was familiar."

"Just my . . . face?"

A saucy smile as we reached her door, a book between
it and the jamb, apparently to keep the door open against a spring of
some kind. Pollard put her shoulder just below the peephole and waved
me into an apartment that had a galley kitchen to the right and a
living room dead ahead. The couch was a day-bed covered with throw
pillows against one wall. An entertainment center and some bookcases
filled the second wall, and windows looking downhill toward Boston
comprised the third. The only other furniture was a rocking chair and
coffee table, and given the open door showing a shower curtain, there
was no bedroom.

I said, "Quite a view."

"It's just a studio, but those windows make the
space seem bigger, don't they? Couch or chair?"

"Chair's fine."

"Coffee or something stronger?"

I sat down. "Nothing, thanks."

Pollard moved to the daybed, lowering herself into it
so that her right leg was bent with the ankle curled under the knee
of the other, left foot dangling like a silent wind chime. She seemed
very aware of herself, as though trotting out a stock pose for
approval.

Pollard set the can of pepper spray on the coffee
table. "Probably a Filene's ad."

"I'm sorry?"

"Where you saw me. I did a couple of Sunday
supplement things last year, modeling corporate wear." She
vamped a little. "Chin down to illuminate the features, eyes
wide open for that assertive, gal-in-charge look."

"Have you been modeling long?"

"Too long. And too late for the coming thing."

"Which is?"

"Unionization."

I thought back to a case I worked a while ago. "Don't
models usually go through agencies?"

"Yes. But we're independent contractors, not
employees, so no health insurance or pension. Or even credit unions
for borrowing money. Some girls in New York got started organizing,
but, as I said, it's a little late for me."

"Why?"

"My best earning years are behind me, Mr.—is
John all right?"

"Sure."

"And I'm Jenifer, with one 'n.' Know why?"

"Why your best years are—"

“
No." A strident laugh. "No, I meant why
only the one 'n' in ‘Jenifer'."

"Got me there."

"It's because the name's derived from
'Guinevere,' as in King Arthur and Lancelot."

"Learn something new every day."

Disappointment crossed Pollard's perfect bone
structure. "You're not going to turn banal on me, are you?"

"I'll try harder."

"Do. We were off to such a good start, weren't
we?"

I didn't answer that.

"Anyway," said Pollard, "I never did
make more than thirty thousand in my best year as a runway model, and
I generally strike advert' execs as too glamorous for
Mummy-shepherding-the-kids stuff, so my current options are a bit
limited. Hence this miniature apartment, and Woodrow."

"Mr. Gant?"

"Why I married him, John. He provided total
benefits while we were together, and enough alimony to see me through
after we split. Good thing, too, since I couldn't very well rely 
on my family."

"Your family."

"Right." Pollard raked her left hand
through the hair on that side before tucking it back behind her ear.
"Mum grew up in London, and Dad was a Yank pilot over from
Chicago. Met during the Blitz, so you'd think they'd be open-minded
about relationships, wouldn't you? But no, neither of them was
exactly thrilled when I decided to marry a 'black-a-moor,' which was
Mum's way of showing off her Shakespeare and chiding me in the
bargain. They disowned me, and frankly never have forgiven me."

"I'm sorry."

"Hey, man—whoops, that's Woodrow talking now.
But truly, John, don't be sorry. Life with barrister Gant was good
while it lasted."

"How did you meet?"

"I let him pick me up in a bar, one of the model
hangouts on Boylston Street across from the Pru, He was lounging on a
stool, I came up to order a drink from the bartender. Woodrow said,
'Let me get that for you,' and I asked him—because I'm five-ten and
he was sitting down?—'Just how big are you?' And he smiled that
wide smile of his, and said, 'Can you be more specific?' And
then—oh." Pollard's eyes glittered. "I've shocked you,
haven't I?"

"Not so far."

"Well, then, this might. Woodrow had one you
could slam a door on without hurting it much. A genuine Merlin."

"Merlin?"

"Camelot again. A 'Merlin' is a burning wizard
in bed."

"Jenifer, I'm—"

"Oh, please don't be 'sorry' again, John."
A wave of melancholy suddenly washed across Pollard's features. "It's
not your fault that what started out with Woodrow as 'bewitched,
bothered, and bewildered,' degenerated into 'repelled, repulsed, and
revolted.' "

The first evidence of sincerity I'd seen from her.
"What I was going to say is, I'm working for Alan Spaeth, trying
to—"

"Spaeth? The irate hubby the police think did
it?"

"I think differently."

"Well, then." Pollard seemed to brighten a
little. "I have a bit of advice for you, John."

"Which is?"

"Focus on whomever Woodrow was sleeping with.
God knows he made me want to kill him often enough."

I watched her a moment before saying, "A woman
was seen with him at a restaurant before he got shot that night."

"There you are."

"But I can't find anybody who seems to know who
she was."

"Well, Woodrow certainly stopped confiding in me
long ago. But I can tell you this. He was into sex, very heavily."

"So I gathered."

"No, John. If what I said before shocked you,
prepare for electrocution." Pollard leaned forward, as though
she were posing again. "Woodrow liked me to dress up. Fishnet
body stockings, lavish wigs, grotesque makeup, you name it. Frankly,
I found it to be fun at first, but then that was all he wanted to
do." The melancholy again. "Eventually there came a point
when he must have asked himself, 'Why stick with a one-woman show
when you can have the whole repertory company?' "

I stopped. "Meaning he might be seeing more than
one woman at a time?"

"It wouldn't surprise me."

I thought about Imogene Burbage and Deborah Ling.
"How about people at work?"

"Never really met his law firm chums, though I
did get a letter from the one handling Woodrow's estate"

"Any women from his job in the D.A.'s office?"

A stagey shrug. "I'm not sure any of them would
still be there. Rather a transitional environment, I always thought,
and it was over three years ago that he left."

"Any names you recall?"

"No," she said a bit quickly, then saddened
again. "I guess I'm not technically Woodrow's 'widow,' but his
murder reminded me of being the wife of a prosecutor, and I suppose
it surprises me that I still can . .   She looked out her
wall of windows. "Miss him."

A second slip into sincerity, and I found myself
wondering just how attractive Pollard would be if she could just stay
there. "How about any males?"

She turned back to me, confused. "John, I can
assure you that Woodrow was heterosexual."

"Not what I meant. Were there any men from his
time in the D.A.'s office who might have known him well?"

"Oh. Let me see .... " Back to posing, a
finger to her chin. "Woodrow did have an office-mate. Now, what
was—yes. Yes, a Tom someone or other. Spelled it queerly, though."

"How do you mean?"

"T—H—O—M, if I'm remembering correctly."

"Last name?"

"Oh, no hope there, John. It began with an 'A,'
though. Arthur, Arnold?"

Another stagey shrug, and I got up from the chair.
"Well, Jenifer, thanks for your time."

She leaned back into the throw pillows, yet another
pose. "I'm not at all like Woodrow, by the by."

"You lost me."

"I find a man I like, I stick with him."

"Good trait."

The glitter came back into her eyes. "I was
hoping you'd think so."

Ah. "Unfortunately, I'm already spoken for."