"Amerasian, but he spent his formative years over here, learning extortion and home invasion before turning to loan-sharking."
The rumbling sound from Neely's chest. "Sounds like a prince. But Woodrow left that job over three years ago."
"Right. Only Trinh stayed interested in him."
Neely frowned with every feature on his face. "How do you mean?"
"Trinh owns the building that houses Viet Mam."
A widening of the eyes. "The restaurant where Woodrow ate that night?"
"Yes."
"Sweet Jesus." Either Frank Neely was one hell of an actor, or the news really shocked him. Which probably meant he truly had no idea that Deborah Ling represented Trinh on the deal.
Neely's look became analytical. "So you think that this Nguyen Trinh set Woodrow up to be shot?"
"I'm not sure of that part."
"What?"
"It's possible that Trinh killed Mr. Gant, or even had him killed. But I've met Trinh, and he doesn't seem to me stupid enough to create a clear connection between a business he's part of and a murder he committed or ordered."
Neely shook his head. "Then I don't take your point."
"My point," I explained for the second person in an hour, "is reasonable doubt. Gathering evidence that somebody other than Alan Spaeth had a motive and the means to go after Mr. Gant."
"But you just said this . . . this loan shark wasn't stupid enough—"
"—to connect himself to an intentional shooting. That doesn't mean a jury would agree with me."
Neely stared across his desk, then nodded, slowly. "Of course. You're just doing your job, and I'm too close to the situation to appreciate that."
"Speaking of doing my job, any further thoughts on who the woman with Mr. Gant might have been?"
"The woman . . . Oh, in that restaurant, you mean?"
"Yes."
"No. As I said the last time you were here, Woodrow wasn't a braggart about his conquests."
Conquests. "Would it help if I said the woman in question might have been wearing a blond wig?"
Neely frowned again. "A wig?"
"Yes."
A moment as he looked down at his desk. "No." Two moments more. "No, I can't think of anyone I knew in his life who wore a wig or talked about one."
I stood up. "Well, thanks again for your time."
Frank Neely stayed seated. "I wish I could say I've enjoyedspending it with you." His eyebrows knit together. "But as I told you once, John, it's to the firm's advantage to see this matter concluded as soon as possible. So, if need be, our doors are always open to you."
I wasn't sure anyone else at Epstein & Neely would agree with him.
Chapter 14
ANOTHER HUMP UP State Street, grabbing a sandwich as a late substitute for the lunch I'd never had. Back in my office, I called the answering service. No messages with the silky-voiced woman this time, and, remotely beeping my home tape machine, none there, either. After the way Nancy had left things at Cricket's, I didn't really expect to hear from her, but there was always hope.
However, hope couldn't fill an empty evening. And something that Imogene Burbage had mentioned about one of her charges gave me a possible start on it.
They were in a suburban telephone book under Weston Hills, and I'd been in the town often enough to find their address without much trouble. It was an older garrison colonial, white with green shutters and standing at attention on about an acre. A Toyota Camry took up most of the driveway, so I left the Prelude at the curb, my car the only one on the street for blocks. Walking toward the house, I felt the hood of the Toyota. Still warm on a chilly October night.
When I pushed the doorbell, I could hear a muted, four-toned chime sound inside. Then a whoosh as the heavy, raised-panel door broke its seal with the jamb.
Karen Herman looked at me strangely from across the threshold. Same honey-colored, patchy hair, but the wardrobe was jeans and an Yves St. Laurent sweatshirt rather than evening wear. In preppy loafers instead of high heels, she stood only about five-six. Fairly "medium." and a pair of sunglasses would just cover that mole under her right eye.
She said, "We've met, but where?"
It happens, when people see you out of context. "At your husband's law firm."
"Oh." The look went from strange to wary. "The . . . detective."
"Private investigator. John Cuddy."
"But Elliot's not here."
"I know. That's why I thought this might be a convenient time for us to talk."
"About what?"
More wary, and with a little edge in her voice, the kind attractive women develop to ward off jerks in bars. I said, "Woodrow Gant."
Herman's hand went to her face, the index finger flicking at the mole the way it did in the reception area the day before. "I have nothing to tell you."
"Mrs.—"
"Do I have to call the police?"
Despite not holding the right cards, I said, "Try nine-one-one for a uniform, but probably the detective division would make more sense. Or even the chief, since—"
"What do you want?" with a sharper edge to it.
"I want to talk with you. We can do it now in your living room, privately, or you can answer a defense attorney's questions in a courtroom, publicly. Your choice."
Only a minor hesitation before a reluctant, "Come in."
I went past her into the foyer, which led to a sunken living room on the left. The sofa and chairs were covered in cobalt-blue leather, their arrangement designed to make a slate-hearth fireplace on the long wall the focal point of the room. A wedding portrait occupied a miniature easel on the mantel, Karen and Elliot Herman with faces perhaps five years younger.
"Very nice house," I said as Herman pointed me toward one of the chairs. "Must be tough to maintain, though, with both you and your husband working."
"I don't work." She took the other chair, the length of the couch between us.
I smiled at her until Herman said, "I'm waiting."
"I need some help with a problem I'm having."
She flicked at the mole again. "What problem?"
"Woodrow Gant once prosecuted a couple of Amerasian gangsters who committed a home invasion."
A look of confusion. "I don't know anything about that."
"It happened here in Weston Hills, about eight or nine years ago."
Relief flooded Herman's features. "We only moved here three years ago, when Elliot began working at the firm." A different tone. "Now that I've answered your—"
"There's another problem, I'm afraid."
The relief washed back out like a sudden tide. "What?"
"The night Mr. Gant was killed, he had dinner with a woman in a Vietnamese restaurant."
Just a slight nod.
I said, "I'm hoping you can tell me who she was."
"How . . . how would I know that?"
I stopped smiling. "Mrs. Herman, Mr. Gant was very active socially. He rarely bragged about it, but 'rarely' doesn't mean 'never'."
"You bastard."
She said the words flatly, no anger or other emotion driving them.
"Mrs. Herman—"
“You absolute, son-of-a-bitch bastard."
Still no emotion. I waited her out.
She hung her head. "Once."
"I'm sorry?"
Karen Herman lifted her chin. "I had sex with Woodrow Gant once, and it was nothing for him to 'brag' about."
Slowly, I said, "If we talk it over now, there's a chance nothing has to come out at Mr. Spaeth's trial."
"But only a chance."
"Yes."
Herman seemed to settle into herself, taking a few breaths before saying, "El1iot and I wanted to have a baby. We tried very hard, but nothing seemed to . . . happen. I was about to consult a fertility expert, to see if that was the problem, when Elliot stood me up one day for lunch downtown because some client meeting was running over."
"About when was this?"
"When? Last April."
Six months before Gant's death. “You're sure?"
A lifeless expression on her face. "I have reason to be. That same day—the lunch date—I saw Woodrow in the lobby of the firm's building as I was stepping off the elevator. He asked what brought me into the city, and I told him about Elliot not being able to keep our date. Woodrow said he'd just settled a custody case during trial, so he was unexpectedly free. Before I could reply, Woodrow suggested we have lunch instead. I didn't know him that well, but he was kind of Elliot's boss, so I didn't want to offend him, either. And besides, he—you never met Woodrow, right?"
"Right."
"Well, he was . . ." Herman's right index finger went to the mole under her eye again. "Engaging. A very engaging man. And I was a little ticked off at Elliot—no, a lot ticked off. I'd gotten all dressed up, and gone all the way into Boston, and we were so frustrated over . . Herman ran down, then looked down, wringing her hands.
"I had some wine while Woodrow got us a table, and more at lunch, and then some more still, until I was in no condition to drive home. So Woodrow said, 'Let's walk a little, huh?' And it seemed like a good idea. Only somehow we ended up . . . in a hotel room."
Herman now looked away. I felt badly.
"Anyway." she said, "it turned out that . . . that I wasn't the infertile one."
I felt worse, a lot worse.
Herman came back to me. "I hadn't taken any precautions, of course. Not for months. And Woodrow should have used a condom—no. No, I shouldn't have been there in the first place. But I'd had too much to drink and too much to deal with, and it just happened. Not rape or anything. I was just so . . .stupid."
Quietly, I said, "You became pregnant."
She looked away again. "Briefly."
"Did your husband know?"
Her head snapped back. "About the abortion? Of course not. I borrowed the money for the clinic from a girlfriend, and—"
"Mrs. Herman, did your husband know about you and Mr. Gant at all?"
"No. No, I wasn't that—wait a minute. You said Woodrow bragged about me."
"I did, but—"
"Who?"
"Mrs.—"
"Goddamnit! I need to know who told you, if Elliot could somehow find out the way you did."
"Nobody told me."
Her features seemed to empty. "Nobody?"
"I was going on your reaction to me at the law firm, and here at the front door, plus the fact that you match the description of the woman Mr. Gant had dinner with the night he was killed."
Herman watched me, something like comprehension seeping into her eyes. "You lied to me."
"Not exactly, but in effect."
"All of this . . ." Propping an elbow on each knee, she lowered her face into her hands, speaking through the fingers. "You put me through all of this to find out if I was the woman in that restaurant?"
"Yes."
"I wasn't."
"Mrs. Herman, I had to know."
She raised her face. "Know something else, then, all right? You know what the hardest part was?"
After what I'd just done to her, Karen Herman was entitled to have me play along. “No."
"It was waking up in the clinic's recovery room, after the abortion. Waking up to find myself crying. I knew it was Woodrow's baby, I knew it. But I wanted a child so badly, I couldn't stop crying. And then I looked around at the women on the other beds, and they were all crying, too. A room full of almost-mothers, crying our eyes out."
I didn't say anything.
"Well, Mr. Cuddy, I don't have any more tears. But if I did, I'd be crying them now. For what I went through then, and what you just put me through again."
"I'm—"
"When you asked me, I said I don't work. My parents paid for four years of college, so I probably should, but I don't. And the closest I've ever come to being a mother myself was in that clinic. But I'd rather wake up in its recovery room a dozen times than lie to people for a living the way you do."
I kept quiet.
"I've told you what you wanted to know." Karen Herman folded her arms across her chest. "Now get out of our home."
* * *
Driving toward the Brookline/Boston border, I tried not to think about the hurt I'd just resurrected, but it was hard. Especially because I expected to be following roughly the same course twice more that night.
I parked downslope of the highrise tower, arriving at the buzzer system and security door just behind a teenaged kid wearing a red paper hat and carrying a brown, leatherette case shaped slightly bigger than a large pizza. Over his shoulder, I could see him press the button for "POLLARD, J". The tinny voice with that trace of Olde England came over the intercom. "Pizza?"
"You got it," said the delivery boy.
"I'm letting you in. Twelve-oh-seven."
"Hey, the van's double-parked." But he was talking into dead space as the door buzzer sounded.
Stepping in front of the kid and grabbing the handle of the door, I said, "Tell you what."
He half-turned to me. "What?"
"I'm going to twelve, anyway. How about if I pay you, and she pays me?"
The delivery boy squinted. "Yeah, and where's my ass if she calls the boss ten minutes from now with 'The fuck is my pizza?' "
For some reason, the kid's suspicious nature lifted my spirits.
"I don't know what's on the pizza. Inside the case like that, I can't even smell the toppings. Figure the chances I'm going to keep it."
The kid looked toward the curb, then started to slide the pizza box out of his case. "Fifteen-fifty."
I gave him a twenty. "Keep it, ease your mind"
He left without a proper thank you.
Jenifer Pollard wasn't waiting at the elevator, with or without a can of pepper spray. But I remembered which way to turn, and after a few seconds was knocking on 1207.
"Get that, can you?" I heard Pollard say inside the apartment, dishes clattering.
A male voice answered. "Yeah."
The door swung open, and Thom Arneson, ADA, stared out at me, holding his wallet in one hand.
“Whoops," said I.
Arneson had on a dress shirt—unbuttoned twice down the chest—and the pants to a gray houndstooth suit. No tie. Or shoes. "What the hell is this?"
I stepped by him into the apartment, Pollard turning to look at her front door. She wore tennis shorts tonight, with a gauzy singlet top that would qualify as a mite racy for entertaining polite company.
Setting the box on the kitchen counter, I said to Arneson, "Put your wallet away. The pizza's my treat."
Pollard looked from him to me and back again. "He followed you?"
Arneson still held his wallet, but more like he wanted to brain me with it. "I don't see how. Or why."
"I wasn't following anybody. Just decided to stop by for a little visit, ran into the delivery boy downstairs, and—"
Arneson said, "How about if I tell you to go the hell back downstairs?"
"Then you'd be out of line, counselor. It's Ms. Pollard's apartment."
He took a step toward me, still hefting the wallet. "How about if I just throw you down the stairs?"
I said, "Then you'd be out of your depth as well."
Pollard didn't like the turn things were taking. "Perhaps instead we could all just sit down for a few minutes like civilized beings and find out what's going on?"
Arneson gave her a glare, but backed up and took the day-bed as she followed him, perching on a corner of it, close enough to touch the man. Which left the rocking chair for me.
Looking out through the big windows, I said, "The view's even more impressive at night."
Arneson didn't react, so Pollard must have told him about my earlier visit. Probably before I'd seen him at the D.A.'s office.
Pollard said, "Mr. Cuddy, I thought you got everything you needed the last time you were here?"
It had been "John" back then, but her double meaning was still firmly in place. "A few new facts have surfaced."<
br />
"What facts?" said Arneson.
"Let's start with the current situation and work backwards. How long have you two been seeing each other?"
Arneson didn't surprise me when he said, "None of your fucking business."
"Thom." Pollard laid her left palm on his shoulder, symbolically holding him back, I thought. "Mr. Cuddy, I really don't understand how any relationship I have now could possibly relate to your problem."
"Even a relationship with your dead husband's former office-mate?"
"My dead ex-husband, to be precise. And given how long it's been since I had any connection to Woodrow, I really do think Thom is right."
More of the old country was creeping into her voice and phrasing. "I take it you're not counting the insurance proceeds as a 'connection.' "
Arneson gritted his teeth. "I don't like what you're implying, Cuddy."
"A hundred thousand up-front looks pretty attractive for a woman living in a studio apartment, even with this kind of view."
Arneson got more angry. "That was part of Jen's divorce settlement, years ago."
Pollard said, "And it was a hundred only at the beginning."
I looked to her. "What?"
She took her hand off Arneson's shoulder, using her fingers to tuck a hank of the auburn hair behind her left ear. "The policy amount was to be a hundred the first year, eighty the next, then sixty, and so on. Just enough to cover an annual twenty thousand dollars of—what did the judge call it? Oh, yes. 'Rehabilitative alimony'." A smile and the vamping pose.
"To get me back on my feet after the crushing blow of losing Woodrow." Pollard eased off the pose. "So, I'd be down to only forty thousand by now, wouldn't I?"
I shook my head. "One of the attorneys at Mr. Gant's firm told me the face amount of the policy was still a hundred."
Arneson and Pollard exchanged glances. She said, "I didn't know that." No posing at all now. "Why would Woodrow have kept up a larger policy than required?"
Arneson put into words what I was thinking. "Less trouble, Jen. He probably just bought a five-year term policy, and it was easier to keep that than go back for renewals and maybe new physicals. Might even have been cheaper, too."
"Well," Pollard said, clearly pleased, "I certainly don't intend to argue the point." She looked at me. "But given this good news you've brought us, I must insist on covering the pizza."
The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy Page 19