Gant was impressive, containing her emotion rather than displaying it.
I said, "Witnesses agree your son had dinner with a woman at a nearby restaurant before he was killed."
"The police told me."
"Do you have any idea who she could have been?"
"No. Why?"
"The woman may have been with your son when he was shot. She might have seen something that would tell me who the killer really was."
Gant watched me carefully. "Or she might give that lawyer you're working for some kind of ammunition for reasonable doubt."
"That's part of my job, too."
Gant looked down at her hands. "Woodrow hated that O.J. Simpson business."
Until she said that, it hadn't struck me that Spaeth's wife was also named "Nicole."
"My son felt the way that trial was televised destroyed people's faith in the system." Raising her eyes, Gant hiccuped again. "Well, Mr. Cuddy, I've seen the system. Seen kids beaten by their parents, and beaten by their stepparents, and beaten by any somebody who just happened to be dropping by that night for a couple of rocks in the crack pipe." Hiccup. "Those are the kids end up getting beaten by the police, too, or shot by each other. It's not cases like O.J.'s that destroy people's faith in the system. It's the people themselves and the system itself."
"Yet you're still working within it."
"You have to do something to try and help people." Gant relented a little. "People helped me when I needed it."
"And I need your help now."
She moved her tongue around again. "We back to who that woman might be?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Cuddy, I truly don't know." Hiccup. "When Woodrow was in college and law school, he went out a lot, but I never met any of them. Then he got married, and I thought he'd finished up with sowing his wild oats. But after the divorce, Woodrow went right back to them. Don't get me wrong, he was a good son. Come by on Sundays for dinner, always remembered birthdays and holidays." Hiccup. "But his social life was his own, and I never met anybody after Jenifer."
"His ex-wife."
"Yes."
"I plan to talk with her, too."
Gant hesitated. "Why?"
"See if she can help."
A skeptical look. "You think a man would tell his ex-wife about a new girlfriend?"
"It's possible that Ms. Pollard would know someone who had a reason to kill your son."
Hiccuping, Gant closed her eyes once, then opened them slowly. "That system we were talking about me working in? Well, Woodrow worked in it, too, Mr. Cuddy. Did everything he was supposed to, and it got him killed. When he was with the district attorney's office, I worried for him, on account of I knew the children I'd seen at age five he'd be seeing at fifteen. A lot of them don't have any feeling except hate, and that they keep burning in a special place deep inside them, a place nobody can touch." Hiccup. "And they don't forget. But the police say your client killed my son, and so far I haven't heard anything from you that tells me different"
A car with a Gatling gun for a muffler pulled up near her house. “Ms. Gant—"
"You asked for me to talk with you, and I did. I didn't have to, but I did, and I'll even tell you why. It's because talking about Woodrow is better than thinking about him. Talking about him makes it seem like maybe there's still something there, a part of my son still with me." Hiccup. "When I'm just thinking about him, all I can see is his body, lying in the coffin at the wake that night or being lowered into the ground that next morning. Which is a hell I wouldn't want even Mr. Alan Spaeth to share."
As Helen Gant rose, I heard a key in the front door. She turned that way and spoke to someone I couldn't yet see.
"Grover?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
"This man is here about Woodrow." Hiccup. "You can talk to him or not. I'm going upstairs."
"I was just at this TV thing?"
Grover Cleveland Gant sat on the couch as his mother had, but he leaned back into the cushions. About six-two, Gant hid his weight beneath a bulky, crewneck sweater and shapeless pants. The hair ran almost long enough—and tall enough—to be an Afro from the seventies. His face was puffy, like a prizefighter who'd been not so much hammered as jabbed, lightly but constantly, over the last couple of days, his lips closed into a dazed, somehow satisfied smile. His fingers were puffy, too, and if what I could see was any indication, he wasn't in great shape under the clothes.
"TV thing?" I said.
"Yeah, man. Weird, we-ird, we-ird. I got this invitation card in the mail, come down to a hotel on Tremont by the old Combat Zone. Well, I didn't have nothing better to do with my time, so I went. There's about a hundred of us—white, Chinese, wheelchairs, you name it. At the door to a ballroom, these two foxy ladies in dressy outfits, they taking down names and jobs you did and such, then they have us sit around these four TV sets raised up high in the center of the room and pointed every which way. The foxy ladies tell us we got to sit through these two pilot shows, give them our views on what we like and don't like. Only thing is, there's more commercials than show, and they ask us lots of questions about those, too. More, in fact, like they really interested in whether we go out and buy the things than watch the programs. Which was just as well, account of the shows really sucked. I walked out, half-way through the second one, and don't nobody try to stop me."
I thought Gant might have stopped off himself somewhere for a couple of pops on the way home, but as long as he was talkative, I was happy to let him go on. "You watch a lot of television?"
He squinted at me. "No way, no way, no way. I got better things to do with my time, usually."
"Like what?"
A sly smile replaced the dazed one. "Track."
"Horseracing?"
"Not 'less I can help it. I'm a greyhound man, myself. With the ponies, you got what I call the human factor working against you."
"The human factor?"
"Yeah. You got the jockey on your horse, the jockeys on the other ones. You don't know who wants it more or who got paid to hold back this race, let somebody else finish in the money."
“But with the greyhounds, it just the animals themselves."
"Right, right, right. You can trust a puppy, man. Can't trust people."
As good an opening as any. "Mr. Gant, you understand I'm here to talk with you about who killed your brother."
"Police got who killed my brother. White mother—no offense"
"None taken." I adjusted my voice. "It may be they have the wrong guy."
The features closed down some. “Uh-unh. I seen him, man."
"Who?"
"That Spaeth dude. At Woodrow's lawyer office. He was screaming, 'Nigger, nig-ger, nig—ger,' and like that. I come close to killing him myself." A pause. "Wish I had. Then Woodrow be alive now."
"Did you see Mr. Spaeth approach your brother at all?"
" 'Approach' him? Man, what you talking about? The dude was ranting and raving. About how Woodrow fucked him over, how lawyers ought to die. I mean, what more you got to know?"
"You were close to your brother then?"
A cloud came over the eyes. "Say what?"
"You said you wished you'd killed Mr. Spaeth to save your brother, so I assume the two of you got along."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We got along just fine. Momma had us from different men, but she raised us together." The sly smile again. "Wasn't Woodrow's fault he got the brains and I got the good looks."
"Then your brother would have confided in you if something was bothering him?"
The cloud again. "What you trying to put in my mouth here? Woodrow was a good brother. Loan me money when I needed it, let me drive that fancy BMW car of his."
For a moment, I wondered if somebody could have mistaken Woodrow Gant for Grover behind the wheel that night, then discounted the thought based on body type and dress code. "Lent you money when you needed it for the track?"
"Man, I already told you, I like to gamble some. They pass a new law I never h
eard about?"
"Most people gamble with their own money."
"Yeah, well, I'm like between jobs right now."
"What do you do when you're working?"
"Restaurants."
"Waiter?"
"That's right." The sly smile made another appearance. "And none of them cheap places, neither. Expensive restaurant, you do a halfway decent job, they gonna tip you fifteen percent minimum, maybe even eighteen, twenty on a hundred-dollar tab. Even at the low end, though, that's fifteen dollars in your pocket. Cheap place, the bill's gonna be more like forty, say, but you still got to make the same number of trips to the kitchen or the bar. In fact, any time I'm looking for work, I walk into a restaurant like I'm a customer first, ask to see the menu. That way, I can tell does the place have cheap stuff."
"What if there're no prices on the menu?"
The smile got slyer. "I like those kinds of restaurants the best. Ritzy, not glitzy, and you can get humongous tips from guys bringing the old lady out for their twenty-fifth. He's gonna go overboard on the wine, maybe even some brandy. Don't want to look like a tightwad on her one big night on the town, and he'll tip the way them Rockefellers ought to."
"But you're not working in a place like that now."
"No, man. Like I said, I'm between jobs at the moment. Woodrow, he was the one always trying to get ahead. And look where it got him."
"The night your brother was killed, he ate at a Vietnamese restaurant."
"So?"
"He was with a woman, Mr. Gant. Do you have any idea who she might have been?"
"Uh-unh, uh—unh, uh-unh. Woodrow and me, we mostly see each other at dinner over here. He don't talk about his ladies in front of Momma."
"And he never mentioned anybody to you?"
"Not since he got divorced from that English bitch. She made him real careful about lady kind of things."
"Did you know his former wife well?"
"Ain't nobody knows that Jenifer 'well.' You know her at all, though, you watch out for her."
"How do you mean?"
"Body armor, man." Grover Gant ran both hands from shoulders to knees. "You going anywhere near that bitch, you got to wear it." Then he hitched the right hand at his crotch. "At least a cup, you hear what I'm saying?"
"Why don't you spell it out for me?"
A snort. "Bitch is a ball-buster. Eats 'em for breakfast, man, you let her."
I stood up. "Well, Mr. Gant, thanks for your time."
He stayed seated, the sly look back. "So, when am I gonna see my check?"
"Your check?"
"For the insurance, man. The money I got coming to me on Woodrow's policy."
"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."
The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy Page 12
