I watched the two of them. They couldn't have known I'd be coming over, and unless they'd rehearsed awfully thoroughly, this felt too natural to be anything but spontaneous. And therefore honest.
Arneson said, "Cuddy, what Jen means is that you can leave now."
"Just a couple more questions. Ms. Pollard, you told me Mr. Gant liked . . . wigs and things."
Arneson looked down at the floor rather pointedly, but Pollard's eyes glittered a little as she said, "Especially the . . .things."
“There's some reason to believe that the woman with him the night he was killed was wearing a wig—and sunglasses—as some kind of disguise"
"Disguise?"
"I think so. Can you think of any reason why a woman would want to do that with Mr. Gant?"
The glitter again. "In public, do you mean?"
"Yes," I said.
Pollard returned her hand to Arneson's shoulder, but now not like she was holding him back. More as though her mood had changed suddenly. "Thom?"
"I'm not going to tell him," said Arneson. "Hell, I shouldn't have told you."
Pollard looked at me, that ray of sincerity finally shining through. "I think you'd want to know this, but I need a promise back from you first."
"What's the promise?"
"That you won't tell anyone about Thom and me."
Arneson turned to her. "Jen, you actually think you can trust this guy?"
"From the way he behaved the last time he was here, yes."
Pollard came back to me, still sincere. "I think Mr. Cuddy is a man who keeps his promises."
I said, "Odds are it would be more than a little embarrassing for a career prosecutor to be having an affair—"
"Relationship," said both of them, almost in unison. "—a 'relationship' with the ex-wife of a former colleague."
Arneson seemed to choose his words carefully. "It wouldn't help anything."
Pollard gave him a moment to continue. When he didn't, she said, "Mr. Cuddy?"
“I'll do my best to keep things confidential, but only if your relationship doesn't impact Mr. Gant's death any more than the way I see it now."
Arneson grunted. "Hell of a promise."
"The best I can do."
The two of them exchanged glances again.
Pollard sighed and turned back to me. "During one of Woodrow's cases at the District Attorney's office, he became attracted to the victim. But we were still married, and so was she."
I was beginning to picture it.
Pollard said, "Woodrow had the poor judgment to go out with her to a bar, and Thom happened to see them together."
I looked at Arneson. "And recognized the woman."
"Yes," he said, biting off the word.
I finished the memory for him. "Even though she was wearing a wig."
He nodded, not liking it.
But if I had to guess, I'd say Thom Arneson liked it at least five times as much as I did.
* * *
The street in West Roxbury was dark, nobody playing "Howla." The Mazda stood in the driveway of number 396, though.
Moving up the path, I realized how much slower than usual I was walking. Tired, yes, but more than that.
I knocked, and ten seconds later, young Terry Spaeth opened the door, sans both baseball cap and eyebrow ring. He stared at me. “What do you want?"
"I'd like to speak to your mother."
"Yeah, right. After the extreme trouble you already got me into?"
From another room, Nicole Spaeth's voice called out, "Terry, who is it?"
He didn't answer her. To me, he said, "Look, just go hassle somebody else, okay?"
Terry started to push the door closed. I would have lodged my foot against it, but his mother's voice stopped him.
"Couldn't you hear . . ."
Her face fell when she saw me, those haunting hazel eyes windows on her emotions.
I said, "Mrs. Spaeth, we need to talk."
Terry turned to her, "Mom, this dude's got no—"
"Go to your room, Terry."
"But, Mom——"
"Now. Or we extend the grounding another week."
Terry muttered something that sounded like, "Thanks a lot, asshole," but he moved off and out of view.
When her son was gone, Nicole Spaeth said, "I suppose you'll be wanting to sit down."
"I think we'd both better."
She considered that, my tone maybe more than my words, then led me into the living room, lowering herself onto the aging sofa while I took my third chair in the last three hours. Spaeth waited until I was settled before saying in a tired way, "All right, what is it now?"
"You grounded Terry because he talked with me outside last night."
"How I discipline my son is no—"
"Because he told me about the Board of Bar Overseers complaint?"
She didn't say anything.
I said, "And because it's true."
An attempt at a laugh. "Alan was dreaming, Mr. Cuddy. His jealousy was . . . warping him."
"It goes further than that, though."
"I don't know—"
"I do know, Mrs. Spaeth. But I wish I didn't."
She managed a "Know what?"
"Who the woman was with Woodrow Gant that night at the restaurant."
"Then you know more than—"
"Since I saw you yesterday, I've spoken to a lot of people about Mr. Gant. One called him a 'ladies' man,' another said he would go out with 'inappropriate' women as well, including the victim in a case he prosecuted."
"I told you the last time, Woodrow and I—"
"Just the blond wig, Mrs. Spaeth?"
Her mouth stayed open, but nothing came out.
I said, "Just that one, or others as well?"
Nicole Spaeth dropped her eyes to the sculpted carpet, as though scanning the pattern from above for something she'd dropped. "I think you'd better leave."
"I have to hear what happened that night."
"Well, I don't want to hear it." She closed her eyes now. "Out loud, I mean. Bad enough to have what happened inside me without having to . . . relive it."
Mindful of not pushing her too much, I said, "Can it get any worse?"
Spaeth rose from the sofa. "I'll be just a minute."
"Mrs.—"
"I'm not going to run away or anything stupid like that. I just need to check, make sure Terry's in his room."
I nodded.
She was gone only long enough for me When Nicole Spaeth sat back down, she was stiff and, if possible, even more tired. "I couldn't hear Terry, you see, so I wanted to be sure he couldn't hear us. He's watching TV, with that little earplug attachment so the set doesn't blare. Terry likes it loud, but he also knows how much that bothers me."
I nodded again, not rushing her.
Spaeth brought both hands to her knees, maybe like the sixth-graders I remembered her saying she taught. "That last year with Alan here was a nightmare, and when I met Uta Radachowski at the Literacy Fund benefit, I was so glad she could recommend a divorce lawyer for me. Even gladder when I actually met Woodrow."
"Why?"
"I realized immediately that Alan couldn't intimidate him. My husband's bark has always been worse than his bite, but he can be pretty scary sometimes. Believe me." Spaeth stared into space. "As a prosecutor, though, Woodrow had seen the worst the world can offer—gang kids, rapists, murderers—and he handled Alan beautifully, just tied him in knots over everything. I began looking to Woodrow on every problem, and he'd solve it. Oh, I took psychology courses in college, and I knew that I was just transferring onto him as kind of a surrogate spouse, to help me through the real-spouse divorce, but . . . Well, it went further than that."
"Sexually?"
"Yes. Not at first. We'd just go out. But Woodrow said it would be bad to be seen together. Lunch wouldn't matter, but drinks and dinner? Not exactly within the attorney-client relationship. So he asked if I could kind of . .
"Disguise yourself."
> The hazel eyes came back to me, a thumbnail picking at the cuticles on her fingers. "Yes. Frankly, I didn't mind at first. The kids I teach at school have parents, and if somebody's mother or father happened to see me 'stepping out,' things wouldn't get better in the classroom."
"At first."
"I'm sorry?"
"You said you didn't mind the disguise stuff 'at first! What about later?"
"Woodrow started to get weird about it. He liked me to . . . stay in costume, so to speak." Spaeth seemed uncertain now. "You understand what I mean?"
"In the bedroom."
"Yes." She looked away. "Not just in the . . . bedroom, either. Woodrow was a very . . . imaginative man. One of the reasons I continued seeing him. He made me feel desirable again."
I didn't want to say anything to ruin that for Spaeth, but she looked back at me, suddenly energized. "Oh, I know I wasn't the only one. And I also know I was crazy in these plague-ridden times to be seeing a man who wasn't monogamous, even if I did insist on a condom. But I didn't have other options, and frankly, except for the guilt of 'sneaking around,' I liked the option he provided me just fine."
Now Nicole Spaeth dwindled a little. "At least until that night."
Quietly, I said, "Tell me about it."
She worried her fingers some more. "We picked evenings when Terry had something to do. That night, he was staying over at a friend's house to hear what they call 'Bachelor Pad' music." A weak smile. "Ironic, huh?" Even the weak smile faded. "Well, Woodrow and I had been to the Viet Mam restaurant before. The food wasn't great, but it wasn't crowded, either, and neither of us had ever seen anybody there we knew."
I thought about Nguyen Trinh, hiding in the kitchen during Gant's lunch with Deborah Ling.
Spaeth said, "So we ate, and since I wasn't driving, I drank a little too much wine—partly to cover the food, partly to cover the residual guilt, I suppose. I was aware we were back in the BMW, heading . . . I think about it now, we must have been heading to his place, but it was a school night, and getting late enough, Woodrow should have been taking me home. Anyway, I guess I passed out in the car, because after asking Woodrow to roll down the windows, I don't remember him stopping on that road."
"What do you remember?"
Spaeth sat back in the couch, hugging herself. "I was having a dream. About being seated on a plane, going to the Caribbean for a vacation. My first real vacation ina long time. And then I must have heard the shots or something, because the dream went screwy and somebody dropped an anchor in my 1ap."
"An anchor?"
"In the dream. But I stumbled out of the car because I was feeling sick and didn't see Woodrow. Well, the 'anchor' fell on the ground, and I could see it was a gun."
"Somebody had dropped a gun into your lap?"
"Through the part of my window that was open, I think, because the door was still closed."
"And this was the gun that killed Mr. Gant."
"I didn't know that—never even touched it—but Woodrow was lying on the ground, with his eyes . . ." Spaeth rubbed her forehead, trying to erase the image, I thought. "Then I just started running, and the few times I saw headlights, I'd hide."
"Hide?"
"Get down on the ground or behind a tree, so the drivers couldn't see me. The way I looked by the end of that road, I was surprised a cab would even stop for—"
"But why hide at all? Why not flag somebody down to help you and Mr. Gant?"
Spaeth gave me a withering look. "Because Woodrow was dead, Mr. Cuddy. And it was pretty obvious who'd done it."
"Meaning your husband?"
"Of course my husband. Alan was ripshit at Woodrow, suspected he and I were lovers. And on top of that, the gun looked like one of the two Alan kept in our nightstand here before we separated." Spaeth shook her head. "I knew it was Alan, but I also didn't want him convicted of murder."
"Why not?"
Another withering look. "Terry deserves a college education, Mr. Cuddy, and Alan promised in the settlement agreement that he'd pay the freight. How's he going to do that from a prison cell?"
I tried not to shake my head. "Mrs. Spaeth, you said a minute ago that the gun looked like one your husband had."
A sigh. "Right."
"But you didn't examine it to be sure?"
"No. I didn't have to." Spaeth leaned forward. "Look, I was obviously there when Woodrow was shot. Unconscious, maybe, but right in his passenger seat. And the killer knew I was there, because he dropped the gun in my lap. Now tell me something, Mr. Cuddy. I could have been a witness to Woodrow's murder, right?"
"Right."
"Okay. Then who else other than my loving, cloying husband would let me live?"
I tried very hard to come up with someone, but Nicole Spaeth had stumped the band.
* * *
Driving back from West Roxbury, I thought of the hurt I'd caused Karen Herman, the cynicism I'd seen in Jenifer Pollard, the fear I'd found in Nicole Spaeth. And then I thought of Nancy, and how much I'd have liked to get her take on those things.
But, if I couldn't talk about them with Nancy, there was still someone I could talk with about her.
The people who run the cemetery on the hillside overlooking the harbor are pretty good. About leaving the gate open for people who visit at night, that is. There's always the risk of vandalism to a headstone, but in a neighborhood as tightly knit as Southie, somebody would know whoever did it. And that somebody would tip a relative of the decedent involved, which would end that vandal's career.
And maybe even the vandal's own life as well.
I shook that off as I reached her grave. The lettering chiseled into the marble was beginning to show the harsh frost of winters and the acid rain of springs.
"Beth," I said, a hitch in my voice.
John. A pause. You sound . . . cold.
"More tired than cold."
And more depressed than tired?
"With some reason, I think."
Tell me?
I did.
Another pause. And this . . . "fling" of Nancy's with Woodrow Gant was before she met you.
"Years before"
A third pause, then, I wish I knew what Nancy 's feeling toward you was right now, but I never experienced it. You were my one and only, John.
"I know." Below us, a barge was moving northeast past the harbor's mouth, the hull and deck lights on her the only indication of her existence or direction, and even those telltales were distributed haphazardly, like a Christmas tree decorated by a drunk.
John?
"Sorry, kid. I'm winking out on you."
Or on yourself
"What do you mean?"
John Francis Cuddy, you've always been a good man, but more than a bit dense when it comes to some aspects of the human condition.
"Thanks. That sure clears everything up."
I don 't . . . She started over. I think you have to let Nancy call the tune here, because neither you nor me knows better than she how to handle her feelings.
I took a breath of the crisp, salt-laden air. "You're right, Beth. As usual."
As always, a hint of smile coming up from the ground that held her, I hoped more comfortably than I ever really believed.
Chapter 15
BY THE TIME I got back to my condo from the cemetery that Thursday night, it was pretty late. Rather than ruin Steve Rothenberg's dreams, I decided to sleep on the information about Nicole Spaeth and Woodrow Gant until the next morning.
I didn't get to sleep on it very long.
The clock radio read 4:50 A.M. when I picked up the phone by my bed on what I think was the second ring. "Yeah?"
"Cuddy, Murphy."
"Lieutenant, what—"
"Get your ass over here. Now."
I sat up. "Where's 'here'?"
* * *
It turned out to be a derelict, aluminum-sided two-decker in South Boston abutting several warehouses with chain-link fences and concertina wire festively enclosing their parki
ng lots. The two-decker itself was probably white once, but the skin of paint had peeled off the siding, and the Windows and doors I could see were all boarded up.
I parked the Prelude as close as a uniformed officer would allow, then asked for Murphy. The uniform led me on a wending route around early-bird rubberneckers held back by yellow plastic tape strung from telephone poles and the antennae of bubble-topped cruisers, the tape reading "POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS." Inside the perimeter of cruisers were two unmarked sedans sandwiched around the Medical Examiners white-and-blue minivan.
When we reached the back of the building, I could see that the rear door was open—forced open, judging by the way it hung from only its bottom hinge. The uniform told me to wait outside while he went into the house.
Pretty quickly the officer returned and walked past me, Murphy now beckoning from the threshold. As I moved toward him, he said, "You stop for breakfast along the way?"
"At five in the morning?"
Murphy nodded. "Best figure on a light lunch, then."
"It's that bad in there?"
"Let you decide for yourself."
I trailed behind him into what would have been the kitchen, now a wreck of torn-up linoleum whose age and color could be anybody's guess. All the appliances were gone, with open-faced, rusty pipes or just gaping holes in the cabinetry marking where they'd stood. The clittering of little clawed feet came through the walls, and a haze of dust motes danced in front of me. The air itself carried a strong smell of oil and a stronger smell of urine, but the strongest was that high, sickly-sweet stench which, once you've known it, can never be mistaken for anything else.
Murphy held a handkerchief in front of him, squirting a dose of some liquid onto it from a small squeeze bottle he took from a jacket pocket. "You want some of this?"
"Gasoline?"
"Yeah."
"No, thanks. I'll be all right."
Murphy raised the hankie to his nose. "Let's go, then."
At the corner of the kitchen was an open door, stairs to a cellar behind it. Bright lights flared below but not in that strobing way camera flashes will. As we descended the steps, both the oil smell and the sickly-sweet one grew powerfully.
When I reached the point that my head cleared the ceiling, I could see an old oil burner too big or too broken to move from the dirt—floored basement. A couple of men in business suits holding six-volt lanterns stood around an assistant M.E. in her white coat and surgical mask. She was kneeling beside a body in dirty, tattered clothes curled into the fetal position. The woman blocked most of my view, but I could see the corpse's face well enough. An older man with wasted features and reddish hair, the eyes bugging out as though he'd been pressurized from within. My bet would be that someone had strangled him, but the other characteristics of bulging tongue and blue lips weren't there.
The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy Page 20
