The only good Lawyer

“Just what you told me about the insurance.”
    “The insurance?”
    “Yes. You said Mr. Gant’s ‘family members’ were the beneficiaries on his life policies.”
    Neely raised his drink. “Mother Helen and brother Grover—’Grover Cleveland Gant.’ I checked the paperwork after we spoke down in my office, but I’d written the company myself on their behalf, so I was pretty sure of the proceeds.”
    “Which were?”
    “One hundred thousand each.”
    “How about the balance of Mr. Gant’s estate?” Neely took some more scotch, nearly finishing it. “His will became public record once it was filed, so I guess there’s no harm in telling you what it says. Everything to the mother, with Grover as contingent beneficiary.”
    I nodded.
    Neely said, “You’re thinking the brother?”
    “I’ve been wondering why Ms. Burbage would keep him waiting in the reception area rather than let him go to Mr. Gant’s office.”
    Neely considered something. “That was Woodrow’s instruction, actually.”
    “His instruction?”
    “Yes.” Neely rolled the cubes in his glass. “It seems that once—when Imogene did have Grover wait in Woodrow’s office—there was something... missing afterward.”
    “What was it?”
    “Cash, a couple hundred that Woodrow kept as an emergency fund in his desk.”
    I had the same habit, though my stash was tucked halfway through an old photo album in one of my desk’s lower drawers.
    Neely drained the last of the scotch. “Woodrow told me his brother has a problem with gambling.”
    “Thanks for the information.”
    “One other thing, John?”
    “Yes?”
    “It wasn’t part of the firm coverage, but something Woodrow took out on his own.”
    “What was?”
    “You knew he’d gotten divorced himself?”
    “Just that, no details.”
    “Around the time he came with us. His ex-wife lives out in Brookline .” The town just west of Boston ’s Brighton neighborhood. “Pollard’s the last name. Jenifer—with only one ‘n.’ ”
    Taking that in, I said, “And he had a policy on himself payable to her, too?”
    “Part of the divorce settlement, Woodrow once told me.”
    “Face amount?”
    “The same as the others, a straight hundred thousand.”
    I watched Neely for a moment. “Not that I don’t appreciate the information, but why so helpful?”
    He rolled the cubes some more, almost like dice in a cup. “I want to get to the bottom of this as much as anyone, John, and more than most. I recruited Woodrow for the firm, and now I need to replace him. The sooner we have closure on his death, the better for everyone.”
    Neely fixed me again. “Don’t get me wrong. I believe your client did this terrible thing. I watched him downstairs that day, and I know what I saw in his eyes. But I also know what I see in yours, and that’s a man who won’t let go until he’s convinced. So the sooner you check out these other possibilities, the sooner my job gets easier.”
    Frank Neely looked away then, giving me one more chance to appreciate the view from his terrace before he led me downstairs and out of the building.

Chapter 9

    A fter leaving the law firm building, I stopped at a pay phone to check my answering service. A nice woman with a silky voice gave me several messages, but nothing from Nancy . Then I dialed my home phone, using the remote code to trigger the telephone tape machine. No messages, period. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Nancy had walked out on me at Thai Basil, but I tried her apartment in South Boston anyway. When her own answering machine engaged, I waited for the beep, then left a very neutral “I’ll be out myself tonight, so I’ll try you tomorrow at work.”
    No sense in pushing it, whatever “it” was for Nancy . Then I walked uphill to Tremont Street to get my car.

    Dorchester is a section of Boston most people think of as infrequendy as possible. In much of it, the storefronts tend to plywood windowpanes and gang insignia, the housing to run-down triple-deckers with blistered paint and rotting porches. But there are pocket neighborhoods that could be models for a magazine, and Helen Gant lived in one of these. Her home was a single-family, gingerbread-and-yellow Tudor, centered on a quarter-acre lot with a small lawn and tended shrubbery. A Mitsubishi compact stood in the narrow driveway, its grille snubbed up close to the house, as though making parking room behind it for a second car expected to arrive later.
    I