The only good Lawyer

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 coining 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

    J enifer 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