The only good Lawyer

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 enjoyed spending 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

    A nother 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