The only good Lawyer

it. “I don’t see how. Or why.”
    “I wasn’t following anybody. Just decided to stop by for a little visit, ran into the delivery boy downstairs, and—”
    Arneson said, “How about if I tell you to go the hell back downstairs?”
    “Then you’d be out of line, counselor. It’s Ms. Pollard’s apartment.”
    He took a step toward me, still hefting the wallet. “How about if I just throw you down the stairs?”
    I said, “Then you’d be out of your depth as well.” Pollard didn’t like the turn things were taking. “Perhaps instead we could all just sit down for a few minutes like civilized beings and find out what’s going on?”
    Arneson gave her a glare, but backed up and took the daybed as she followed him, perching on a corner of it, close enough to touch the man. Which left the rocking chair for me.
    Looking out through the big windows, I said, “The view’s even more impressive at night.”
    Arneson didn’t react, so Pollard must have told him about my earlier visit. Probably before I’d seen him at the D.A.’s office.
    Pollard said, “Mr. Cuddy, I thought you got everything you needed the last time you were here?”
    It had been “John” back then, but her double meaning was still firmly in place. “A few new facts have surfaced.”
    “What facts?” said Arneson.
    “Let’s start with the current situation and work backwards. How long have you two been seeing each other?”
    Arneson didn’t surprise me when he said, “None of your fucking business.”
    “Thom.” Pollard laid her left palm on his shoulder symbolically holding him back, I thought. “Mr. Cuddy, I really don’t understand how any relationship I have now could possibly relate to your problem.”
    “Even a relationship with your dead husband’s former office-mate?”
    “My dead ex-husband, to be precise. And given how long it’s been since I had any connection to Woodrow, I really do think Thom is right.”
    More of the old country was creeping into her voice and phrasing. “I take it you’re not counting the insurance proceeds as a ‘connection.’ ”
    Arneson gritted his teeth. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Cuddy.”
    “A hundred thousand up-front looks pretty attractive for a woman living in a studio apartment, even with this kind of view.”
    Arneson got more angry. “That was part of Jen’s divorce settlement, years ago.”
    Pollard said, “And it was a hundred only at the beginning.”
    I looked to her. “What?”
    She took her hand off Arneson’s shoulder, using her fingers to tuck a hank of the auburn hair behind her left ear. “The policy amount was to be a hundred the first year, eighty the next, then sixty, and so on. Just enough to cover an annual twenty thousand dollars of—what did the judge call it? Oh, yes. ‘Rehabilitative alimony.’ ” A smile and the vamping pose. “To get me back on my feet after the crushing blow of losing Woodrow.” Pollard eased off the pose. “So, I’d be down to only forty thousand by now, wouldn’t I?”
    I shook my head. “One of the attorneys at Mr. Gant’s firm told me the face amount of the policy was still a hundred.”
    Arneson and Pollard exchanged glances. She said, “I didn’t know that.” No posing at all now. “Why would Woodrow have kept up a larger policy than required?” Arneson put into words what I was thinking. “Less trouble, Jen. He probably just bought a five-year term policy, and it was easier to keep that than go back for renewals and maybe new physicals. Might even have been cheaper; too.”
    “Well,” Pollard said, clearly pleased, “I certainly don’t intend to argue the point.” She looked at me. “But given this good news you’ve brought us, I must insist on covering the pizza.”
    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