The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (27 page)

"To Viet Mam?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Nugey is . . ." Ling stopped, then started
over. "Nugey had a very difficult life, one where because of his
. . . heritage he was rarely in control of anything. I think the main
reason he bought that particular building was so that he could
exercise some control over a 'purebred' Vietnamese man, the kind who
would have abused him back in Saigon."

Trinh had told me basically the same thing. "Go
ahead."

"Well, I think there was some of that about
having Woodrow and me in the restaurant, too. Nugey had been
prosecuted by him, sentenced to a juvenile detention center for a
long time. Now Nugey wanted to watch Woodrow eating in a building he
controlled."

"Watch him?"

"Yes. When Woodrow and I ate lunch there, Nugey
was kind of hiding in the kitchen, watching us through the swinging
doors."

Christ. "That was all Trinh did, watch?"

Ling seemed confused. "Yes. I mean, Woodrow
might have recognized him. What else could Nugey do?"

I was thinking of the way Trinh and Huong dealt with
Grover Gant at the coffee shop, but I said, "Have you had any
more ideas about who the woman might have been with Woodrow Gant in
Viet Mam the night he was killed?"

"No. I don't even know why he'd go back there."

"Because?"

"In the parking lot that day after lunch,
Woodrow mentioned he hadn't particularly enjoyed the food."

Not what Ling had told me the first time I met her,
but consistent with what Uta Radachowski had said.

When I kept silent, Deborah Ling changed the tone of
her voice. "I have a question for you, Mr. Cuddy."

"Go ahead."

She seemed to choose her words carefully. "Are
you going to tell Frank Neely about all this?"

"I don't see a reason to."

Ling was visibly relieved.

"However," I said, "there's a life
sentence of reasons why I have to tell Alan Spaeth's attorney about
it."

Ling shook her head. "Nugey owns that building
as a matter of public record."

"Only as the 'NT Realty Trust'."

"But he could testify he's the one behind the
trust."

I thought I could see where Ling was going. "Without
involving you as the one who handled the transaction."

A very steady, "Yes."

"Ms. Ling, Steve Rothenberg hired me to find
evidence establishing a reasonable doubt that his client killed
Woodrow Gant. You're not a criminal lawyer—and I'm not a lawyer,
period—but it seems to me that 'reasonable doubt' is kind of
cumulative. And the facts that ex-gang-member Trinh was tied to the
decedent as prosecutor and to the decedent's current law firm through
you add up pretty persuasively."

"Mr. Cuddy, please? It would be crazy for Nugey
to kill Woodrow like a gang execution just minutes after Woodrow left
a building Nugey owns."

Trinh himself had made that argument to me. And it
was a good one, unless Chan's landlord really was nuts.

An imploring look in her eyes. “At least think
about it for a while before ruining me?"

I was tempted to tell
Deborah Ling that was exactly what she should have done when Nguyen
Trinh first made his "off the books" suggestion, but I
couldn't see how it would do her any good now.

* * *

Precisely creasing correspondence toward insertion
into envelopes, Imogene Burbage looked up at me from behind her desk
outside Frank Neely's office. "You were talking to Ms.
Radachowski for quite a while."

"Only part of the time since I left you. The
rest was with Deborah Ling."

Burbage went back to her letters. "Well, I hope
that you've now found out everything you need."

"Not quite."

When I didn't continue, she looked back up at me, a
sheaf of unfolded papers spread before her like a giant game of
solitaire. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning I still don't know the name of the
woman having dinner with Woodrow Gant the night he was killed."

"We already discussed that."

I took a chance. "It's possible she was wearing
sort of a disguise."

"Disguise?"

"Big blond wig, sunglasses."

Burbage made no reply.

I said, "Probably something that would be
completely out of character for the woman, to throw people off on
identifying her."

"Mr. Cuddy," said Burbage very slowly, "I
have no idea who your 'mystery date' could be."

Five seconds went by, neither of us looking away. I
leaned forward just a little, placing my palms on her desktop. "Could
she have been you?"

Burbage obviously didn't like me invading her space.

"You're being rude, as well as redundant. I've
told you I wasn't that woman." Then a softening I didn't expect.
"From the way I behaved the last time you were here, I'm sure
you can tell that I cared for Mr. Gant. Cared for him very much. But
I didn't go out with him socially."

"Never?"

"Never. I don't behave like that."

"Always in control, Ms. Burbage?"

"Always." said a deep voice behind me.

I turned to see Frank Neely standing squarely. I
hadn't heard him approaching down the hall from the reception area.
He said, "Weren't we helpful enough yesterday?"

"A few more things have come up."

Neely seemed to consider that. "Imogene, any
fires that need putting out?"

"They can wait till morning."

He turned back to me. "John, I just left a bar
reception because it was boring me to tears. As long as you promise
not to do the same, we can talk in my office."

"So, what are the 'few more things'?"

Neely was seated behind his desk, me in front of it.
No offer of drinks or view from upstairs this visit.

I said, "Let's start with the public record
part. When Woodrow Gant was with the D.A.'s office, he prosecuted a
young hood named Nguyen Trinh."

"Nguyen . . . Is that Vietnamese?"

"Amerasian, but he spent his formative years
over here, learning extortion and home invasion before turning to
loan-sharking."

The rumbling sound from Neely's chest. "Sounds
like a prince. But Woodrow left that job over three years ago."

"Right. Only Trinh stayed interested in him."

Neely frowned with every feature on his face. "How
do you mean?"

"Trinh owns the building that houses Viet Mam."

A widening of the eyes. "The restaurant where
Woodrow ate that night?"

"Yes."

"Sweet Jesus." Either Frank Neely was one
hell of an actor, or the news really shocked him. Which probably
meant he truly had no idea that Deborah Ling represented Trinh on the
deal.

Neely's look became analytical. "So you think
that this Nguyen Trinh set Woodrow up to be shot?"

"I'm not sure of that part."

"What?"

"It's possible that Trinh killed Mr. Gant, or
even had him killed. But I've met Trinh, and he doesn't seem to me
stupid enough to create a clear connection between a business he's
part of and a murder he committed or ordered."

Neely shook his head. "Then I don't take your
point."

"My point," I explained for the second
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 enjoyedspending 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

ANOTHER 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
and Elliot Herman with faces perhaps five years younger.

"Very nice house," I said as Herman pointed
me toward one of the chairs. "Must be tough to maintain, though,
with both you and your husband working."

"I don't work." She took the other chair,
the length of the couch between us.

I smiled at her until Herman said, "I'm
waiting."

"I need some help with a problem I'm having."

She flicked at the mole again. "What problem?"

"Woodrow Gant once prosecuted a couple of
Amerasian gangsters who committed a home invasion."

A look of confusion. "I don't know anything
about that."

"It happened here in Weston Hills, about eight
or nine years ago."

Relief flooded Herman's features. "We only moved
here three years ago, when Elliot began working at the firm." A
different tone. "Now that I've answered your—"