A Deadly Judgment (16 page)

Gino Mantrone said nothing.

“I take from what you said before that your wife thought Mr. Brannigan was probably guilty.”

“Jurors aren’t supposed to talk about the case with anybody, including family.”

“I know, but it’s human nature to—”

“Yes, she talked about it.”

“And?”

“She didn’t think he did it. Killed his brother. I tried to talk sense to her but—I don’t suppose I should be telling you this, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference anymore. The judge can’t do anything to hurt her now.”

“So your wife
was
leaning in favor of the defendant,” I said.

“Yeah. She was that way, a soft heart. What do they say, a knee-jerk something or other. Always taking the side of the accused, the underdog. Brannigan will get off. We all know that. People with money always do.”

Ms. Montrone’s mother-in-law had sat silently during my conversation with her son. Now, she looked up and said, “She was a good woman. Like my own daughter. May God shine His light on her.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, thanked them for allowing me to intrude in their time of grief, and quickly left the house.

The last place I intended to go was Jimmy’s Harborside, where Malcolm said he would be that evening. But I had to talk to someone.

I hailed a cab and went directly to the pier-side restaurant. The dining room and bar were packed. I squeezed through knots of people in search of Malcolm, but his instantly recognizable hulk didn’t seem to be there.

I sought out an assistant manager, who was taking reservations at a podium. “Excuse me,” I said, “I’m looking for—”

“Jessica Fletcher,” he said.

“Yes. I’m Jessica—I’m looking for Mr. McLoon. The attorney.”

“Will you be having dinner? I can give you a nice window table.”

“Thank you, but I’m here looking for—”

“I think Mr. McLoon is over there.” He pointed to a far comer of the large bar area.

“Yes. There he is. Thank you.”

Malcolm sat hunched over a tiny table, a drink surrounded by both hands. His usually neatly combed hair was unruly. His gaze was on the glass. I came up behind him and placed my hand on his shoulder. He slowly turned and looked up.

“Hello, Malcolm,” I said.

“Ah, Jessica.” His speech was slurred. He tried to stand but didn’t make it.

“Please, don’t get up,” I said, settling in a chair across from him.

“How was Cape Cod, Jessica?”

“Interesting. That’s why I came here tonight.” A waiter asked if I wanted a drink. “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m only staying a few minutes.”

“Why?” Malcolm asked after ordering a refill.

“Because I’m very tired,” I replied. I wondered whether I should have even bothered seeking him out. He was obviously inebriated, and probably wouldn’t understand the significance of what I was about to show him.

“Stay for dinner,” he said. “Best fish chowder in Boston. The old man, the original Jimmy, used to bring his chowder down to Washington for President Kennedy.”

“That’s very interesting, Malcolm, but I’ll have to enjoy the chowder another time. I visited Ms. Mantrone’s home this afternoon.”

“You did? Don’t say it too loud.”

“She was leaning in favor of an acquittal.”

“You and Jill already figured that out.”

“But I confirmed it.”

I pulled the photocopy of Cynthia Warren’s deposit slip from my purse and placed it in front of him.

“What’s this?”

I explained, and watched him put on his half-glasses and struggle to read what was on the paper. My earlier question of whether I should have bothered coming here loomed larger. The man was in no condition to understand the ramifications of what I was showing him.

But then Malcolm McLoon drew a deep breath, sat up straight, and said, “Do you realize what this means?” His eyes had cleared; they now shone brightly.

“I think I do,” I said.

“Harry LeClaire gave Cynthia Warren a check for ten thousand dollars the day before she was killed.”

“Looks that way.”

“Harry LeClaire.”

“Yes. Harry LeClaire. What will you do with this?”

“Sit on it for a day or two, think about it.”

“I suppose that’s wise. Do you think—”

“What do you think, Jessica?”

“I think I won’t have to plot my next novel. I think it’s being plotted for me.”

“Why would one of the alternate jurors, Mr. Harry LeClaire to be precise, be giving the defendant’s alibi witness ten thousand dollars—and the day before she’s murdered in cold blood?”

“A good question.”

“There must be good money to be made in the tweezers business, Jessica.”

“Must be.” The man’s recuperative powers were amazing. He was stone-cold sober, his mind working at a pace that was almost audible.

A waiter delivered two bowls of fish chowder to an adjacent table. It smelled and looked heavenly.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I said.

“About what?”

“About fish chowder. If it was good enough for JFK, it’s good enough for me.”

Malcolm had become wide awake, and talkative once I showed him the photocopy of the check Cynthia Warren had deposited. After finishing off the chowder, which was as good as Malcolm had claimed, he dropped me off at the Ritz. As I was about to leave the car, he said in a conspiratorial tone, “Let’s keep this between us, Jessica, this business of LeClaire giving Cynthia Warren money. Not another soul.”

“Rachel? Georgia?”

“No one,
until I’ve decided what to do with the information.”

“But shouldn’t we report this to the police? At least to Judge Wilson?”

“I’ll do what’s right, when the time is right. In the meantime, get yourself some sleep. I see why you write bestselling murder mysteries, Jessica. The police never noticed that deposit slip, but you did. Good night, fair lady. See you in court.”

I arrived at the courthouse early the next morning expecting to take my place at the defense table. But Malcolm took me aside before Judge Wilson gaveled the proceedings to order. “Jess, it occurred to me last night that you could make better use of this day by doing some checking into Mr. LeClaire.”

“I thought Ritchie did that before jury selection began.”

“He did. But he obviously missed something. Besides, he didn’t have any reason to suspect a connection between Cynthia Warren and LeClaire. Now that we know there was, you might have better success.”

“All right,” I said. “I’m not sure how to start, but I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask. I don’t intend to mention what you came up with on the Cape until we learn a little more.”

“Sure that’s smart?” I asked.

He broke into a wide grin. “Trust me, Jessica. Between us, we’ll see justice served for Billy Brannigan, and maybe turn up a
real
murderer in the bargain.”

I left the courthouse with conflicting thoughts.

On the one hand, I had serious reservations about expanding my reason for being in Boston. I’d come there only to learn about how a murder trial works for my next novel. Although in addition to writing about crimes, I’d ended up over the years solving a few, I don’t consider myself a qualified detective. Those incidents had just happened.

On the other hand, once I’d discovered the deposit slip (that had just happened, too), and had linked it to one of the six alternate jurors in the Billy Brannigan trial—businessman Harry LeClaire, owner of a company that manufactured tweezers and scissors—it would have been constitutionally hard—no, make that almost impossible—for me to simply walk away, no matter what Malcolm decided to do with the information.

I returned to the hotel and changed into more comfortable clothing. It had blown up cool that morning in Boston, and the forecast was for rain later in the day. I wore slacks, a comfortable pull-over shirt, sneakers, and carried a lightweight windbreaker. And I took with me a printout of information Ritchie Fleigler had dug up on Harry LeClaire.

Cathie was waiting outside. “No court today?” she asked.

“No, no court today. Does your company have a different car we could use?”

“A different car? A bigger one?”

“A smaller one, less conspicuous than this vehicle.”

“Sure.”

A half hour later we pulled out of the limousine company’s parking lot in a plain blue Chevy sedan.

“Where to?” Cathie asked.

“Let’s head here first.” I handed her the address of Harry LeClaire’s corporate headquarters, located in Dorchester, literally a part of the city of Boston but almost a city in its own right.

LeClaire Metals was in an old warehouse that had been renovated to house the company’s manufacturing operations, and offices. A sign read: TWEEZERS YOU CAN COUNT ON.

“What’s here?” Cathie asked as we parked across the street.

“Tweezers.”

“That’s why we’re here? You want to buy a pair of tweezers?”

“Maybe. LeClaire tweezers are supposed to be the best.” I noted the puzzled expression on her face. “Wait here,” I said.

Although it was overcast, I put on an oversized pair of sunglasses before leaving the car. I waited for traffic to thin, then crossed the street and entered the front door of LeClaire Metals where I was confronted by a receptionist, and a uniformed security guard. “May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“Perhaps,” I said. “I’m a high school teacher in Dorchester. I’m teaching a section on local businesses, and wondered whether you schedule tours.”

“Tours?” She smiled, then laughed. The guard laughed, too.

“Did I say something funny?” I asked.

“Who’d want a tour of this place?” the receptionist asked. “It’s just a dirty old factory back there.”

“But it’s obviously a successful business,” I said. “My students would—”

“Wait just a moment, Ms.—”

“Ah, Jennifer Flechter.”

She called someone on the phone. A few minutes later a young man emerged from a door behind the reception desk. “Can I help you?” he asked, introducing himself as Paul Molloy, the company’s manufacturing supervisor.

“I hope so,” I said. I repeated my lie.

“I suppose we could accommodate you,” he said. “When would you want to have this tour?”

“Oh, in a few weeks. Whatever would be convenient with you. May I see what my students will see?”

Twenty minutes later I was back in the lobby with Molloy and the receptionist. “Thank you so much,” I said. “It’s more interesting than one might imagine. Oh, by the way, a friend of mine did some consulting work for LeClaire Metals. At least I think she did. Her name is Cynthia Warren.”

Molloy and the receptionist looked at each other.

“Did you know her?”

“She was—”

“Yes?” I said, hoping to encourage the receptionist to say more.

“I don’t remember anyone working here by that name,” Molloy said.

“Do you?” I asked the receptionist.

“No.”

They were both lying, and I knew it.

“Give a call when you want to set up the tour,” Molloy said. “Sorry, but I’m late for a meeting.” He left the lobby.

“Is there a LeClaire at LeClaire Metals?” I asked the receptionist.

“Yes. Harry LeClaire. He’s the son of the founder. He’s on jury duty.”

“Really?”

“The Brannigan trial. Excuse me. I have work to do.”

“Of course. Thanks again.”

I left the building and walked up the street. Once I was sure no one in LeClaire Metals could see me, I waved for Cathie to pick me up at the corner.

“I hate to be nosy, Mrs. Fletcher, but what’s going on with the sunglasses, and visiting a factory?” she asked after I’d gotten in beside her.

“A hobby of mine,” I said. “Touring local businesses.”

“A hobby.”

“Let’s go here next.” I gave her Harry LeClaire’s home address.

LeClaire’s house was modest in size, and not particularly well-kept, a house very much lived in. I told Cathie to park a few houses down, on the opposite side of the street. Her expression said confusion, curiosity, and amusement.

We were there only a few minutes when a woman came out the front door, followed by a teenage girl, and a boy I judged to be about ten. I knew from his jury questionnaire that Harry LeClaire had two children. He was forty-two years old, and had been married to his wife, Susan, for seventeen years. It was the first marriage for both.

Susan LeClaire and her children got into a Volvo station wagon, backed out of the driveway, and passed us. I jotted down the plate number.

“Are we just going to sit here?” Cathie asked.

“Just give me a moment,” I said, pulling out LeClaire’s questionnaire and reading it again.

“Can I ask a dumb question, Mrs. Fletcher?” Cathie asked.

I looked up and smiled. “Of course.”

“Are you trying to disguise yourself with those sunglasses?”

“No, I—yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not being entirely truthful about who I am when I talk with certain people.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“My disguise?”

“Yup. Here.”

She handed me a floppy canvas hat. “This should do it,” she said.

I put on the hat and checked myself in the mirror. “I like it,” I said.

“Good. Okay, where to now, Sherlock?”

“Am I that obvious?” I said, laughing.

“Worse than that. But driving you is more fun than most of the people I get stuck with.”

“Thank you, Cathie. And may I call you Watson?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then let’s continue—Watson.”

We swung by Malcolm’s office where I asked Linda to dig out the file of clippings about Billy Brannigan’s alleged rape of a girl on Cape Cod, and that had prompted Jack Brannigan to cut Billy out of the family trust. Although the rape had supposedly taken place on the Cape, Billy’s accuser was from Dorchester.