The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (35 page)

Then I called Steve Rothenberg. The dippy
receptionist connected me, and he answered after one ring.

"Hello?"

"Steve, John Cuddy."

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier,
about me not calling the D.A. on—"

"He may be calling you."

Rothenberg coughed. “What happened?"

"I don't know. And that's not an evasive
answer."

"All right, tell me what you do know."

When I'd finished about Deborah Ling, Rothenberg
whistled.

Then he said, "Forgive me if I say this sounds
like good news for a change."

"Sorry, Steve, I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Forgive you for saying that."

"John, come on—"

"No, Steve. We missed something, and since you
know pretty much only what I've been telling you, that means I missed
something. And now there's a woman dead, maybe because of it."

"You can't blame yourself for Ling. Or for this
Mantle guy, either."

"Mantle, no, because probably he died the same
night Woodrow Gant did. And by the same hand, But I've been rattling
cages for the last few days, and something I said or did set somebody
off without me seeing it coming."

"Fine, John. You want the guilt of God on your
shoulders, that's okay by me. I've got enough of my own to carry,
thank you very much." A stop, and a different emotion came over
the wire. "Seriously, John, I do thank you. Spaeth's case has
been keeping me up nights, which never happens when the guy I've got
is deadbang dirty and I'm just forcing the Commonwealth's side to be
honest. Whatever you did, it may have somehow cost Ling her life, but
I think it's going to give Spaeth back his."

From what I'd seen of both
people, I didn't think it an even trade.

* * *

The phone seemed to ring differently than usual.
Louder, somehow.

"John Cuddy."

"Murphy. We can't find Trinh or his muscle."

"Where are you, Lieutenant?"

"Their office in Brighton. It's not cleaned out,
but there's not much to look at, either. At least, without a warrant"

"You try that coffee shop?"

"Yeah. The owner claims she never heard of
them."

"How about the restaurant?"

"Viet Mam? The owner's story is that Trinh just
helped him get started. Doesn't know shit from Shinola about Trinh
spying on Woodrow Gant or dating Deborah Ling."

"Chan knows, Lieutenant. He's just scared."

"Well, maybe you ought to join him."

"What do you mean?"

"While I've been chasing after Trinh and Huong,
one of my other detectives was at the law firm. Seems both that
secretary Burbage and the head guy Neely thought Ling was upset about
something ever since you saw her yesterday afternoon."

Her work on the Viet Mam building deal. "Meaning
Trinh might be targeting me, too."

"That's what I'm thinking."

"How about Uta Radachowski and Elliot Herman?"

"What about them?"

"Did they have any contact with Ling last night
or today?"

"My detective asked, and both said no, except
that around lunchtime Herman saw a woman in Quincy Market who might
have been her."

" 'Might have been'?"

"He was a ways away, and behind her."

"Well, you already know everything Ling and I
talked about."

"This Imogene Burbage told my detective that a
man with an 'Asian' accent tried to reach Ling by telephone all this
morning, but she—Ling, now—wouldn't take his calls."

"You're thinking Trinh might have decided on a
personal appearance?"

"You met the scumbag. He strike you as the type
that's satisfied with 'no' for an answer?"

I thought about it. And about missing something that
might have gotten Deborah Ling killed. "Lieutenant, can you put
somebody on Grover Gant?"

"The brother? Why would we want to watch him?"

"Not so much watch as baby-sit. Grover owed
Trinh, and if Trinh and Huong did Ling, they probably did Mantle and
therefore Woodrow Gant as well."

A pause. "Meaning Grover might be next on
Trinh's list?"

"I don't know."

"That's not much reason for me to authorize a
bodyguard, Cuddy."

"It's all I've got right now. But I'd hate to
see another member of the Gant family added to the body count."

A shorter pause. "I hear you. Only thing is, we
start putting people on Gant—or you and the other people at the law
firm, for that matter—I'm going to be doing a lot of baby-sitting
and not much investigating."

“
Take it from me, Lieutenant. Investigating's
vastly overrated."

Lieutenant Robert Murphy
might actually have been laughing as he hung up his end of the line.

* * *

My phone was barely back in its cradle when it rang
again. Somehow it seemed louder still, which I wouldn't have thought
possible.

"Cuddy, this is Frank Neely."

"Frank—"

"I want you over here, and I mean now, mister."

I didn't say anything.

"Cuddy? If you aren't—"

"I don't work for you, Frank."

“
Goddamnit, we tried to do the right thing!
Cooperate with the defendant's side. And now Deborah's dead, too."

"I didn't say I wouldn't come over. I just don't
like the 'command performance' attitude."

I thought I could hear the
sound of teeth grinding, but in a different tone, Neely said, "As
soon as possible, then. Please."

* * *

It was maybe fifteen minutes more than that, because
I waited inside my office door for a while to listen for movement or
breathing in the corridor outside it. And on the stairs, for the
same. At the front entrance to my building, I looked across the
street and both ways on Tremont itself before taking a zigzag route
to the waterfront.

From Spaulding Wharf, I watched the old red-bricked
and weathered shingle structure for a while more before walking over
to it. Nobody in the lobby, and the elevator worked fine as it
brought me to the fourth floor.

I guess I would have expected everybody to be in the
glass-walled conference room, but they weren't. Uta Radachowski
filled one of the reception area chairs, a bunch of Kleenex wadded in
one of her big hands. Elliot Herman risked his suit pants by sitting
on the wine-and-gold carpeting, back against a wall, heels at his
butt and wrists resting on his knees. Imogene Burbage was behind the
reception desk, the tears trickling down her cheeks not smearing her
makeup because she didn't wear any.

And Frank Neely? He stood off to the side, by the
conference room but not quite in its doorway, holding a Colt
forty-five semiautomatic handgun the way they taught us back in
Officer Basic, feet spread shoulder width apart, the muzzle steady
and aimed at my chest.

Neely closed his eyes, but lowered the Colt. "I'm
glad it's you."

He looked a little more comfortable at one end of the
teak conference table, the forty-five on the wood in front of him,
encircled by his forearms. Uta Radachowski sat to Neely's right, back
to the exterior window, Elliot Herman next to her. Imogene Burbage
was at Neely's left, pencil hovering over a steno pad, which I found
quaintly affecting. It had seemed sensible for me to take the other
end of the table, facing the senior partner across its long axis, and
so I had.

Neely said, "We've been grieving so much lately,
it almost seems like what we do." `

"I'm sorry about Ms. Ling"

Radachowski leaned forward, looking at me. "What
did you do that got Deborah killed?"

"I don't know that I did anything."

Herman said, "No more rations of shit, Cuddy.
Two of us are dead, and you're saying you don't think they're
connected?"

"I think they're connected. I just don't know
what, if anything, I did to close the circuit."

Neely held up a hand. "This isn't the time to be
extending metaphors, John. Elliot's right. We want to know why two
attorneys from this firm are dead, but we also want to know whether
the rest of us are in any kind of jeopardy."

I let my eyes go around the table. Everybody was
looking at me except for Burbage, who seemed to concentrate on her
steno pad.

I said, "Woodrow Gant was killed a week ago
Wednesday night. Alan Spaeth claimed he had an alibi witness named
Michael Mantle. Predawn today, this Mantle was found dead, probably a
good week after the fact. Which means Spaeth's alibi witness died
about the same time as your Mr. Gant. Then this afternoon, Deborah
Ling is found dead, too, apparently killed by the same method as Mr.
Mantle, but now while Spaeth is locked away in a cell. That's pretty
much all I know.

Any ideas?"

Herman kept looking at me, Radachowski switched to
the table, and Neely to Burbage. "Imogene, when did you last see
Deborah?"

Burbage wrote as she spoke. "Eleven-forty-seven,
exactly. Ms. Ling said she had an early afternoon meeting, and
therefore needed to eat a quick lunch first."

I said, "Ms. Ling's body was behind the South
Market building. Anybody see her after she left here?"

Herman worked his jaw, and Neely caught it. "Elliot?"

"As I told the police detective, I went to one
of the counter places in Quincy Market on the way to my own meeting.
About a block away, I saw this woman who could have been Deborah, but
her back was toward me as she walked, so I'm going mainly by that."

I said, "By the way the woman walked, you mean?"

"Yes. But her hair was right, too."

"How about clothes?"

Herman shook his head. "Didn't notice."

Burbage said, "Deborah was wearing a—"

Herman snapped. "I said I didn't notice,
Imogene."

She bit at her lower lip, but kept writing on the
pad.

Uta Radachowski turned toward me. "I never saw
Deborah at all this morning."

I said, "Frank?"

Neely seemed uncomfortable. "What you're about
to hear is . . . confidential information."

I looked at him. "The police aren't likely to
respect that very much."

"I've already told them, John. I meant more that
it was given to me in confidence by Deborah, and so I'd appreciate
the rest of you keeping it that way as much as possible, too."

Neely waited until we all nodded back at him, then
spoke toward his pistol. "Deborah came to see me early this
morning, in my office. She said she had a problem of a . . . romantic
nature. It required her to take at least a few days off, and maybe to
request a . . . leave of absence."

Not what I expected. Nor what anyone else did,
apparently. Herman closed his eyes, Radachowski shook her head, and
Burbage raised her chin to stare very, very hard at her boss. Neely
looked at me instead of his secretary. "When I asked Deborah how
long a leave she was talking about, she said she wasn't sure."

I watched the others. "I take it this is the
first time the rest of you have heard of Ms. Ling's intentions?"

Nods all around.

Neely waited a beat, then said, "John, I'd still
like your best analysis. Do we have anything to fear individually
from whoever killed Deborah? Or Woodrow?"

I tried to engage each person at the table except for
Burbage, who'd gone back to communing with her steno pad. "Ms.
Ling was involved in a relationship with a pretty vicious man, an 
Amerasian named Nguyen Trinh. I'm guessing that's who was calling her
this morning here at the firm."

Burbage started to look up at me, then broke it off
and just kept writing.

I said, "Trinh and his henchman, another
Amerasian named Oscar Huong, had a strong motive to kill Woodrow
Gant, though for a whole host of reasons, I don't see them actually
having done it."

Both Herman and Neely seemed about to say something,
but each held back.

"However, I'm going to describe Trinh and Huong
for you, and I'll ask the police to send over photos of both. If you
see either man—or even if you've ever seen them—call Lieutenant
Robert Murphy at Boston Homicide or ask to speak to someone from his
squad."

Neely said, "I remember Murphy. And that other
detective who was here earlier today left me his card."

Radachowski cleared her throat. "Mr. Cuddy, what
you're saying is that each of us could in fact be in some danger."

"Honestly, I don't know."

Herman slammed his palm on the teak surface. "Which
is exactly where we were twenty fucking minutes ago." He stood
up and strode for the doorway.

"Elliot?" said Neely.

"I'm calling Karen at home, Frank. Warn her not
to answer the phone or the door till I get there."