I turned it over. “Did Grover Gant threaten Alan Spaeth at all?"
A shrug. "He might have. I wasn't paying attention to what he said. I was just going, 'Hey, easy now. Take it easy.' "
"Was there anybody else there?"
"Just about everybody, I think. Deborah—Deborah Ling, another associate?—she was in the hall by her office. Stayed out of it, though. And poor Imogene was covering at the reception desk. Looked scared to death."
I tried to picture it. "Ms. Burbage was Woodrow Gant's secretary, right?"
"Right."
"And she kept her boss's brother waiting in the reception area?"
Herman seemed uncomfortable with the question. "I don't know for how long, though."
Meaning it seemed odd to Herman as well that Imogene Burbage wouldn't have Grover Gant wait for his brother in the lawyer's own office.
I said, "And from the conference room, Woodrow Gant at the far side of the table could see through the glass to where his brother was waiting?"
Herman got very casual. "I suppose." He glanced across the next street, his voice changing back to curt, "My meeting's in that building."
"Just a few more questions, please."
Another check of his watch. "Hurry up and ask them."
"It seems Mr. Gant was having dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant the night he was killed. With a woman. Do you have any idea who she might be?"
"Negative."
"None at all?"
"Woodrow fancied himself a real stud. But whenever he'd say something about seeing a show or going to a restaurant, and you'd ask him with who, he'd always just say, 'Hey, man, a lady,' and smile. All right?"
"All right. Just—"
"Last question." More clock-watching. "I'm pitching a new client here, try to make up some of what we're going to lose by having to refer out a lot of Woodrow's cases. And my wife's coming all the way in from Weston Hills by train to meet me for dinner and Phantom over in the theater district."
Weston Hills, the town where Nguyen Trinh and Oscar Huong pulled the home invasion. But no time for that now. "How did Woodrow Gant react to the deposition incident with Mr. Spaeth?"
"React?"
"To what Mr. Spaeth was yelling at him."
"Woodrow just grinned."
“Just grinned?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
"I don't understand you."
Herman shook his head. "Woodrow knew he had him. Cold."
"Mr. Gant said that?"
"He didn't have to. As a lawyer, you drive an opposing client batshit-crazy, you've really done your job."
At which point Elliot Herman turned on his heel and went through a revolving door hard enough to keep it turning after I'd lost sight of him.
* * *
"Ms. Ling?"
"Yes, Mr. Cuddy. Please, come in and sit down."
When I'd gotten back to the law firm, the new receptionist had told me that Deborah Ling also had returned and asked that I see her as soon as possible. By the time I reached Ling's office door, she was looking up at me from her high-backed judge's chair behind a black, lacquered desk, a nondescript credenza holding a computer behind her.
About five-three when she stood to shake hands, Ling had black hair that framed her face in what we once would have called a pixie cut. Her eyes were solemn over a businesslike smile, three diamond studs in the lobe of each ear. She wore a pale green suit with faint pinstriping and a birthday-gift bow under the collar of her white blouse. The desk was completely clean except for a legal pad and pencil.
"Beautiful piece of furniture," I said, taking a seat.
"Thank you." Sitting herself, Ling trailed the fingertips of her right hand lightly over the black surface. "My parents brought it from China, then gave it to me when I graduated law school." Ling looked up at me. "Reluctantly."
"I'm sorry?"
"The traditional Chinese family, Mr. Cuddy, wants its female children educated, but not too educated. The role of the daughter is to care for her parents when they grow older. In the United States, that requires some schooling, even college, but not a degree nearly so . . . portable as a J.D."
"So you traveled a ways to end up in Boston."
"About three thousand miles. There would have been opportunities for me on the West Coast, especially as Hong Kong investors take a closer look at what the mainland has in store for them. But there's also a lot of gender prejudice among the newer immigrants. When most Asian men think of Asian women outside the family circle, they picture Thai and Cambodian 'pleasure girls,' not real estate attorneys."
"Which is your specialty?"
"That's right. Mostly small projects, speculative ventures sometimes. However, enough of that expatriate money makes its way to Boston that I can still use my heritage to wheel and deal some of it. Which is good news, given the student loans I'm still carrying."
The way Ling moved around from topic to topic might be a help to me, so I went with it. “I've heard they can be a bear these days."
"The loans? More like Tyrannosaurus rex. My monthly debt service equals my rent, and I know a couple of people graduating this year who'll total a hundred thousand in principal, with no way of getting a job that will come close to letting them pay it off. You can't deduct the interest on your tax return, and even if you declare bankruptcy, the loans aren't dischargeable as debts."
"Which means it's a good thing you're here."
Ling stopped, suddenly cautious. "At Epstein & Neely, you mean?"
"Yes."
"You bet," she said, more at ease again. "Frank encourages all of us to bring in our own business. Some friends of mine from school, who went to the big firms? They're wearing golden handcuffs now."
"Golden handcuffs?"
"They took jobs that paid a lot, but with little hope for a piece of the pie. Less than twenty percent of male associates ever make partner. And that drops to five percent for females, which is worse than statistics I've seen from the seventies, despite what Uta's always saying. So my friends earning their big bucks are just carrying their loans while they service the clients of the firm and never build their own base."
"Like you are here."
"That's right, Mr. Cuddy. Working in a solid operation with fine people." Another stop. "Including the one your client killed."
"Frank Neely spoke to you about me."
"As soon as I got back from my closing." Ling looked at a gilded clock on her wall. "And I have another in less than an hour. So, if you have any questions for me, let's get to them."
Ling folded her hands on the desktop, like a sharp third-grader slightly bored by the teacher.
I said, "For starters, I think there's a strong possibility someone other than Alan Spaeth murdered Woodrow Gant."
Ling's face showed no emotion. "I'd expect you to say something like that. Your questions?"
"Do you know of anyone who had a reason to kill Mr. Gant?"
"No."
"Threats or intimidation?"
"Just from your client."
"Let me hold that for a while, and—"
"Deborah, I'm real sorry."
From behind me, the voice of Patricia, the temp who'd also interrupted when I was with Uta Radachowski.
"What is it?" said Ling.
"An urgent call from Ms. Barber."
"Tell her I'll call her back."
"But she tried to reach Mr. Gant, and—"
"Take her number, Patricia," some juice behind it.
"Yes. Sorry."
Ling waited a moment, then looked at me. "Temp."
I nodded.
“I was helping Woodrow with a couple of his divorce clients—selling the marital home? They all need you yesterday."
I nodded again, though I wondered why Ling felt any explanation was necessary. "I'd like to start with the restaurant Mr. Gant ate at the night he was killed."
Except for her lips, Ling might have been a statue. "Why?"
"I understand you introduced him to the pla
ce."
"Oh." She shook her head, but it seemed unnatural, like a magician's gesture to an audience. "A friend of mine had tried it, so I took Woodrow there for lunch one day."
"Kind of far from the office for lunch."
"We both had to be in Dedham that morning, him for court. me at the registry of deeds. So we drove out in separate cars but decided to have lunch together on the way back, and I remembered this restaurant my friend had mentioned. 'Viet Mam,' right?"
"Right," I said evenly.
More head-shake. "I guess I feel a little guilty about it."
"Because?"
"Well, it's probably silly, but if I don't take Woodrow there, he might never have found the place himself."
Five miles from where he lived? "Did Mr. Gant enjoy his lunch at Viet Mam?"
Ling looked at me strangely. "He must have. Otherwise, why go back there?"
"Any idea who the woman with him might have been?"
"No. No, Epstein & Neely is a friendly place, Mr. Cuddy, but Woodrow didn't talk much to me about his personal life."
"Did he talk about it with anyone at the firm?"
"Not that I know of."
"Could we turn to the incident with Mr. Spaeth here in the conference room?"
"If we must."
"You feel uncomfortable discussing it?"
I took her hand. Warm and clutchy. "John Cuddy."
"I overheard what Imogene said to you." A conspiratorial tone as Herman released my hand. "You're going to be replacing Woodrow here at the firm?"
"No. I'm investigating Mr. Gant's death."
Her lower lip quivered.
"And by the way," I said, "if your husband's late for your date, it's my fault."
The lip quivered some more. "I don't care if Elliot's an hour late, so long as he was helping you put that murderer away."
Uh-oh. "Actually, he wasn't."
Herman's right index finger went to the mole under her eye, flicking at it. "I don't understand."
"I'm not a police officer, Mrs. Herman."
"You're not?"
"No. I work for the attorney representing Alan Spaeth."
The hand dropped to her side. Without another word, she turned and began walking toward the hall I'd used for Elliot Herman's office.
The temp glanced away from Imogene Burbage, then down to her board, then at Karen Herman's receding back. "But your husband's still on that conference call."
The busy associate's wife never even broke stride.
Chapter 8
IMOGENE BURBAGE LOOKED at me questioningly, but didn't say anything about Karen Herman. Instead, Burbage led me back to Frank Neely's office, and I followed her into it. As Burbage moved toward the closed closet door, I could see Neely wasn't at his desk. "I can come back another day."
Burbage had her hand on the knob. "Mr. Neely's upstairs."
She opened the door. "You first, please."
A wrought-iron, spiral staircase was spotlit from above like a piece of movable scenery on a stage.
As I walked up to Burbage, I got a closer look at a framed photograph next to the old one of the senior partner in his Army uniform. This shot was sepia, too, and showed Neely and a number of other GI's, wearing Ranger patches and ducking at the base of a cliff. Having seen a similar photo once, I thought I recognized the setting.
"Mr. Cuddy?" said Burbage.
I climbed the narrow, winding stairs. My shoes made the iron steps clang hollowly in the closet shaft, Burbage coming behind me and creating echoes over echoes.
"I hope we're not trying to sneak up on him."
My guide didn't respond.
At the top of the single flight was another closed door, the spotlight now strong and warm on my head and shoulders.
"Open it, please," said Burbage behind me.
The door swung outward, and I had the sensation of being in one of those old horror movies, where the scene you see isn't what you'd expect.
In this case, a tropical garden.
"Come in, John, come in." Neely's voice carried through the foliage. "It's something of a jungle, but mercifully without the predators."
There was a walkway three feet wide, its base composed of square, inlaid tiles in burgundy. Stepping onto the path, I looked up. Greenhouse glass reflected that alien glow of grow lights, the glass set into an aluminum superstructure. The aluminum struts slanted down and away from the ridgepoled peak twelve feet above to a red-bricked knee wall rising maybe two feet off the floor. Around me were trees and bushes bearing blossoms of every color, some more typical, others more exotic. A thick, perfumed mugginess hung in the air, like the atmosphere at the prayer rail of a funeral home.
Burbage closed the door and edged past me on the walkway without brushing against my suit. "This way, Mr. Cuddy."
The path wound through the greenery to a seating area of wrought-iron patio furniture painted white and upholstered with cushions the color of the tiles. Frank Neely stood in front of one chair, a rolling, glass-topped liquor cart to his right, no drink poured as yet on the small cocktail table to his left. He'd changed clothes since I'd seen him downstairs, the lawyer uniform gone in favor of a long-sleeved chamois shirt, khaki pants, and boat mocs.
Burbage said, "Will you be needing me for anything else, Mr. Neely?"
"No, thank you, Imogene. Just make sure everything's locked tight before you leave, and I'll let Mr. Cuddy out when he's ready to go."
"See you in the morning, then. Mr. Cuddy."
I turned, but Imogene Burbage was already walking away, her modest heels clicking back toward the staircase door. Neely said, “I thought I'd give you a choice."
I turned back to him.
He tapped the round, marble top of the cocktail table. "We can have drinks here or on the terrace."
"Outside's line with me."
"Yes. A little crisp, this time of year, but you look like the sort of man who doesn't bother with a topcoat till Thanksgiving. I love it inside among the flowers, but I've been told the air can be a bit close for others."
"Let's see the terrace."
Neely grinned, leading me along a different, curving path to the front of the building. French doors opened onto a twenty-by-fifteen area enclosed by an extension of the brick knee wall. The terrace was bordered on the right by the greenhouse and on the left by a sliding glass door to the living room of an apartment, the half-structure I'd seen from the sidewalk below. There was more of the wrought—iron furniture, but that wasn't what caught your eye.
Neely said, "Hell of a view, isn't it?"
No argument there. A hundred-twenty-degree slice of Boston Harbor shimmered beneath us under a veil of clouds like the trackmarks left by a bulldozer. Five stories up, Neely's roof was just far enough off the ground to muffle the unseen car traffic, just close enough to distinguish the people on the moored sailboats. Including one couple braving the wind off the water to neck on their quarterdeck, apparently oblivious to our being able to see them from above.
"Ah," said Neely. "Perhaps we should leave Romeo and Juliet to themselves."
Nodding, I turned, looking into the modest front room at the left decorated with couch and several easy chairs, louvered windows facing eastward as well.
I said, "How big is the greenhouse part?"
"Fifty by forty."
I did some quick arithmetic. "Doesn't leave you a lot of floorplan for apartment living space."
"That might depend on how you define 'living,' John. All I do in the penthouse there is sleep and read, and perhaps microwave leftovers from some take-out place or another. The terrace and the greenhouse are where I prefer to spend my time when—wait a minute."
I stopped, Neely looking back at the harbor. "Seems the lovebirds have repaired to a more comfortable billet below. Drinks on the terrace after all?"
"Fine."
"Ask for what you like. If it's not in stock, I won't be embarrassed."
"Vodka collins."
"Have a seat and enjoy the eve
ning."
Neely was gone only about five minutes, but when he came back, the sky was nearly showing stars.
"The pity about this time of year," handing me my drink in a tall tumbler.
"Losing the light so early?"
"Exactly." Neely had about five fingers of what looked like scotch over ice in an Old-fashioned glass as he lowered himself into the chair next to me, sitting at an angle so we both could watch the harbor.
I said, "Is the view what sold you on this location for the firm?"
Neely sipped his scotch. "Before I bore you with that, did you speak to everyone you wanted?"
"Yes." I had the feeling each had reported to him after seeing me, but being polite wouldn't hurt. "Thanks again for being so cooperative and asking them to do the same."
Neely waved it off. "The right thing to do. But now for the boring part. At my first two firms, I was mainly a trial attorney. Both offices fronted the water, but prestige then meant the highest floors the firms could command, and in those buildings that was so far up, the views became . . . I don't know, 'sterile,' maybe? You'd see the planes taking off and landing at Logan, the yachts and the booze cruises and even some honest working folk when they could still commercially fish the harbor. But you couldn't see any faces or equipment, hear somebody's laughter or the wind whistling through the rigging. From here, you get it all, even some of the stink when summer heats up the pollution in the water."
"So you chose this building when you formed your own firm."
"I did. Or we did, Len Epstein and I."
"The partnership owns the building?"
"Ah, no. Actually Len and I bought it as real estate partners, not law partners. Tax reasons. When he passed on, the building passed to me."
"Along with its 'available space'?"
That bittersweet smile. "You'd be referring to the conspicuous absence of tenants on the floors below the firm."
"Must be one hell of a cash drain."
"It is, truth to tell. Len and I bought at the apex of the real estate frenzy, and after the market tanked, we were lucky to hold on." Neely seemed to look back in time. "When Len died, I sold a few things to sort of consolidate here. I built this little aerie and began living above the offices." A slow swinging of the head. "I like to tell people my commute's only fifteen vertical feet, which is about the height of that staircase you climbed with Imogene."
The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy Page 10