Now Murphy was staring at me. "My question still stands."
"Why is this woman dead?"
"That's the question. What's your answer?"
"I don't know."
"Not good enough."
"Lieutenant—"
"No 'Lieutenant' bullshit, Cuddy." Murphy was getting hot, and tough to blame him. "I want the straight skinny, and I want it now."
I glanced around the trash pile. "I don't see her handbag anywhere."
“Neither did the poor son of a bitch taking out the trash, and I believe him."
"Which means, it could have been an unrelated mugging."
"That's how we'll carry it for now, media-wise." Murphy turned away from me and spoke in a softer voice. "But everybody who thinks that's likely, raise his hand."
Neither of us did.
I said, "Besides the torn pantyhose, any indication of sexual assault?"
"No," from Murphy, over the shoulder, "but we have to wait on the M.E. and lab tests to be sure."
"Speaking of which, you get any better time of death for Michael Mantle?"
He turned back to me. "We're not talking about Mantle. We're talking about Ling" Murphy took a breath. "Account of your client Spaeth being a guest of the county, he's in the clear on this one. So, who might've killed her?"
I couldn't see how keeping my promise to Deborah Ling would help the woman now.
"Cuddy, I'm—"
"She had a boyfriend," I said.
* * *
After giving Robert Murphy the information about Nguyen Trinh and his enforcer, I went back to my office and called Nancy. The person picking up her phone said Ms. Meagher was on trial for the afternoon. I left a simple, "If you see the news, I'm okay," and hung up on him.
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. E
lliot 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."
As Elliot Herman reached the reception area, he said, "What a fucking nightmare."
The atmosphere in the room felt like he was speaking for everybody.
Chapter 20
DOWNSTAIRS, I WAITED inside the lobby doors, watching Commercial Street to make sure I couldn't see the green Mercedes or its usual occupants. Outside, I hailed a taxi and told the driver to take me to the intersection of Beacon Street and Gloucester, a block past my condo building at Fairfield. I didn't see anything threatening as we drove by. The cabbie probably thought I was crazy, but he followed my instructions to functionally circle the block before dropping me off at the corner of Marlborough and Fairfield. I stood for a while, eyes now on the parking lot behind my building. Still nothing.
I can't say, though, that the two minutes it took me to walk around to the stoop outside the front door were the shortest in memory.
* * *
When I got upstairs to the condo, Nancy was on my telephone machine, with a "Call me at home" message. After dialing her number, I got the outgoing tape, but as I started to talk after the beep, she picked up.
"John?"
"Screening your calls?"
"Yes, but you're the one crank I wanted to hear from."
The bantering tone again. "That sounds hopeful."
"Thanks for letting me know you were all right."
"I wasn't sure what you'd think was going on."
"It sounds pretty . . . bizarre?"
I didn't want to worry her with the Trinh/Huong factor.
"What's beyond 'bizarre'?"
Nancy's tone changed. "John, for obvious reasons, I can't ask at the office how the case against Spaeth is going, but I thought maybe you'd have heard."
"Nothing definite."
"Oh." A little breath over the phone. "That's too ba
d."
I took a chance. "What's beyond 'too bad'?"
Her throaty laugh. "I had some white wine chilled."
"And a fire stoked?"
"My apartment doesn't have a fireplace."
"I know."
Another laugh. "We'll just have to wait on that, too."
"Nance, this is torture."
"Then just think how good you'll feel when it stops."
I heard the click before my next line occurred to me.
* * *
The ten o'clock television news covered Deborah Ling's killing in the usual, tasteful manner.
Video captured the removal via gurney of the bagged body from the dumpster area to the M.E.'s van. A solemn voiceover by the reporter at the scene lamented another "murder by mugging" and the "tragic irony" of a second attorney from the same small firm meeting a "violent death" in two weeks. All of Ling's coworkers were "deep in their own grieving" and therefore "unavailable for comment."
I watched a different station at eleven, but the news didn't get any better. I went to bed right after that, laying my gun on the night table next to the telephone.
* * *
I woke up Saturday morning without the clock radio. When I turned on the all-news station, the weather forecaster said the temperature had plummeted to thirty overnight. An October taste of the December to come.
I was feeling tight and edgy, as much from not seeing Nancy as thinking about Murphy not finding our Amerasian mafia. A good run along the Charles might burn off the excess anxiety. I pulled on my running shorts and the leg brace, then a pair of sweatpants. On top I wore a cotton turtleneck and the hooded sweatshirt with the quarterback hand muffler in front.
I debated whether or not to put the Chief's Special in the muffler part, because then I'd have to run with both hands in there, my right to hold the handle, my left so I wouldn't look even odder.
Before leaving the apartment, I sat by the kitchen window for a while, watching Beacon Street. No sign of Trinh, Huong, or their car. Same from the foyer downstairs, so I opened the brownstone's front door and went outside.
The cold air was bracing under a painfully blue sky, the absence of clouds probably contributing to the radiational cooling that had sent the mercury dropping. The wind blew a good twenty miles an hour in the block between the buildings as I jogged from Beacon toward the pedestrian ramp over Storrow Drive. Once on the macadam path, I turned upriver first, the Charles to my right showing boulder-sized whitecaps against its basically black water. The now northwest gale had jumped up a notch to twenty-five or so, the windchill down around zero.
The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy Page 24