The only good Lawyer

Woodrow Gant’s murder more closely to the firm.”
    “Exactly. I certainly didn’t want the authorities thinking they had to reopen that whole can of worms. Sweet Jesus, John, you were bad enough.”
    “But then you thought of a way to kill two birds with one phone call.”
    The accomplishment smile again. “Trinh’s number was in Deborah’s handbag. I’d met Grover Gant often enough, and one street-black voice is very much like another. Not too difficult to fool Trinh, ‘if you know what I’m saying, man.’ ”
    That last in dialect. “So Trinh buys that it’s Grover calling him to say I was the one who strangled his girlfriend, Ling.”
    “As I’d hoped. And it worked, almost perfectly.”
    “I killed Trinh and Huong, but they didn’t quite kill me.”
    “No, but with them both unable to give their versions, they turn out to be quite nice remainder suspects, and even with you still alive, no reason to think any further investigation was needed to get Alan Spaeth—’innocent stooge’—off the Woodrow Gant hook.”
    Burbage said, “You killed Mr. Gant, and this poor man named Mantle, and Ms. Ling. And then you tried to get somebody else to kill Mr. Cuddy?”
    “Let me guess, Imogene. With all this talk of betrayal, you somehow feel I’ve let you down, too.” Burbage now wrenched her hand away from mine, forcefully enough that the motion torqued my ribcage, and I had to let go of her.
    She stepped toward Neely and in front of me. In a strong, even voice, Burbage said, “Woodrow Gant was my boss, too.”
    “I’m sorry you feel that way, Imogene. But even if you didn’t, I’m afraid I have no—”
    Whether Burbage realized Neely was going to kill both of us, or whether she simply snapped, I’ll never know. But she ran at him just as the report of the Colt, even muffled by her body mass, thundered in the confines of the greenhouse. The exiting forty-five slug tore a grisly hole the size of a plum in the center of her back before whistling past my left arm and thumping into a tree behind me.
    There was nothing I could do for Imogene Burbage, so I turned and dove into the little forest myself, the ribs punishing me for the effort. One more shot from the rear, the unmuffled report even louden its bullet making a zipping noise as it plowed through the leaves near my head and ricocheted off the brick knee-wall.
    My ribcage pounding, I crawled through the foliage and onto the narrow, bordering walkway around the glass windows of the greenhouse. Getting into a squatting position, I listened stock-still for which route Frank Neely would take toward me.
    Absolute silence from him, too.
    Then just his voice with, “John?” A short pause. “I don’t expect you to answer me, of course. But I thought talking this through might make more sense than chasing you down.”
    Silence again, as though Neely really did expect me to answer him, before, “Here’s the way I see it, John.” His voice still came from near the table and chairs where he’d shot Burbage. “We can play hide-and-seek for a while, but I’m a little old for that, and honestly there’s simply no place for you to go. The staircase door is locked, and my elevator in the apartment requires a key as well. Furthermore, it’s kind of a long way down to ground level by air.”
    A small laugh. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be joking about this. But I can’t see either of us being stupid when the end of the game isn’t in doubt.”
    I forced my mind to weigh the options. Why would Neely be offering me the chance to walk up to him for a functional suicide? I looked around. It was the glass, stretching from the ridgepoled peak down to the knee wall. He didn’t want to fire another shot that might shatter a pane and draw attention from Commercial Street below us.
    “John?”
    On the other side of the trees and shrubs, Neely had shifted, toward my right and the front of the garden.
    I looked around again, this time more specifically. No rakes or shovels or even buckets, nothing that could be a makeshift weapon.
    “John, please. Let’s be dignified about this, all right?”
    More to my right now, and closer to turning a corner at the front of the roof. Where he’d spot me easily.
    I tried to picture Neely where I’d last seen him. The Colt in his right hand as Burbage lunged forward, behind us the table and...
    If not a weapon, maybe a shield?
    A very slight crunching sound to my right, and I hopped like a frog back into the foliage as