The only good Lawyer

been just random chance. In fact, it was hard to see any reason why a former A.D.A. would ever intentionally patronize such a place. However, if Gant’s meals there were more than coincidence, my best hope for learning what that reason might be would more likely come from the man’s present circle.
    And Steve Rothenberg had given me a wedge for penetrating that.

    * * *

    Commercial Street curves with the waterfront while providing land access to a dozen wharves jutting into the harbor between the Aquarium and the Charlestown Bridge . The wharves support substantial condominium complexes, both business and residential uses in the same buildings to retain that “quaint” look. Unfortunately, Boston ’s real estate recession had really whacked most properties east of Quincy Market’s “ultimate shopping experience.”
    The address of Epstein & Neely, attorneys at law, turned out to be a five-story combination of red brick and weathered gray shingle. It stood across from Spaulding Wharf , facing southeast toward a hundred-slip marina, twenty or so sailboats-to-yachts still creaking against floating docks. The building’s directory was displayed next to a set of buttons on the jamb of the downstairs entrance. The directory showed a travel agency on the ground floor, open slots for the second and third, and the law firm on four. Nothing for the fifth, which from the sidewalk seemed to be built across only half the roof.
    I looked into the picture window next to the door. A bare counter, a single chair, and two posters of the Caribbean with water as natural-looking as a tinted contact lens. It seemed that our recession had caused even the travel agency to pull the rip cord.
    Before pressing the button for the law firm, I tried the main entrance door. It opened onto a postage-stamp lobby with a staircase and a tiny elevator sporting one of those old-fashioned, diamond windows.
    In the elevator—and out of curiosity—I pushed the button for “2.” The little number outline didn’t light up. Same for floor “3.” The fourth button did make contact, and the door slid closed.
    When the backlit “4” went dark, the cab opened onto a reception area with wine-and-gold swirled carpeting. I got another view of the marina through a glass-walled conference room that had a bigger picture window to the outside world than the departed travel agency downstairs. The higher perspective made the boats seem less impressive against the greater expanse of harbor.
    A polished teak reception desk graced the carpeting between the elevator and the conference room. A woman in her thirties looked up at me from the telephone console as she massaged her left wrist with the other hand. Reddish hair was drawn back into a bun, and a pair of half-glasses perched halfway down her nose. If she wore any makeup, I couldn’t see its effects. Her suit jacket was brown, the blouse under it maize.
    A spindly pilot’s mouthpiece angled toward thin lips and a narrow jaw. In a very controlled voice, the woman said, “I’m afraid Ms. Ling is out of the office right now.” Stopping the massage, she reached for a pen, raising it to a hovering position over a spiral notebook with serrated, pink and yellow bi-part message slips in it. A plastic, compartmentalized holder contained the pink copies of other messages. “No, for some reason the system isn’t accepting voice mail, but I can take a... Very well.”
    Her left hand moved subtly, and I had the feeling the connection had been broken, partly because the woman said to me, “May I help you?”
    The controlled voice still. “Yes. John Cuddy here to see Mr. Epstein or Mr. Neely.”
    “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
    “I can wait.”
    A labored sigh. “Mr. Epstein passed away four years ago.”
    Not one of my better starts. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
    “Obviously not. And Mr. Neely is in conference.”
    “Then I’ll wait for him.”
    “His schedule is rather full.” She didn’t need to consult anything to determine that. “Our telephone number is five-one-three, two-two-oh-oh. Perhaps if you called to make an appointment?”
    “Perhaps if you told Mr. Neely I’m here investigating the death of Woodrow Gant?” I put one of my business cards on the desktop, but before the woman looked down, her whole face drooped.
    “Please...” A more hushed voice now. “Please be seated for a moment.”
    Arranged in a corner were a love seat and two wing chairs, the same polished