The only good Lawyer

fingerprints.”
    “Bear with me a moment, please. You were Mr. Gant’s secretary. Was there anyone else who ever threatened him?”
    “No.”
    “You’re sure.”
    “As you said, Mr. Cuddy, I was Mr. Gant’s secretary. He would have confided in me.”
    I filed that away. “And he never mentioned any other problems?”
    “Never.”
    “Not even about the people he used to prosecute?”
    “That was all concluded years ago.”
    “Sometimes grudges die hard.”
    “Yes,” said Burbage. “I know.”
    A hard person to read. “Witnesses at the restaurant say that a woman had dinner with Mr. Gant before he was killed.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    “Do you have any idea who she might have been?”
    “None.”
    “The woman was described as blond and attractive, wearing—”
    “I don’t know who Mr. Gant was seeing.”
    “He never... confided in you?”
    Burbage’s face lost its tension for just a moment, her composure fading into a checkerboard of paleness and color as she returned her hands to her lap. “That was... uncalled for, Mr. Cuddy.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    Burbage looked behind the desk, as though she were addressing someone sitting in the swivel chair. “Mr. Gant was very active socially. Women would call him here, but never meet him here.”
    “When they asked for Mr. Gant over the telephone, they didn’t give you or the receptionist their names?”
    “No. Mr. Gant didn’t like us screening his calls that way. He said it might discourage a potential client who didn’t want her name known as yet.”
    More plausible, given the divorce context. “Then how do you know these women reached him here?” Burbage came back to me. “Mr. Gant would close his door.” Abruptly, her tone shifted again. “Mr. Cuddy, I don’t know who that woman in the restaurant was.”
    Those were Burbage’s words. But I had the feeling that if she did know, Imogene Burbage wouldn’t tell me anyway. At least out of loyalty to her dead boss, and maybe because of some other emotions kicking around inside her as well.
    “Mr. Neely said he wanted to speak with you after you’d seen Mr. Gant’s office.”
    Burbage announced that over her shoulder in a loudish voice when we were almost to the reception area. Aware of her, the temp behind the desk there said, “Imogene, could you please look at this?”
    As Burbage walked toward her, I saw another woman sitting in the same wing chair I’d used. She looked a little older than in the photo on Elliot Herman’s desk. Athletic legs were shown generously by a short evening dress, a coat lying across her lap. The hair was still honey-blond, but now clipped short in layers all around, like a furry hat the moths had found over the summer. Despite that, she remained attractive, a little mole just under the right eye accenting her face rather than detracting from it. Both eyes followed me as she nodded.
    I nodded back.
    The woman rose, making a production out of it in high heels that brought her to maybe five-eight. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Karen Herman.”
    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

    I mogene 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