The only good Lawyer

virtue.
    I said, “Any other ideas?”
    “Try the drunk tank,” offered Leo.
    Moira grunted a small laugh. “And you with the word ‘charity’ falling from your lips not a minute past.”

    I didn’t have any more luck at the other watering holes, so I walked to Alan Spaeth’s new apartment building. The address was a three-decker, his name on a yellow Post-it over the second-floor button, no names identifying the other two. I tried the first and third anyway, getting no response for my trouble.
    Then I thought of something. According to Spaeth, he and Mantle had been drinking together upstairs. If Mantle were hiding from something—or someone— maybe he’d use his friend’s empty apartment. I pushed the middle button, but got nothing again.
    I was about to leave when the front door opened on a chain and yanked taut, a dour woman in her forties looking out tentatively through the four-inch gap. “What do you want?”
    “The name’s John Cuddy.” I held up my license folder. “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”
    “It’s about that horrible man on the second floor, isn’t it?”
    “Maybe if I could come in—”
    “Not a chance. I can tell you all I want to through this chain.” She glanced behind her. “I live on the first floor here. I was coming in from a shift at the hospital, dog-tired and dirty, when that man tried to proposition me.”
    Alan Spaeth, making friends wherever he goes. “Look—”
    “He wouldn’t take no for an answer, either.”
    “I’m sorry. Truly, Ms....?”
    “No. No, I’m not giving you my name. He’s a horrible man, and I’m glad he’s in jail.”
    “Did you hear anything upstairs last Wednesday evening? It’s very important.”
    She chose her words carefully. “I was on the four-to-midnight, but we had a carryover case, so I didn’t get home until almost one a.m. Then all the commotion with the police woke me up at five.” Careful yielded to petulant. “Only four hours of sleep after the night I had at the hospital. Now, I ask you, is that fair?”
    “It sure isn’t. You know of anyone else here I could talk with?”
    “There was a nice old lady—Mrs. Crawford—who lived on the third floor, but she died two months back, and nobody’s moved in yet.”
    Last hope. “You said you live on the first floor and Mr. Spaeth on the second?”
    “That’s right. Had to keep my door to the back stairs locked because of him trying to proposition me. Never needed to do that before.”
    I waited until she finished. “Since Mr. Spaeth was arrested, have you heard anyone moving around up there?”
    Her features scrunched together. “That... really... sucks.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Scaring me with ‘Is anybody living up there in secret?’ That really sucks, you know?”
    “Look—”
    “I mean, this is my home you’re talking about. My life, even, and you have to ask me that?”
    “But have you heard—”
    “No. No!”
    The door slammed hard enough in my face that I felt the vibration through my shoes.

    After walking back to the Prelude, I drove past another three-decker. There were no lights burning in Nancy ’s third-floor apartment. Given my luck so far that night, I didn’t stop.
    Reaching Back Bay , I left the car in its slot behind the corner brownstone and went around to the Beacon Street entrance. Upstairs in the living room, the fuzzy glow from the street lamp outside seeped through the stained-glass windows. The polished, oak-front fireplace hadn’t been used since early spring, but it was comforting to think of Nancy and me, curled up on the rug with a couple of birch logs crackling and snapping.
    What wasn’t comforting was to look at the answering machine. The “0” in the message window meant none from her.
    Two hours lately I went to bed with the telephone squared toward me on the night table. Figuring, Nancy might still call.
    Might, but didn’t.

Chapter 11

    S teven Rothenberg .”
    “John Cuddy,” I said into the phone Thursday morning, trying to keep my irritation at Nancy out of my voice while balancing a bowl of cornflakes on my lap.
    “Can I get back to you, John?”
    “Probably not.”
    A sigh combined with the rustling of paper. “Okay, shoot.”
    “Pm calling from my apartment because I want to drive out to Woodrow Gant’s old prosecutor’s office, maybe talk to some people who knew him when.”
    “When he was prosecuting?” said Rothenberg.
    “Yes.”
    “What do you have so