The only good Lawyer

wouldn’t have sprung something involving Nancy on me, no matter what his mood might be.
    I drew even with him and looked down at the other end of the trash pile. The orange rinds and banana peels had been brushed away from the face staring up at us. The eyes were bulging, the tongue gorged and turned that grotesque shade of blue.
    The way Michael Mantle would have been if the rats hadn’t been at him first.
    “You recognize her,” said Murphy, but not as a question.
    I did, though what I saw on the ground made no sense. “Deborah Ling.”
    He nodded. “I met her when we did the Q&A over at Woodrow Gant’s law firm, day after he was killed on the road.”
    “I was there a little while ago.”
    “The road?”
    “No, at Epstein & Neely. The head secretary, Imogene Burbage, said Ling hadn’t gotten back from a meeting after lunch.”
    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 enforce^ 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