The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremish Healy Page B

in?"
    I looked from Larry Cosentino to Alicia Velez and
back again, both of them nodding.
    No wonder Chan and Dinah were so scared.
 
    Chapter 6
    BEFORE LEAVING THE gang unit, I got Nguyen Trinh's
office address. I thought about paying Chan's landlord a visit, but
my original trip to Viet Mam might itself trigger something, and
given Cosentino's description of Oscar Huong, I'd want to meet the
Amerasians on my ground rather than theirs. Also, Woodrow Gant's
eating at a restaurant in a building owned by a prior defendant could
have 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 8 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