The only good Lawyer

client files of yours being carried to Frank Neely’s office. Transferred to him, really. The visit by Parris Jeppers to you last Friday.”
    “There was nothing inappropriate about that.”
    “Maybe not. A little odd, though, given that Jeppers had told me he wasn’t investigating Woodrow Gant anymore.”
    Radachowski didn’t say anything.
    “But our man at the Board might have been keeping his ear to the ground for you. Making sure nothing came up to scotch your nomination.”
    She didn’t bother to look around because the lobby was too small a place for someone to hide. “I’d be the first declared lesbian on the bench, Mr. Cuddy. It would be very embarrassing to the governor for this to leak before he’s ready to make the formal announcement. ”
    “It won’t, at least not from me. I just needed to hear you confirm what I suspected.”
    Radachowski took a minute before saying, “I guess I have to take your word on that.”
    “I guess you do. Like you ‘had’ to recommend Woodrow Gant to Nicole Spaeth.”
    Radachowski blinked. “I don’t...?”
    “You recommended Gant to her, even though you were aware of his ‘reputation’ with female clients.”
    “They were just rumors. Unsubstantiated allega—”
    “You strike me as pretty street-sawy. I think you felt the rumors were more true than false, yet you still recommended your law partner to the woman. Why, Ms. Radachowski?”
    “I already told—”
    “Because you were a little worried about your old firm’s ‘future viability’ without new business flowing into it?”
    The jaw set. “Mr. Cuddy, it seems I’m doomed to be terminating conversations with you.”
    Despite that last line, Radachowski waited until I turned to open the elevator door before saying, “You’re wasting your time.”
    “Sorry?”
    “Frank wasn’t in his office, and Elliot’s been off at a meeting all afternoon.”
    “How about Ms. Burbage?”
    “Imogene’s still there,” said Uta Radachowski, though even from the kindly judge-in-waiting, it came out more as, Imogene’s always there.

    * * *

    “Me again.”
    Burbage hadn’t been watching the elevator door, maybe assuming that Radachowski had forgetten something and was coming back to get it. My voice threw the woman behind the reception desk enough that she looked up with her mouth open.
    “Mr. Cuddy, Pm... Pm afraid no one’s available to see you.”
    “That’s okay. You’re the one I want to talk to.” Burbage looked back down at the message pad and began writing on it. “We have nothing to talk about.”
    “You should have used a carrier pigeon.”
    She raised her head again. “A what?”
    “Carrier pigeon. Frank Neely told me that to send a message on one, you have to roll the paper and stick it into this little quiver on the bird’s leg.”
    No response from Burbage.
    I reached for the inside pocket of my suit jacket. “But since you sent this through the mail slot in an envelope,” laying the photocopied phone message on her desk, “I could see how neatly creased it was. And when my name didn’t appear on even the envelope itself, I realized that was probably because the handwriting would match yours on the slip, since the only other writing was Deborah Ling’s, and she was well past being able to hand-deliver anything anymore.”
    Burbage gave up the game. “You’re really a lot smarter than you like to show, aren’t you?”
    “If so, we’re two of a kind.”
    “Flattery doesn’t work with me, Mr. Cuddy.”
    “That’s too bad. You’ve earned some.”
    A confused expression. “What do you mean?”
    I moved my hand in a small arc. “Everything you do around here. Secretary, bookkeeper, functional office manager. I’m betting your IQ beats any lawyer’s in the firm by twenty points.”
    A jaundiced look. “Now you’re not just flattering me, you’re buttering me up. For what?”
    “I want to know why you brought this message slip to my office.”
    “That’s pretty obvious. I didn’t want you to know who left it there.”
    “Not what I meant. Why did you think someone connected with the investigation into Woodrow Gant’s death should know about Ms. Barber’s call to Deborah Ling?”
    Burbage looked back down at the sheet I’d laid in front of her. “Because I was his secretary, too.”
    “Mr. Gant’s, you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    Vague, but I thought I saw it. “Frank Neely became aware of this message, didn’t he?”
    A nod without looking back up. “I