The only good Lawyer by Jeremiah Healy Page B

first, since she’s been here the longest. Then I’d talk with Elliot and finally Deborah.”
    “I’d also like to see Mr. Gant’s office and speak with his secretary.”
    “His...? Oh, that’s right. You’ve seen Imogene only at the reception desk. One of the secretaries covers it when the receptionist’s on break or whatever.”
    “Imogene was Mr. Gant’s secretary?”
    “Shared secretary. Financial necessity, this day and age.”
    “Who did he share her with?”
    “Me,” said Frank Neely in a matter-of-fact voice before rising.

    Sure enough, when Neely walked me to his door and opened it, Imogene was sitting at the kangaroo-pouch desk in front of his office that had been empty when she’d escorted me back there. Imogene turned from folding correspondence, the creases razor sharp, the edges perfectly aligned. Four of the pink message slips lay on her desktop. More toward the center, near a single rose in a clear vase, was a little brass pup tent with “IMOGENE BURBAGE” etched into the metal.
    “Imogene,” said Neely, “would you take Mr. Cuddy to Uta, then check back with me?”
    “Certainly.”
    As she led the way around a corner; I said, “Ms. Burbage, I understand you worked with Mr. Gant as well?”
    A little stiffening of the shoulders in front of me. “As his secretary for three and a half years.”
    “I’d appreciate being able to speak with you, too, before I leave.”
    “I’ll ask Mr. Neely about that.”
    “He’s already okayed it.”
    Burbage started to turn. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ask him anyway.”
    Another woman, in her twenties and seeming frazzled, came toward us. A bundle of manila files were clutched to her chest, both hands crossed over them, a couple more of the pink message slips between two of her fingers. She stopped and started to extend the folders toward Burbage.
    “Oh, Imogene, these messages and files are for Mr. Neely, too.”
    “Patricia, can you please leave them on my desk.” There was no rising, question-tone at the end of Burbage’s statement, and Patricia simply said, “Sorry.” I walked past four hung prints of the same lighthouse at different seasons of the yean Near the end of the hall, Burbage paused at an open doorway without saying anything. I heard a hearty female voice inside say, “She’s here now,” and then the plastic bonk of a phone receiver redocking. “Please, Imogene, show Mr. Cuddy in.” Burbage turned to me and nodded before going back up the hall.
    Entering the office, I saw a broad-shouldered, stolid woman coming around the desk to meet me. Radachowski’s brown hair, dull but full, was leavened with the silver of untended middle age and cut so that it didn’t quite reach her shoulders. She wore silver aviator glasses over features that bordered on homely. Her suit was tweed, the salt-and-pepper material flecked with red nubs. The eyes behind the glasses were sharp, but slightly distorted by the prescription so they looked a third bigger than they were, kind of like viewing fish under water from the air above. A subdued smile showed long teeth that could use some whitening, but there was something about the way she engaged you with those oversized eyes that made you want to be her friend.
    “Ms. Radachowski?”
    “Uta, please.”
    “John.”
    We shook hands, hers nearly as large as mine. “John, I hear you might make me cry some more.” Quite an opening, I thought, as Radachowski released my right hand and waved me toward a chair.
    The phone burred, and she apologized for needing to answer it, having just sent her secretary off on an errand. As Radachowski said something into the receiver about rescheduling a deposition, I took a seat and looked around her office. The desk and accompanying furniture were dark like Neely’s, but I thought maybe cherry rather than the firm’s signature teak. A computer squatted on the desk, and Radachowski cradled the phone on a shoulder as she began clacking away at the keyboard