Thirteen

Stuart Lockwood, Esquire’s office didn’t look like his stationery. His stationery looked like money. His office looked like poverty. Single practice in downscale Somerville, shared space with a CPA. An orthodontist down the hall seemed to be the only one earning enough to gild the letters on his door.

Usually I visit law offices by appointment. I wear the closest thing I’ve got to a power suit, a navy blue number I picked up last year at a Filene’s Basement close-out sale. After all, most of my high-paying clients are lawyers who want me to prove some dude was somewhere other than where the cops think he was last Saturday night.

I’d put on the navy blue for Lockwood, even though I had made no appointment, it was another steamer of a day, and he was an unknown quantity. I’d phoned a lot of friends and nobody could make him. The State Bar Association said he’d passed the North Dakota bar two years ago, the Massachusetts bar just last May. New boy on the block.

I’d been waiting outside his office door since eleven. No one had gone in or out. At eleven forty-five, I opened the door.

His secretary or paralegal or whatever, a thin blond kid in his early twenties, glanced up from an old swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated.

“Hi,” I said. “Mr. Lockwood in?”

Both inner office doors were closed. Behind one, I could hear someone talking. The voice droned on; it could have been a tape recording or a phone-message machine.

The lobby was six by ten and well-filled by a desk, a chair, and a low plaid couch that looked like it had come straight from the Salvation Army store. Framed prints of hunting dogs covered cracks in the plaster.

The young guy put his magazine down hastily, like I’d caught him red-handed.

“Do you have an appointment?” he asked, fumbling for a desk calendar.

“No,” I said. “Mr. Lockwood was recommended to me by a friend at Palmer and Dodge.”

“Oh,” the kid said, impressed by the mention of one of the wealthiest practices in town. “Who?”

Palmer and Dodge has so many partners, you could pick a name out of the phone book. “Laura Breen,” I said quickly. I’m sure he couldn’t tell if I’d said Laura or Laurel, Breen or Green.

“Oh,” he said again. “I’ll see if Mr. Lockwood has a moment. You may have to wait.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

The lobby didn’t have a single magazine except for the Sports Illustrated. He didn’t offer to share.

The kid disappeared into the office on the right and came back with a man older than I’d expected, someone who must have taken to the law later than the average student. He was runner-thin, graying. On second look, he seemed younger. The gray hair aged him.

He had a too hearty handshake, and a too toothy grin. He wore an elbow-rubbed blue shirt and baggy suit pants. He ushered me into an airless cube. His jacket and tie hung from a coat tree by a narrow window. The window was open, but didn’t provide enough breeze to rustle the tie.

We established my name and his. The secretary lounged against the doorframe until he was dismissed.

Lockwood consulted his watch. Damned inconsiderate of somebody to call just before lunchtime. I concealed a grin at his irritation.

“I understand you represent David Dunrobie,” I said.

“Where do you get your information?” he said. Trust a lawyer to respond with a question.

“A crystal ball,” I said. “I see you giving me Dunrobie’s address.”

“Do you work for a collection agency?”

I’ve been called worse things. I gave him my card. Some people feel business cards prove your identity. The print shop never asks for my license when I order.

He stuck my card between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, tapped it on his desk. “Are you currently in the employ of an attorney?” he asked.

“Do I get to ask you a question if I answer that one?”

“Sit down, Miss, uh, Carlyle,” he said.

“Thank you.” There were only two chairs in the room: a worn easy-chair behind his desk and a guest chair that would have looked at home in a funky diner.

We studied each other for a while.

“You want me to divulge a client’s address.”

“I’d like you to write it down on a piece of paper,” I said earnestly. “But I’ll copy it if I have to.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re wasting my time.” He spoke as if he had a crowd of clients waiting on his sprung plaid sofa. Maybe he had a gold-mine practice, with billable hours to burn and no front. It’s hard to tell.

“Mr. Dunrobie is an old friend,” I said. “Perhaps if you give him my card, he might get in touch with me. He might like to see me.”

“I’ll do that,” he said.

I hadn’t expected him to prolong the interview, any more than I expected Davey to drop by the next day.

We didn’t shake hands when I left.

The one thing I’d managed to learn from my morning phone calls was that Mr. Lockwood would be unavailable after twelve o’clock today.

He exited the office soon after I did, still knotting his necktie. From a niche down the hallway, I saw him enter the elevator. I waited until I heard it descend.

Then I walked back up the hallway and opened the door.

“Oh.” The kid was back into the swimsuit issue. He wasn’t drooling, but close. “Forget something?” he asked.

“David Dunrobie,” I said. “Does he live in Winchester or Woburn?” I showed him a small spiral-bound notebook. “I just wrote down a W. I’m almost sure it’s Winchester, but I’d hate to drive all the way out there and then it’s Woburn.”

“No problem,” the kid said generously.

He disappeared into Lockwood’s office and I could hear him riffling through files. He carried a manila folder with him when he returned, but his face was closed and suspicious. Oh, well, a lot of towns around Boston begin with W. It could have worked.

“It’s neither,” he said. “What is this? You a server?”

He was sharper than I’d given him credit for. Maybe Lockwood did a lot of business with the avoid-a-subpoena crowd.

“You like music?” I asked, indicating the magazine. “Or just sports?”

I got the address in exchange for two comps to Dee’s concert. Some things money can’t buy.

“You sure about that?” I asked while I was writing it down.

“825 Winter Street. Boston,” he said. “Suite 505D.”

“It doesn’t sound residential.”

“It’s all he’s got. No phone, even.”

I already knew that.

“Could you tell me if there’s anything else in the file?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said.

“There’s nothing else, or you don’t want to tell me. Which?”

“Got any more tickets?”

“I could manage one more,” I said. “That’s tops.”

“An envelope,” he said. “Sealed.”

“Big? Little?”

“Eight by ten.”

“Postmark?”

“Man, this is too weird,” he said, closing the file and sliding it under the magazine. “I’m not telling you anything else.”

“You don’t have to,” I said.