His living space consisted of a queen-size bed with night table and matching dresser; an amateurishly constructed closet protruding from one wall that predated Ted’s tenancy by a generation or two; an ancient metal two-drawer filing cabinet that served as repository for dormant deals and the few nearing resolution; an IKEA table and two chairs of which he was ridiculously proud, having put them together himself; and a television, precariously hanging on to the far wall, on which Ted watched old movies on TCM and Law & Order reruns on four different channels. His cave, his castle.

The phone was ringing as he came up the stairs. The landline. A minor event. Ted did most of his business on a cell phone but kept a landline because it came with the cable/Internet package. Sometimes he even used it. The number had found its way onto his business card along with the cell phone number, but as he hardly ever handed cards out, incoming calls were few.

He took a breath before answering. “Molloy Partners. Edward Molloy speaking.” There were no partners, but maintaining the fiction reassured some of the customers.

“Good morning, Mr. Molloy. This is Detective Duran. NYPD. Do you have a moment for a couple of questions?”

Like all mostly honest people, Ted had a great reluctance to speak with the police on any subject. “Questions” sounded ominous.

“I was trained as a lawyer, Detective. I’m happy to assist in any way I can, but I have to ask: Am I the target of an investigation?”

“Not at this time, but if you feel a sudden urge to confess to anything, I would be glad to caution you.” The cop chuckled as if they were old friends joking and sharing pleasantries.

Ted wasn’t buying. “That’s reassuring, but as I check my schedule, I find that I’m in meetings all week.”

“My mother says I can be overly persistent.”

Ted was curious. In a fit of escapist desperation, he had once gone on a shark-feeding excursion in Cancún; answering a few questions from the police couldn’t be any more dangerous than that. “You were just by here. My landlord was a bit spooked.”

“Five minutes,” the detective said. It was both a pledge and a request.

“Five minutes,” Ted agreed. “How can I help?”

“Do you know a man named Richard Rubiano?”

That was an easy one. “I do. I helped Richie out of a jam a few years back. I don’t represent him, though. I’m no longer licensed. Is he in trouble?”

“How would you characterize your relationship?”

Another floater over the plate. “He does odd jobs for me from time to time.” This was met with an expectant silence. Wary of swinging at a slider, Ted added, “And when he needed a lawyer, I helped him find one. Does he need one now?”

“No, sir. Mr. Rubiano will not need a lawyer.”