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elevated blood alcohol. No signs of a struggle, no toxins, no puncture wounds…”
    That made us both pause. I can’t read minds, but Charlie Riggs had to be thinking about a twenty-gauge hypodermic track in the buttocks of rich old Philip Corrigan. Dead old Philip Corrigan, but that’s another story.
    “The report confirms what you said, Charlie. Ventricular fibrillation caused by hypothermia.”
    “So all you’re dealing with is a wrongful-death suit. Just another dispute about money.”
    “Right. Social-host liability.”
    Charlie seemed to be studying the man-made sand dunes on the beach across Ocean Drive. “Who’s the plaintiff’s lawyer?”
    “Henry Thackery Patterson.”
    “H.T.’s good, though a trifle flamboyant for my tastes,” Charlie observed.
    “He’s already filed a boilerplate complaint. Simple negligence for serving alcohol to an intoxicated guest. I’ll file an answer with the usual affirmative defenses, comparative negligence and assumption of the risk.”
    “Blame it on the victim, eh?”
    “Sure. The old defense gambit. The plaintiff caused his own harm, so don’t point the finger at the party hosts who had to keep the hors d’oevres moving.”
    Charlie shook his head. “Whatever happened to the concept ‘
de mortuis nihil nisi bonum’?”
    “Damned if I know.”
    “Speak kindly of the dead,” Charlie translated.
    “Why? They’re the only ones who can’t sue for slander.”
    Charlie tut-tut-tutted and finished cleaning his plate of the eggplant goo with a swipe of his pita. “I still don’t know what’s troubling you. Talk to me, Jake.”
    “Too many questions don’t have answers. Didn’t they miss Tupton at the party? Didn’t anybody see him go in there or see his car parked all night in the street in front of the house? How about his clothes, still hanging in a closet in a guest room?”
    Charlie wrinkled his forehead. “You’re talking like a prosecutor now. You’ve been retained to defend a simple civil suit. Just do your job.”
    Charlie was right. I should file my pleadings, take my depos, make my motions, and eventually settle the case before trial. The usual old soft-shoe. I was trying to treat this like any other case. I really was. But my mind was buzzing with other thoughts. Gina. Nicky. Tupton.
    “Is there coverage?” Charlie asked.
    “A million in homeowner’s, another five-million umbrella policy.”
    “So, you have no downside. Win, you’re a hero. Lose, the insurance company pays. Why go looking for goblins in the night?”
    “Hey, you’re the guy who taught me not to accept things at face value. ‘Things are seldom what they seem, skim milk masquerades as cream.’ That was you talking, Charlie. And how about this little ditty, ‘Seek the truth,’ or however the hell you say it.”
    “Quaere verum,”
he instructed me. “And you’re the lad who told me that isn’t the lawyer’s job.”
    “It isn’t,” I said. “My job’s to take the facts handed to me and present the best case I can. I’m not supposed to dig for stuff that’ll hurt my client.”
    “Like in Philip Corrigan’s grave.”
    “Thanks for reminding me. Can you believe that’s coming back to haunt me now?” I mimicked Wilbert Faircloth’s weasel voice: “‘Would grave robbery be ethical to you, Dr. Riggs?’ Jeez, Charlie, I’m in for a public reprimand, maybe even a six-month suspension.”
    “Precisely my point. Why go looking for trouble now?”
    “Why should
now
be different? Look, Charlie, I never liked Nicky Florio, and I never trusted him.”
    Charlie Riggs harrumphed and rearranged his bulky body in his chair. “You never liked him because he married Star Hampton.” He paused, and a light flickered in his deep brown eyes. “Jake, you’re not seeing her again, are you?”
    “Her name’s Gina now.”
    “Your answer was not responsive, Counselor. Haven’t you got enough trouble with the Bar as it is? Talk about conflicts of interest.” Charlie