I cross the conference room, select the I volume of the Massachusetts Digest from the bookcase, and hand it to him. “No one in this room knows anything about insurance,” I tell him. “One of us has to learn.”

The Kydd takes the powder-blue book reluctantly, as if I might be handing him something contraband, setting him up for a bust. He examines its spine, then looks at me and frowns. “I know,” he says. “I’m it. But couldn’t you narrow it down a little?”

“I can narrow it down a lot,” I tell him. I dig Herb Rawlings’s life insurance policy out of my briefcase and hand it to him, then settle into one of two worn, comfortable wing chairs in an alcove by the windows.

He sets the policy down, plants his elbows on the table and waits, pen poised, his expression only slightly relieved.

“Best-case scenario, Kydd, is this: Mitch Walker questions Louisa Rawlings about her husband’s demise and he’s satisfied with her answers. The official cause of death remains an unfortunate boating accident and the widow collects a cool million from New England Patriot.”

Harry laughs into his casebook again. “Finally,” he says. “Some money in the poor girl’s pocket.”

The Kydd looks over at Harry; I ignore him. “Worst-case scenario, of course, is this: Walker’s less than satisfied with what Louisa Rawlings has to say. He digs deeper, finds evidence of foul play, and thinks the widow is behind it. She forfeits the insurance proceeds, but that’s the least of her problems. She’s looking at a murder charge, probably first-degree.”

The Kydd nods.

“What I want you to think about, Kydd, is a scenario that falls in between those two: Walker doesn’t like Louisa’s answers. He has suspicions, but no evidence. And what we have in our arsenal, thanks to your brilliant legal research, is a weapon that will ease his suspicions, maybe even dissuade him from digging any deeper.”

The Kydd looks surprised by the enormity of his research prowess. “We do?”

“We do. What you’re going to dig up for us is every restriction on recovery of life insurance proceeds that applies to Louisa Rawlings. And I’ll give you the first one: suicide negates coverage.”

Harry looks up from his casebook. “How the hell do you know that?”

I laugh. “Everybody knows that, Harry. And I went to law school, remember? I was one of those students who showed up for classes, even the classes that didn’t involve murder and mayhem.”

Harry frowns across the table at the Kydd. “Did you know that suicide negates coverage?” he asks.

The Kydd nods. “Everybody knows that,” he echoes.

Harry looks down at his casebook. “I’m in the midst of nerds,” he mutters.

The Kydd looks from Harry to me, shaking his head. “I don’t follow, Marty.”

“Louisa Rawlings doesn’t believe her husband’s death was accidental. She thinks he killed himself. And she has what may or may not be a note to prove it. But Mitch Walker doesn’t know that yet. Neither does the insurance company. If this thing takes a turn in the wrong direction, we produce the note, play the suicide card. We also play up any other fact that precludes coverage.”

The Kydd still looks confused. “And?”

“And we eliminate motive,” I tell him. “Louisa Rawlings went to law school too. A damned good one. She knows suicide negates coverage. And we’ll make sure she knows every other impediment to recovery you dig up, too. She doesn’t collect the million, but she doesn’t spend the rest of her days in a cinder-block cell, either.”

Harry laughs again. “Marty,” he says, “Louisa went to fewer classes than I did. She doesn’t know a damned thing about insurance coverage.”

I wait until he looks up at me. “And Mitch Walker doesn’t know a damned thing about Louisa.”

He nods, conceding the point, and then goes back to his reading.

“Why would the guy kill himself?” the Kydd asks.

I shrug. “Who knows? His wife was planning to leave him and she’s pretty sure he knew it. And if that’s not bad enough, it sounds like the poor man was impotent.”

“Ouch,” Harry says to his casebook. “Louisa wouldn’t be happy about that.”

The Kydd freezes even before I do, his wide eyes sounding silent alarm bells at Harry.

Harry doesn’t notice. “No, sir,” he laughs, shaking his head at the book as if whatever vivid scene is unfolding in his mind’s eye is illustrated there. “She wouldn’t like that at all.”

The Kydd looks over at me, his eyes panicked now, then back at Harry.

“Not one bit,” Harry chuckles.

The Kydd steals another glance at me, then kicks Harry in the shins under the table. Hard.

Now it’s Harry’s turn to freeze. He gapes at his assailant, indignant for a split second, and then he turns slowly toward me. “I’m sorry,” he says, burying his face in both hands and lowering his head to the book. “Dammit, Marty, I’m sorry.”

I force myself not to laugh. I don’t answer, either. Let him stew in his own juices for a minute.

He lifts his head just a couple of inches, keeps his hands over his face, then parts the fingers at his eyes and looks up at me. “I’m sorry. Dammit. I’m sorry.”

I have to laugh now; I can’t help it. “Since we’re on the topic, Harry, what do you think? Would a man kill himself over impotence?”

He lowers his hands, plainly relieved at the prospect of our discussion moving on. “I would,” he says, pointing to the windows behind my chair. “I’d jump.”

I shake my head at him and close my eyes. We’re on the first floor. “What do you think, Kydd? Suicide over impotence?”

The Kydd waits until I open my eyes again, then puts his pen down and grins at me. “I know almost as much about employment law as I do about life insurance,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure you can’t ask me that.”

We’re all laughing now. And I’m starting to feel punchy. It’s time to go home. “See you bright and early,” I tell the Kydd.

“You’ll see me early,” he says. “I don’t know about bright.”

CHAPTER 7

Since Luke left for Boston College six weeks ago, Harry and I have fallen into a Friday-evening routine. I get to my cottage first and feed Danny Boy, our eleven-year-old Irish setter. Then I fill the old claw-footed tub with bubble bath and water as hot as I can stand it, light a few candles, and soak. Harry stops at the fish market, picks up a couple of lobsters, and puts a pot of water on the stove as soon as he comes in. Then he joins me, bringing a Heineken for himself and a glass of sauvignon blanc for me. He sits beside the tub, on an old cedar chest that holds summer beach towels, and we enjoy our own, private version of happy hour.

Tonight I could barely wait to slide under the thick white blanket of almond-scented bubbles. Steaming-hot baths have always been my substitute for therapy. They’re cheaper, for one thing, and available on demand. Besides, I was married to a shrink once. I can’t bear the thought of being alone in a room with one again.

Harry taps on the door and leans into the bathroom. “You want company?”

This is not a question he normally asks. The candlelight is too dim for me to read his expression, but it’s pretty clear he thinks he’s still in the doghouse for his conference-room comments. “I want wine,” I tell him.

He crosses the room, sets both drinks on the windowsill, out of my reach, and kneels beside the tub. “It’s a package deal,” he says, leaning over and brushing his lips against mine.

I take hold of the knot in his already-loosened tie and pull him closer, so I can kiss him for real. It’s hard to resist Harry.

He smiles at me—that narrow-eyed, tight-lipped smile—then retrieves our drinks and assumes his perch on the cedar chest, a patch of white bubbles dissolving slowly on the front of his open-necked shirt. “So tell me, Attorney Nickerson, what’s your take on the Rawlings matter?”