I put the phone down and thought about Nick Trejo. Sensitive? Yes, I could believe that. But so sensitive he couldn’t bear the thought of taking the insurance money because it derived from Bill Ryan’s completely unforeseen and accidental death? That didn’t pass the smell test. There were only two reasons I could think of for why he would reject the money. One, to end my investigation. Two, Ryan’s death was something other than the result of an accident. This line of thinking led to reason three: Mens rea. Mens rea was law school Latin for guilty mind; one of the two elements that had to be present before a crime was committed. The other was actus rea, a guilty act. I was beginning to think some kind of crime had been committed. Rejecting the money might be circumstantial evidence of Nick’s mens rea but what could the actus rea have been?

Whatever my suspicions, however, I had no jurisdiction to pursue them. My job was limited to the investigation of the death claim. If Nick renounced the money, Western States was off the hook, and the circumstances of Ryan’s death were moot. My work for Western State was privileged so I couldn’t go to the police, even had I wanted to which, given my deep-seated aversion to cops, I did not. In any event, all I had were gut feelings and suspicions. The sensible course was to call Ruth Fleming, fill her in on the details, and find out the procedure for renunciation of a claim.

I might have done that, too, had I not glanced at the remaining message slips on my desk. Atop the pile was one from Randy Gifford, Bill Ryan’s attorney, returning my call. I picked it up. As I studied the name and number, it occurred to me how I could keep the investigation open and answer the nagging questions I had about Bill Ryan’s death.

Randy Gifford’s office was on Castro Street above a fancy furniture and tchotchke shop across the road from what had been Harvey Milk’s camera store. He may well have furnished his handsome office from his downstairs neighbor with distressed leather armchairs, heavy crystal knickknacks and the elegant antique library table he used as his desk. He was pretty well put together himself in a French blue broadcloth shirt, blue and yellow rep tie and pale, yellow suspenders. His pleasant, friendly, forty-something face was the kind of face that, if encountered on the next barstool or beside you on an airplane, invited confidences. Now this, I thought, is what a lawyer is supposed to look like, prosperous and discreet. Not a look I’d ever been able to master.

We made our introductions and then he asked, in a deep as soothing as his appearance, “What can I do for you, Henry?”