“Hey there, Paolo.”

Paolo spins, takes one glance at me, and tags me immediately. I’m wearing a suit and carrying an expensive leather valise, which means I’m one of Them. The Establishment.

“No comment,” he says, waving me away. As if he’d been harassed by Anderson Cooper all day. Then again, maybe he has. Paolo Salese is the prime suspect in the murder of Paige Ryerson, featured in media reports all around the world.

“Look, buddy, I’m not a journalist. It’s even worse—I’m a lawyer! Let me buy you a drink.”

Paolo shakes his head. “Piss off.”

I sit down next to him anyway and give him my best lawyerly pitch. (I actually am a lawyer, so I’m pretty good at this.)

“I’ve got a client who will pay half a million dollars for closure in the disappearance of Paige Ryerson.”

The look on Paolo’s face tells me that he may not know the definition of the word “closure.” So I try again.

“My client wants to know what happened. No strings attached. No blame, no fault…and certainly no cops or courthouses, you understand? Completely off the books.”

Paolo says nothing. Takes another shot of whatever amber fluid is in those glasses. I gesture to the bartender to give him another round.

“All I need,” I say, leaning in close, “is a body.”

The playboy lifeguard freezes in his tracks momentarily, then quickly recovers. Ah, body, that magical word. Makes everybody feel uncomfortable. I love deploying it at just the right moment.

“I don’t even need that much,” I continue. “Point me in the right direction, and it ends here. You walk away from this bar half a millionaire.”

Finally, he turns to look me in the eyes.

“Not interested. Now seriously…piss off.”

He almost spits the last two words in my face. Classy.

Paolo goes skulking away from the bar-shack (don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s Zagat-rated), and I take my bag and follow him. He walks faster. I match his pace. If this is going to escalate into a chase sequence, it’ll be one of the more absurd ones I’ve been involved in. Lawyer in a Suit vs. Tanned Lifeguard Dude, kicking up sand all the way to the ocean.

“Forgive me, Paolo, but I find it hard to believe you’d turn down this offer. How many friends have you got on your side? I’m willing to bet you don’t have five hundred thousand of them.”

The lifeguard continues walking, but his pace slows a little. Maybe my words are sinking in to that handsome skull of his.

“I’m telling you, Paolo—I don’t give a damn what you did, or didn’t do, or any of that. I’m not a priest. I’m just a guy hired to ascertain a simple answer to a simple question. No matter what it takes.”

Paolo stops, turns in his tracks, then sneers at me. “You’re not a priest. But you’re definitely a cop or a reporter.”

“Oh, yeah?”

I smile, then gently toss my valise at Paolo’s feet. “Go ahead. Open it.”