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    Reuben had interviewed Lander as a second-year Columbia Law School student when he came to Chase & Ward seeking a job. His record was impeccable—at the top of his class and an editor of the Law Review. Before that he had been an honor student at Yale, having gone there on scholarship after leaving a small town in South Dakota.
    The one reservation Reuben had at the time was that Eskill was not a very broad-gauged person, despite his excellent education. He seemed totally absorbed in the law, without any evident outside interests. Reuben had been sure that would change once he had left school and began earning a salary that enabled him to explore and enjoy the good life in New York City.
    He was wrong. Lander certainly paid attention to his career, becoming a partner in a record six years, but Reuben, who saw him frequently at the partners’ common lunch table at the Hexagon Club, had never heard him discuss or even mention a book he’d read, a play he’d seen, or a concert he’d attended. The man was totally preoccupied with his legal practice and his status as a much-admired expert on trust and estate matters.
    Lander had a quietly assured manner with clients, but Reuben had always wondered if perhaps his partner was inwardly less self-confident and certain of himself than might appear. Unlike his colleagues, in his office Lander displayed framed diplomas from Yale and Columbia and certificates attesting to his admission to the New York and Federal bars. Plus—and Reuben found this truly odd—another one stating that Lander’s biography was included in Who’s Who in America . Didn’t these wall hangings evidence insecurity? A need for tangible confirmation of his status as an important partner of an important law firm?
    The widows adored Eskill Lander, and he was also a hit with the old men who often, in an impotent, homoerotic—if completely unacknowledged—way felt attracted to youthful-looking and athletic types like Eskill. To those who knew him less well than Reuben, he projected strength and solidity—and wasn’t that what the oldsters wanted in their attorney? In addition to brains, of course, which Lander had in abundance.
    Reuben knew also that his partner was somewhat a victim of his own success. By tradition, Chase & Ward only made nominal charges for writing wills and giving advice while a personal client was alive. But after the client’s death, the firm received substantial fees for winding up the estate. The only problem with this arrangement was the ever-lengthening life-span of the firm’s affluent, well-cared-for T & E clients, the trend helped along by the wonders of modern medicine. The lucrative posthumous fees seemed to be delayed longer and longer. Several times, the partners had debated going to a pay-as-you-go basis for trust and estates work, but each time they had decided to stick with the traditional method of charging.
    Reuben was well aware that Daniel Courtland’s estate was the largest one under Eskill’s care—with the highest expectancy for the firm when he died. After Daniel had decided to bring his personal business to Chase & Ward, he, the billionaire from Indiana, and the bright young lawyer from South Dakota had hit it off instantly, and Courtland’s loyalty had never wavered.
    While he was discreet about discussing it, Reuben had developed a modest dislike for Eskill’s wife, Irene. She had a career as a highly successful investment adviser at the bicoastal firm of Upshaw & Company. Customers were attracted to her—not for her looks but for her tough and wise advice. Making a terrible pun, Reuben had once told Cynthia that the woman gave “shrew investment advice.” She had also helped many charities grow modest funds into substantial endowments, and for this she was referred to in some circles as the “Queen of the 501(c)(3)’s,” the reference being to the Internal