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rouge. “You look cute,” I assured her. And, oddly enough, she did.
    â€œOne last item,” Jacki said. “Do you want me to call Mr. Contini to remind him about the pretrial conference tomorrow?”
    â€œOy,” I said with a smile, “that crazy case. Sure. When is it?”
    â€œEleven o’clock.”
    â€œTell him I’ll meet him at court at quarter to eleven.”
    About an hour later, Jacki poked her head in my office. She was frowning. “What happens to our lawsuit for Sally?”
    I leaned back in my chair. “Hard to say. If she had a will, it’ll appoint a personal representative.” The personal representative is the modern trust-and-estate term for what was once called the executor or administrator. “The personal representative,” I continued, “will be the one who’ll ultimately decide what happens with the lawsuit.”
    â€œAnd if she didn’t have a will?”
    â€œPresumably the probate court will decide. But we’ve got bigger problems than that.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œSuch as admissible evidence. She was alone when he beat her up. That means our only witness is dead. We’ll need to find another way to get her story into evidence.” I snapped my fingers. “Which reminds me. I’ve got to talk to Neil.”
    Neil Boyer was the reporter from the Post-Dispatch who wrote the lead story on Sally’s death. As Jacki returned to her desk, I flipped through my Rolodex for Neil’s number. Someone at the city desk answered. The call bounced around for a while. One guy put me on hold for a long time and then came back on the line to tell me that Neil was out on assignment. Eventually, I left my name and telephone number.
    As I hung up, I heard Benny out in the reception area. He lived in the Central West End, only a few blocks from my office, and occasionally dropped by on his way to or from Washington University, where he was an assistant professor of law. I listened long enough to realize that he was reaching the punch line of one of his favorite jokes. I leaned back with a smile to listen.
    â€œWell, the Hell’s Angel slowly walks around the poor guy,” Benny said, “and stops behind him. Then there’s the sound of a zipper. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ the guy asks. ‘Sorry, little buddy,’ the Hell’s Angel says, ‘but I guess this just ain’t your goddam day.’”
    Jacki burst into laughter.
    â€œHello, Professor,” I called out.
    He strolled in and gave me a wink. “Hey, gorgeous.”
    I smiled with amusement at his outfit. “I’m glad to see you’re finally starting to dress like a real law school professor.”
    â€œNever too early to impress upon them the solemnity and dignity of our learned profession.” He was wearing a black sweatshirt, a Portland Beavers baseball cap, baggy army pants, and green high-top Chuck Taylor All-Stars. The sweatshirt bore the legend I Am That Man from Nantucket . He took a seat and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Well?”
    I looked at him curiously. “Well what?”
    â€œI think ole Neville is up shit creek without a paddle.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œThe cops found some photos.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn his apartment.”
    â€œReally? Of the two of them?”
    â€œThem, and…” He paused with a Groucho Marx leer and pretended to remove an invisible cigar from his mouth to flick the ashes.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd a few shots of Neville with other women.”
    I frowned. “All in the same picture?”
    â€œNo, no. One babe per picture. I’m just saying that the guy has, shall we say, a broad collection.”
    I shook my head in amazement. “I take it these are not the type of pictures one sends home to Mom.”
    â€œNot unless Mom happens to be Dr. Ruth. Most are your basic beaver