Inherit the Dead

cord around his neck, and an engraved leather cuff snapped around his wrist. Hippie-esque threads on a country-club body just starting to lose its battle against time.
    Perry would’ve tagged Norman’s age at no more than mid-to-late forties had he stopped at the neck, but the face edged his estimate up by about twenty years. Though still blondly handsome, time—and no doubt sun—had leached the bounce from his cheeks, turned thefew remaining wisps of hair to straw, and left deep creases in the skin around his large, age-paled blue eyes. Still, there was a gap between body and face that seemed to be commonplace among baby boomers. Perry guessed that meant his own nascent paunch, despite hours spent at the gym, showed he was part of the younger generation. Nice to know all those beer and pizza dinners were good for something.
    Behind Loki, an impressive stack of wood was burning fast and high in a large, brick fireplace. The heat rolling out of it gave Perry welcome relief from the stinging cold wind that whipped behind him.
    Loki peered at him cautiously. “You the PI?”
    “Yep.” Perry held up his ID. “You Norman Loki?”
    “Yeah. Come on in, man. It’s a bitch out there.”
    Julia Drusilla had obviously called ahead to announce his arrival.
    Perry walked into what he imagined the interior decorators called a “great room,” and he had to admit, it earned its name. Three thousand square feet of gleaming wood floors, thick Oriental rugs, and overstuffed, comfy-looking furniture for sitting, lounging, sleeping, and “hanging.” The high, wood-beamed ceilings gave a sense of spaciousness but also warmth.
    “Get you something to drink?” Loki offered. “Warm you up a little.”
    “Thanks, no,” Perry said, with regret. It would’ve been nice to kick back with a shot of whiskey in front of that blazing fire on a day like this. He supposed he could opt for something wimpy, like tea, but that would only make him miss the whiskey more. “I’m good.”
    He recalled Julia’s comment about her ex-husband: He drinks . . . or did . . . and when he does . . . But he’s stopped drinking . . . at least I think so.
    Norman took his coat and directed him to a pair of matching leather lounge-style chairs with ottomans near the fireplace. Perrysat and immediately found himself sinking back into the down-filled cushions. If he’d been alone, he would’ve been asleep in seconds. He pulled himself up and perched on the edge of the chair. Loki settled into the lounger opposite him and swung his feet up onto the ottoman in one elegant movement. On the wall behind Loki, Perry noticed a framed diploma from Harvard Law School.
    “You still practice?” Perry asked, nodding at the diploma.
    “Ah . . . no, not really. Not anymore.” Loki smiled. “And don’t worry, I never did criminal defense.” His smile twisted with a shrewd look. “Bet you hated those guys.”
    Either Julia Drusilla’s heads-up phone call to Loki had been a lot newsier than she had let on, or he had done a little quick digging into Perry’s bona fides on his own. Perry suspected the former. Loki didn’t seem like the digging type. Unless it was for clams. Perry shrugged. “Most of ’em were okay. They had their jobs; I had mine. So what was your game?”
    “I had a civil rights practice.”
    “Which means?” Perry asked, though knew very well.
    “Employment discrimination, an occasional wrongful death, that sort of thing. I loved it. Cases I could believe in, where I could do some good for the little guy.”
    Perry nodded, but his bullshit meter was ringing. “But you quit because . . . ?”
    Loki sighed. “Because the big corporate lobbies brought in tort reform. Killed my entire practice. Basically shut down the courtrooms for everyone but their cronies.”
    “Gee, that’s a bitch. But I’ve got to hand it to you—those employment discrimination cases are tough. You ever go up against any of the bigs, like IBM or Mercedes-Benz?”
    Loki’s stricken expression told Perry he’d rightly guessed that Loki’s experience went no further than the noble, well-rehearsedspeech he’d just given. Unfortunately for him, Perry knew something about the field. When Perry got shamed out of his uniform, a real civil rights lawyer had lobbied hard to get him to file suit against the department. She was convinced he’d been framed and was gung ho to prove it. Perry had thought about it, had wanted to get the chance to go public with the