Volpi's office was halfway down the hall. I didn't bother to knock.

The detective looked up from a Post spread out on his lap. The foam of his latte covered the tips of his mustache. In East Hampton even the cops sip cappuccinos.

"No rest for the weary, huh, Frank?"

"I take enough shit in this town without having to take more from you. Get the hell out of here! Get lost."

"Give me one reason why Peter would go swimming in the middle of his shift, then I'll let you get back to 'Page Six' and your mocha blend."

"I already told you. Because he was a stoned-out little punk."

"And why would he kill himself? Peter had it all going for him."

"Because his best girl was screwing his best friend; because he was having a bad hair day; because he was tired of hearing what a saint his older brother was. You wanted one reason. You got three. Now go away!"

"That's it, Frank? Accident, suicide – who cares? Case closed."

"Sounds pretty good to me."

"When are you going to stop acting like a rent-a-cop for the rich, Frank?"

He jumped out of his chair, stuck his face in mine, grabbed my shirt, and pushed me hard against the wall. "I should kick your ass right now, you piece of shit."

I didn't delude myself about Volpi's ability to back up his words, but the way I felt, maybe then wasn't the best day to get in the ring with me. Even Volpi sensed it. He released his grip and sat down.

"Go home, Jack. Your brother was a good guy. Everybody liked Rabbit, including me. But he drowned."

"Bullshit! That's total crap, and you know it. Frank, if you're not interested in looking into this case, I'm sure the press will be. Considering all the boldface types at the party that night, Newsday will be interested. And the Daily News. Maybe the high and mighty New York Times.'"

Volpi's face hardened. "You really don't want to do that."