Thomas Grave stepped straight off his yacht in a crisp, pink Ralph Lauren polo, pressed khakis (no pleats), and a pair of Sperry Topsiders that gleamed in the bright sun. He'd paid $12 for that shine. Surveying the treeline, he slid the Ray Bans down his nose, leaving them just at the bridge. He said, "I'm going to write a book about Death today." After sliding the Ray Bans back up, he nodded once. He turned around, walked back up the ramp onto his luxury yacht, down the steps into his leather and mahogany study, and got to work.