“I found an old man with Italian hands who couldn’t wait to tell me everything,” said Ramirez when she returned.
“Italian hands?”
“They were roamin’.”
Henderson chuckled.
“The woman on the right is a Mrs. Byrne. Her husband was Toth’s partner.”
“He died, what, fourteen years ago?”
“That’s right. Apparently the partners weren’t getting along at the end.”
“You don’t say.”
“Fighting about money.”
“They were lawyers. Of course they were fighting about money. That’s what being a lawyer is all about.”
“But there is something else. Byrne was supposed to have been quite the ladies’ man.”
“Maybe he stepped out with the Widow Toth, is that the word?” Henderson gave the widow a new and more interested look. Her sagging jowls, her arthritic hands. She might have been something at some time, but it was hard to still see it. “How’d Byrne die?”
“The man I was talking to didn’t know.”
“We’re going to have to find out, I suppose.”
“And the woman on the other side in the wheelchair? Get this, she is a Mrs. Truscott.”
“Truscott?”
“That’s right.”
“As in Senator Truscott?”
“The mother. Apparently an old friend of the family and client of the dead man.”
“Suddenly we know who’s pressuring the mayor.”
“Good. Now that that’s all settled, can we leave and do some real work?”
“Not until we do a drill.”
“Drill?”
“Take a look around and tell me, who doesn’t belong?”
“I don’t do drills. What is this, band practice? And don’t tell me you’re expecting the killer to show up at his victim’s funeral. The captain won’t want to hear we wasted the whole morning on that old saw.”
“Old saw, huh? How long you been in Homicide?”
“Long enough to know a waste of time when I’m in the middle of it.”
“Let me tell you, lady. Old saws still cut.”
“Okay, to humor you, and so we can get the hell out of here. Let’s start with who does belong. I see the daughter, who we spoke to already, sitting down beside that Mrs. Byrne.”
“Okay.”
“Her husband’s the thin guy standing behind her. The grandkids are standing with him.”
“Fine.”
“I see the two lawyers we questioned that were working at the firm. One has a woman with him, nice-looking, with expensive hair, wife or girlfriend probably, it doesn’t really matter. They’re standing there behind the family watching their future being buried.”
“Good.”
“And then a whole mess of old men and women saying good-bye. Friends from the old neighborhood, I would expect. And from the profession.”
“Nothing makes an old man feel better than someone else dying before him.”
“You sure do like funerals, don’t you, Henderson?”
“And nothing’s more deadly than an old friend, settling scores before the reaper reaps.”
“You speaking from experience?”
“We’ll check the condolence book they all signed, find the names of these old friends with scores to settle. But now look again. Who doesn’t belong?”
Ramirez scanned the entire scene. The priest, the crowd of old and young, the gravediggers off to the side, waiting to close up the hole. There were some other people milling in the distance, visiting the dear departed at other graves. Nothing stood out. Except maybe . . .
“Who’s that?” she said. “Standing back a bit, in the gray suit?”
“Don’t know,” said Henderson, the twist of a smile bending the corner of his sour mouth.
The man in the gray suit stood with his hands in his pockets, situated on a litt le rise behind t he main mass of mourners. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his hair was unkempt, his beard casually unshaven, his loose tie stylishly askew, his stance a leisurely contrapposto. His eyes were guarded by a pair of Ray-Bans, and he sported a strange, crooked smile, as if he were watching an amusing lounge act.
“He’s big, isn’t he?” said Henderson.
“Yes, he is.”
“And quite good-looking.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, no? Now, is that any way to start a partnership, lying at the outset? Someone that good-looking, everybody notices. But see how he’s standing close enough to keep his eye on the proceedings, yet not so close that anyone would start talking to him.”
“Maybe he’s just shy.”
“He doesn’t look shy,” said Henderson.
“Well, this is a sad situation,” said Detective Ramirez. “Poor boy is at a funeral, trying to hide his sorrow, and no one is making an effort to give him some of the human contact he clearly craves. I think I ought to head on over and offer the man my condolences.”
“You want me to tag along?”
Ramirez took another look at the man, pulled off her sunglasses, and tossed her hair. “No thanks. I think I can handle this cutie-pie all by my lonesome.”
CHAPTER 8
IF KYLE BYRNE collected comic books, Laszlo Toth’s funeral would have been Detective Comics number 27, the first appearance of the Batman. If Kyle Byrne collected baseball cards, it would have been a 1909 Honus Wagner tobacco special. But Kyle Byrne didn’t collect comic books, or baseball cards or stamps or coins or blown-glass figurines. What he collected were funerals. Of a certain type.