“Has the report been released to the cops?”
“Oh, yeah. First thing this morning. Homicide’s holding a press conference late this afternoon. They figured they’d wait until after the funeral as a sign of respect to the family.”
“Damned decent of them,” I said. “They’d probably like to keep it under their hats altogether.”
“It’d never work. Too big a story. The media’d bust their chops.”
I looked down at my watch. Conrad’s funeral was in less than an hour. I pulled out my credit card, the one least likely to be maxxed out, and laid it on top of the check. Then, on impulse, I leaned across the table and kissed her. Nothing heavy, no slobbering passion at lunchtime, but a kiss. A forreal, unmistakable, not-just-a-friendly-peck-on-the-cheek kiss.
“Thanks,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Anytime.”
18
Conrad Fletcher picked a beautiful day to be buried.
The silver hearse and two black limousines were already parked on the side of the funeral home, with rent-a-cop security cars on either side of the parking lot. The television stations were there as well. Conrad’s murder was considered particularly intriguing and juicy by the media vultures, and they didn’t even know the whole story yet.
The back lot was filling up fast. I parked the Ford between two larger cars and sat there, discreetly watching the proceedings. I recognized several doctors, some other people who looked vaguely familiar from the hospital, and groups of younger people who were probably Conrad’s students. I wondered what the proportion of mourners to rejoicers might be, then decided that kind of speculation was not called for.
Inside the funeral home, the crowd resembled spectators at a dull trade show or convention rather than a group of souls lost in sadness. People milled about, gossiped, made the idiotic small talk that’s been the grease of human interaction since humans gave up grunting and shaking sticks at one another. Occasionally, a too loud voice would break forth in laughter, then just as quickly hush. I wandered around the outside fringes of the throng, then slowly began working my way toward the front of the funeral home. Conrad’s coffin had been moved into the chapel to accommodate the larger crowd. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, even inside the chapel itself there was little in the way of melancholy. I found myself hoping that when I crossed over, at least a few acquaintances would look like it bothered them, even if they had to fake it.
I retraced my steps to the lounge. The tiny room was packed with visitors and thick with blue cigarette smoke. My eyes burned, and it seemed as if the opposite wall was barely visible. Next to the soda machine, can in hand, stood Walter Quinlan in a black suit.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, walking up to him and sticking out my hand. He looked stressed, not at all the happy exuberance I’d seen the other day.
“Hi, Harry. How are you?”
“I’m hanging in there, man.” He shook my hand tightly. “I’m glad to see you. I was wondering if I’d run into anybody I know.”
“Don’t worry. They’re all here.”
“You seem strung out, my man. What’s the matter?”
“All this, I guess. I hate funerals.” There was a redness in his eyes. Had he been crying? Didn’t seem likely. Walter wasn’t the type. More likely, he’d had a few drinks and a lousy night’s sleep.
“You been here long?”
He hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe an hour.”
“Seen Rachel yet?”
“Oh, yeah. I came by the other night, too. Sorry I missed you.”
“Me, too. I had to leave earlier. Had to check something out.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me closer to him. In the crowded room, with a buzzing conversational din all around us, nobody was going to hear anything we said. But Walter wanted to make sure.
“Are you still working on this, Harry?” he whispered.
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Harry, I want you to stop. This is killing Rachel. It’s not what she wants.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded. “She wants the person who murdered Conrad, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she wants him. Bad. But she doesn’t want anything to happen to you. And you have a lousy habit of getting yourself into places where you shouldn’t be.”
Tension radiated through my shoulders, and I found myself wanting to tell him to mind his own business. This was, after all, between my client and me. Walter, though, was my lawyer and he was a buddy. So I guess he had the right to butt in if he wanted to.
“Walter, we’ve been on this ride before. I can take care of myself. This is important to me, damn it. And I’m not quitting.”
“Suit yourself, you jerk,” he snapped, letting my arm go with a push. “But when you get hurt, don’t come yelling to me for help.”
I walked away without saying anything else. He’ll cool off, I thought. Everybody’s walking the edge today.
Inside the chapel, Rachel stood in a simple black dress, her hair pulled back in a bun, with just enough makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes. She was at the head of the aisle, a few steps away from the coffin and the still-expanding circle of wreaths and flowers. No tears had been expended by the mourners, but I’ll bet some checkbooks had been strained. It was a great day to be a florist.
I stood halfway down the aisle for a moment, in the long line of people waiting to extend condolences, when I spotted Howard Spellman at the back of the chapel. He sat off in a corner by himself, at the far end of the last pew. I broke from the line and walked back down the green carpet, then cut in toward him. He watched me without getting up, and I slid into the seat next to him.
“Lieutenant Spellman,” I said. “How nice to see you again.”
“Hello, Denton.”
I followed his eyes toward the front of the sanctuary. He was watching Rachel, along with several other people I didn’t recognize, as they shook hands in the receiving line.
“Her family?” I asked.
“The two on the left are her parents. The silver-haired one on the right is his father. I understand Fletcher’s mother had to leave. Too much for her.”
“How about the tall guy at the end?”
“Mrs. Fletcher’s brother, I think. The man and the woman on the other end are Fletcher’s brother and sister.”
“Fletcher had siblings?” I asked.
Spellman turned to me. “He was human, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“People do have brothers, sisters, cousins.”
“Funny,” I commented, “I’d have guessed that Fletcher was an only child. Maybe it was the combination of being an overachiever and difficult to deal with.”
“He was the oldest.”
I looked down at my watch. The funeral was going to start in about fifteen minutes.
“If I’m going to make it through the receiving line before the kickoff, I’d better get on up there. You staying for the whole ball game?”
Spellman looked up at me as I stood up. “Not if it means you’re going to come back and sit with me.”
“Lieutenant, I hope you don’t think my presence here is a case of the killer coming by to check out his own handiwork.”
He went stone-faced on me. I took my cue and walked off. I couldn’t help jibing him; he was such a tough guy. Cop works homicide for twenty years, he’s going to get a little jaded. Just thought I’d put a little humor back into his colorless, dreary life.
The line sped up a little as the clock wound down to show time. Funerals make me so uncomfortable that my mind runs around in unconnected, disjointed, extremely inappropriate patterns to avoid feeling what’s happening. Sort of a mental Tourette’s Syndrome. Thank God, we can’t see inside each other’s heads. The world would be even crazier than it already is.