"We don't need Lawn Doctor, honey," the woman in front of her was saying in a wifely tone, to a gray-haired man who was obviously her husband. "I don't like those little green balls all over the lawn."
"They keep out the crabgrass and the dandelions."
"But I like the dandelions."
The husband chuckled. "I do, too. Have we met?"
Vicki screened them out in favor of the couple behind her, also talking quietly.
The man was saying, "The best was when he comes up with, ‘I make good choices, Daddy!' At seven years old, can you believe that?"
The woman answered, "Dave, how many times you gonna tell that story?"
"As many times as I can," the husband retorted, and they both laughed.
Vicki looked up, wondering where Dan and Mariella were. Somewhere in the thick line of married people, standing two-by-two, like animals loading onto Noah's ark. She scanned the crowd but didn't see him. Or Bale, Strauss, or any of them. They'd be at the front, where there was movement, then the unmistakable sound of someone tapping into a microphone.
"Sound check, sound check," boomed a man's voice, and the room quieted. "Thank you, people. Excuse me, may I have everyone's attention?"
Saxon. Vicki recognized that sonorous bass. She considered running for her life but angled for a better view, standing on tiptoe and coming between the married couple in front of her. Where were Dan and Dr. Bitchy?
"Thanks to all of you for coming today." Saxon towered at the head of the room, a big blond bear in dark suit and tie. "I thank you on my own behalf and on behalf of the ATF family, who gathers on this tragic occasion to honor one of our finest agents, Special Agent Robert Morton."
Vicki swallowed hard. Women sniffled, their heads bowed, and men in suits studied their wingtips. Everyone stopped talking. The only sound was the scratchy undertone of the microphone and the echo of Saxon's voice amplified outside, slightly delayed.
"I'd like to introduce the director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, here from Washington to attend in Morty's honor. Director Louis W. Bonningtone."
Saxon moved aside for the director, a distinguished man whose short stature prevented Vicki from seeing him, given the heads in front of her. She tried to listen to his speech, which was generic, formal, and laden with government-speak, leaving her with the impression that the director had never met Morty in his life. Saxon retook the floor, and then Vicki could see the speaker again.
"Thank you, Director," Saxon began, shifting his weight. "I won't talk long, though I wanted to reiterate how vital Morty was to the agency, how valuable his skills and his tenacity were, over seventeen years. Morty ran the Boston Marathon in his younger days, and I always thought of him as a marathoner, mentally and physically. And he was a handsome devil, even if he was too skinny for my wife's taste."
There was laughter, and even Vicki smiled.
"Morty never met a case that didn't completely absorb him. If others were style, he was substance. He was the best of us, and we won't rest as a family until we bring to justice those responsible for his murder."
At this, there was clapping, and Vicki wished she could believe it, and almost did.
"Let me take a brief minute to introduce to you His Honor, the mayor of Philadelphia, then Ben Strauss, the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, and finally, Anthony Cardinal Bevilacqua, of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, who will pray with us. Mr. Mayor, sir?" Saxon gestured grandly to his left and the mayor stepped in front of the microphone, and a ripple of curiosity went though the crowd, acknowledging his celebrity.
Vicki only half-listened to the mayor's speech, an adequate lecture by a man who had never met Morty, either, and looked around the room for Dan. He would have arrived early, because he always arrived everywhere early, so he'd be in this room somewhere. When the crowd shifted at the front, Vicki spotted Chief Bale with his chic wife. Bale squared his shoulders, because Strauss was taking the microphone.
"Welcome, everyone. I'm Ben Strauss, the U.S. Attorney for our district, but I consider myself honorary ATF today. But don't let me anywhere near a weapon. It wouldn't be the first time a lawyer shot himself in the foot."
People laughed softly, even agents who couldn't abide Strauss. All was forgiven today, and death had a way of persuading people to set aside their differences. Everybody, that is, except Vicki.
"Frankly, I didn't know Morty that well, at least not as well as my AUSAs knew him. For that reason, I'd like to introduce one of them who knew Morty exceptionally well, Dan Malloy, who will say a few words on Morty's behalf."
Whoa. Vicki's ears pricked up. Dan hadn't mentioned it at breakfast. Maybe it came up after? In the next minute, he emerged from the crowd at the front and stood tall before the microphone. His hair had been combed back, wet as a little boy's, but his suit was sharply tailored and Italian. He looked like a candidate for something, and even though Vicki was miffed that he hadn't mentioned it to her, she would have switched parties to vote for him.
"Welcome, everyone." Dan managed a smile, but it was shaky. "Morty worked closely with so many of us AUSAs that sometimes I thought he was a prosecutor. He knew more criminal law than most lawyers, and he had more street smarts than most crooks."
People laughed, nodding, and Vicki bit her lip. It was true.
Tell it, Dan.
"I loved Morty. He was everything a federal law enforcement agent should be, and everything a man should be. Morty always said he would lay down his life for his job, and he died the way he lived-in the service of all of us." Dan paused, swallowing visibly, and Vicki wondered for a minute if he'd lose control. "I knew Morty very well and saw firsthand all the hard work he did-work that, frankly, I got the credit for. Morty made me look good, and that's the way ATF, FBI, and DEA agents are-they make us prosecutors look good, and we get the glory while they labor, literally, undercover."
Around the room, ATF and FBI agents nodded, and conferred briefly.
"Morty, I'm speaking for each and every AUSA in the Philadelphia office when I say: we love you and we miss you already. I'll never play ‘Brick House' without thinking of you. Thank you."
People sniffled, and ATF agents hung their heads. Even if they didn't know Dan, his words had identified him as a real insider. Only someone who knew Morty would know he loved "Brick House." Dan had comforted all of them, even Vicki. Cardinal Bevilacqua himself then took the microphone, saying a brief prayer, and everyone bowed his head. When Vicki raised hers, her gaze found Dan, standing between Strauss and Mariella. Mariella had her arm around him and her head close to him; his broad shoulder shook slightly and his head hung. Vicki felt a stab of sympathy for him. She wished she could comfort him, but Dr. Bitchy was on the spot. Bitterness edged Vicki's thoughts, and she willed herself to banish it. Wives and husbands belonged together at times like this.
I have to get over him.
The reception line started to move so people filtered past the casket, and Vicki's throat felt tight as she reached the front of the line. She spent the next hour in a fugue state of heart-wrenching images. Bent gray heads in line. A flag holder on a stand next to the coffin, the red, white, and blue a neatly folded, thick triangle. An open casket, and Morty. His face still in death: his cold hand tacky to Vicki's touch, from whatever makeup they'd put on his skin. Photos of Morty at the Elliot Ness party were placed in his coffin with paper notes and a Commodores CD. And gallows humor; propped on an easel, an enlargement of a silly photo of Morty in a T-shirt that read, I HAVE A RESCUE FANTASY.
Vicki blinked back her tears and shifted over, shaking hands with the few family members who stood beside the casket, Morty's cousins or something, then Strauss, a priest, and finally, Bale. She was way too emotional to be talking to Bale about Aspinall Street, and he hardly met her eye anyway. She escaped the room and was in the entrance room on the way out when someone touched her arm.