Denton - 01 - Dead Folks' Blues (21 page)

She smiled at me. “Anytime.”

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.

Finally, I got to Rachel. I hugged her, her form warm and vibrant in my arms. This, I thought, is the roughest of duties. Amazingly enough, she had not yet reached that point where
she was on automatic pilot. She was still actually hearing the words of sympathy from each person, still feeling the loss, the conflict of despair, sadness, along with the good dose of anger we all feel at the dead.
How dare you die on me, you rat bastard?

She sobbed in my arms, her face tightening, although her eyes remained dry. The tear ducts can only work so hard before even they give out. But the heart continues.

I felt like hell for her. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, take her away from this grim room. I even found myself with that old familiar burning down below that she’d always fired in me. I had to fight to suppress that one, let me tell you. Nothing like getting frisky at a funeral to get yourself dropped off the A-list at party time.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, pulling away from me.

“What can I do to help you?”

“You can take care of yourself. Be my friend. Come see me after all this is over.”

“You got it,” I said. “No problem.”

I wove through the rest of the line, meeting the relatives and the in-laws, shaking my head in sadness and agreeing that this was indeed a terrible tragedy. Then I took a seat in the chapel about midway down the aisle. I looked around and saw Dr. Collingswood and Dr. Zitin sitting next to each other. James Hughes sat farther back with a group of other medical students. I looked around for LeAnn Gwynn, then realized she was in the back of the chapel with Jackie Bell and a covey of much younger nurses. All we needed was Bubba Hayes to complete the cast, but I doubted if bookies were in the habit of showing up for their customers’ funerals. After all, how could they collect?

Yes, I’d agreed with someone from Conrad’s family in the receiving line: this was a terrible tragedy. But for at least one person, and probably one person who was somewhere in this room, this was not a terrible tragedy.

It was simply and completely a job well done.

I can’t decide whether I was born a good liar, or it was simply a skill I acquired over time out of the necessity of need and the tedium of practice. I guess it’s lucky I was born with a sense of moral value as well, because I have no doubt that had I been so inclined, I’d have made a pretty fair grifter.

“This is Dr. Evans, Neurosurgery,” I said to the hospital night operator.

“Oh, yes, Dr. Evans,” she said. “I recognize your voice.”

“I’m trying to locate two residents who should be in the hospital tonight. Do you have any way of checking the scheduling?”

“Why, you know better than that, Dr. Evans. Of course, I do.”

I thought quickly, then laughed. “No, of course, I know you can do it. I meant, have I caught you at a bad time?”

“Oh, no, Doctor. Things are quiet around here tonight. Who are you trying to locate?”

“Doctors Albert Zitin and Jane Collingswood.”

“Please hold.”

I leaned back in my office chair and put my feet up on the desk. Outside, the traffic was finally thinning, and the temperature was taking a slide out of the nineties. Conrad’s funeral had been a long one, what with the drive out to Mount Olivet and all. I’d stayed for the duration. For Rachel’s sake, I’d told myself. Most of the people, though, had chosen to do otherwise. And outside of the family, a couple of TV
cameras, and the university hotshots, there probably weren’t twenty people at graveside.

“Dr. Evans?” the pleasant voice came back.

“Yes.”

“Dr. Zitin is not on call tonight. Dr. Collingswood is doing a rotation in E.R.”

“Thank you,” I said, equally pleasant. “I really appreciate your help.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she said, clicking off.

It occurred to me that if the real Gordon Evans ever called this woman, he was going to have an awful time avoiding arrest for impersonating a doctor.

So Dr. Jane’s in E.R. I’ll be damned if I’ll go out and bung up my leg again just to see her. The swelling had gone down almost completely, and I’d now been almost twenty-four hours without a twinge. All that was left were some nasty blue and yellow streaks that would probably be around for at least a month.

I lowered my pair of good legs to the floor and stood up. Down the hall, I could hear a guitar strumming and the sound of voices. Slim and Ray were holding their nightly songwriter’s cocktail hour. I thought I might drop in on them. I hadn’t said much of anything to either of them since the day Rachel Fletcher walked into my office. They were good people; I’d best reconnect with them.

I spread my jacket across the back of the chair and rolled up my shirtsleeves. Casual was the order of the day at Slim and Ray’s office. In fact, I’d be the only one down there out of denim, not to mention the necktie. I was about to leave the office when I heard the squeal of tires and a blaring horn outside.

The corner of the building blocked part of the view, but apparently somebody had taken the curve at Church and Seventh a little too tightly and almost collided with a car illegally parked in the loading zone for the drugstore on the corner. Idiots, I thought, turning away.

Then I looked back.

It was a Lincoln, a long black bear of a car. You didn’t
park a car like that; you docked it. Was it the same one that had been in the loading zone the other day? Maybe the one that followed me on the parkway last night? I wasn’t sure, but something set off bells and whistles.