“How dare you give that man a special police funeral!” a woman screeched.
“Excuse me?”
“This is Detective Frank Harriman — am I right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Tory Randolph-Britton.”
He could see her in his mind, or at least her image as she appeared on the tape he had viewed the previous night. “Trent Randolph’s ex-wife?”
“I never thought of him that way!” she said, as if she had just watched the same tape and knew her lines. “But yes, I was married to Trent, and Amanda was my daughter, and Seth was my son. My son — do you understand? And you are about to give my son’s murderer a funeral with — with bagpipes and things!”
“No, we’re not. It’s a private funeral. No special treatment by the department.”
There was a brief silence. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. Do you mind if I ask who told you otherwise?”
“Friends of my husband.”
“Trent Randolph’s friends?”
“No, I… I remarried. My current husband was a member of the police department for a time. He still has many friends there.”
“Dale Britton.”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Your husband had left by the time I was hired here. But I can assure you that his friends were mistaken about the funeral.”
“Oh. Well — I’m quite upset about all of this.”
Wondering if the Randolph cases could possibly become more of a nightmare than they already were, he said, “That’s understandable. Anyone in your situation would be upset.”
He heard her draw in a steadying breath. “Dale told me they’ll be reopening the investigation into the murders.”
“The cases have never been officially closed — but yes. In fact, I was hoping I could talk to you at some point —”
“Of course! I’ve been wondering, you know, if anyone was going to call me. Are you the detective assigned to my husband’s and children’s murders?”
“Yes, I am. I’ve only had the cases since late Saturday, though, so I’m just getting started.”
“We must definitely meet soon, then. Dale and I will take you to lunch today.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it for lunch,” he said, not because he already had plans, but because he didn’t like the way she was trying to take control. “Are you free at all this morning?”
“Oh… Dale has business meetings… but I’m the one you probably really want to talk to, right? I mean,
“I’d appreciate any time you can spare,” he said, working to keep his voice neutral, trying not to betray his disgust. “I can meet with your husband later.”
“I’m just leaving for downtown, but I’ll be free later this morning.”
He arranged to meet her at ten-thirty at a coffee shop not far from the newspaper, then called Irene. “Want to have lunch together?” he asked. “I’m going to be downtown.”
“Still not convinced we’ve patched things up?”
He hesitated, then said, “Have we?”
“No, but we’re making progress.”
“I’m all for progress. Meet me for lunch.”
“What brings you this way?”
“Just between us?”
“Of course.”
“Going to meet with Tory Randolph. Tory Randolph-Britton.”
“Oh, you poor thing. A front-row seat for the
“Tell me how you really feel about her.”
She laughed. “It’s awful, I know. I really wanted to feel sorry for her — I mean, what happened to her family was terrible. But she
He felt a mild shock — it suddenly dawned on him that in all the files and notes he had read on all of these cases, no real time had been spent on a question that had to be considered in any murder investigation: Who benefits by this death? In both the
