marble. On seeing me, he shifted right, but didn’t speak.
I slipped into the pew beside him.
And immediately felt the usual rush of emotions.
The somber drone of the organ. The scent of incense mingling with the sweet smell of flowers. The sunlight filtering through stained glass.
My mind flashed back to memories of funerals past.
My brother’s tiny white casket. My father’s gleaming bronze one. Balloons over the coffin of a little girl gunned down by bikers in Montreal. Baby’s breath atop the gravestone of a friend dead of lymphoma at forty-three.
I inhaled deeply, exhaled. Focused on the music. Handel’s “Dead March”? Chopin’s “Funeral March”? I wasn’t sure. Wasn’t uplifted.
An ancient priest said Mass. Slidell’s boss, Harper Dunning, offered a reading. Tony Rinaldi spoke of his father. Others talked of their colleague, their friend, their fellow parishioner. We all stood, sat, knelt. Sang “Abide with Me” and “Lead, Kindly Light.”
Through it all, I kept seeing Rinaldi, all bony limbs and angles. In my office, carefully taking notes with his Mont Blanc pen. In my lab, staring at Susan Redmon’s skull. On Thirty-fifth, bleeding through his perfect Armani jacket.
At the end, an honor guard of officers marched the coffin out. We exited to Mendelssohn’s “On Wings of Song.”
Slidell got us to the cemetery, where the scene was repeated al fresco. Cops. Mourners. Reporters. Dignitaries.
Larabee was there dressed in black. I was about to approach him when a hand touched my shoulder. I turned.
Two green eyes were gazing down into mine.
Without a word, Charlie drew me to him and hugged tightly.
Placing two palms on his chest, I pushed free and stepped back. Why? Embarrassment over his public display of affection? Over my bender? Over our roll in the hay? Rolls.
“How have you been?” Charlie asked gently.
“Good,” I said, aware of Slidell ten feet away, aviator-shaded face turned to his boss, listening to us while pretending not to.
“I called,” Charlie said.
“It’s been crazy busy.”
“I’ve been worried.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for the food.”
“I’d rather have cooked you a meal myself.”
“Listen. I-”
“Don’t explain. Not to me, Tempe. You did what you had to do.”
“That wasn’t me, Charlie.” I wasn’t quite sure of my meaning.
“On Thursday? Or on Sunday?”
He cut in before I could respond.
“Shall we try again? Maybe on a Friday?”
“There’s been someone else, Charlie. A detective in Montreal. I’m not sure it’s over.”
My own words surprised me. Of course it was over. And I was over Ryan.
“He’s very far away,” Charlie said.
In so many ways, I thought.
I had to smile. The song had played incessantly on an interminable bus trip to a state tennis tournament. It became one of the team’s standing jokes.
“Who owned that tape?” I asked.
“Drek Zogbauer.”
“We went to school with someone named Drek Zogbauer?”
Charlie shrugged.
“I remember everyone applauded when the driver finally confiscated the boom box.”
“I led the ovation. It was not the music of my people.”
I cocked a brow. “Your people?”
“Yankees fans.”
Again, I had to smile.
“I do understand, Tempe. Healing takes time.”
You would know, I thought, recalling the photos of his murdered wife.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I can wait.” Charlie grinned. Sad, but a grin. “I’m a very patient man.”
And then I hugged him.
He started to walk away.
“Charlie.”
He turned back.
“Asa Finney was released this morning.”
One hand went to his chest. “Really. No need for accolades.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Just an acknowledgment that I’m the greatest lawyer on the planet.”
“Between you and me, do you read Finney as capable of violence?”
Charlie stepped back to me and lowered his voice. “Honestly, Tempe. I don’t know. Slidell’s right about one thing. The guy’s one weird duck.”
“Thanks.”
Charlie had gone barely ten paces when Slidell left Dunning and ambled back to me.
“That was touching.”
“We went to high school together.”
“I’m happy for you.”
I said nothing.
“Dunning’s pissed.”
“Why?”
“Switchboard’s lighting up with calls from outraged citizens wanting to know why the cops ain’t rounding up witches and warlocks.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. They think He’d be all for it.”
I just shook my head.
“She puts it partly on you.”
“Wait. What?”
“Says you goaded Lingo.”
“I
“Most callers think you’re the spawn of the devil.”
Thirty minutes later, the cavalcade arrived and a brief graveside service took place. Guns were fired, then the coffin was lowered into the ground. The crowd began to disperse.
The backhoe was shoving dirt onto Rinaldi when I spotted Larabee staring toward the gate opening onto Sharon Amity Road. Curious, I followed his sight line.
Like ants drawn to a gumdrop, reporters were circling a pair of men. All I could see were the tops of two heads, one silver-haired, the other buzz cut.
Boyce Lingo and his aide. Exploiting Rinaldi’s funeral to spread a message of hatred and intolerance.
White-hot anger seared through me.
Elbow-jabbing Slidell, I took off in Lingo’s direction, intending not to speak, but to stand front and center, a living reminder to the commissioner that he’d be held accountable for every word he uttered.
