Blood and Bone (5 page)
but worries, next day all those worries are gone, like a flock of finches flitting into the sky.”
“A flock of flitting finches?”
“Didn’t know I was a poet, did you?”
“Is that what you are?” said Detective Ramirez. “Because I’ve been wondering.”
They were a team, a single unit, Detectives Henderson and Ramirez. It didn’t matter that Henderson was tired and old, a burnout waiting for his full pension to vest so he could sit in his lawn chair and watch his tomatoes grow. Or that Ramirez was young and ambitious and disappointed in drawing Henderson as a partner after her meteoric rise to the Homicide Division. It didn’t matter that they came from different generations, listened to different music, viewed the world from entirely different perspectives. It didn’t matter whether they had gotten drunk together, because they hadn’t, or whether they liked each other, because they didn’t, or whether they respected each other, because they both expected they never would. It only mattered that they were partners.
“Widow looks cut up about it all,” said Ramirez.
“She didn’t seem as upset when we questioned her right after, did she?” said Detective Henderson.
“You think she’s faking?”
“Putting on a show. But then that’s only natural, foul play or no. What were they married, forty-five years? After all that time, love has degenerated into habit, and mostly the only thing that still glows bright is the hate.”
“How long you been married, Henderson?”
“Not quite that long, but we sure as hell are getting there.”
They were standing a bit back from the proceedings, dark glasses guarding their watchful eyes. The sun was bright, the sky lightly dotted with clouds, the air springtime fresh. It was a respectable crowd, not as large as some but enough of a turnout to know that the deceased, one Laszlo Toth, a victim of murder by gunshot, was a living, breathing person before he was a corpse. Beneath a blue canopy, sitting in the middle of a row of folding chairs set next to the freshly dug grave, the widow sobbed uncontrollably as the priest carried on about souls and forgiveness and eternity. Two old women were on either side of her. One, with dark hair and dark glasses and bright, overlipsticked lips, offered comfort as she patted the grieving widow’s hair. The other sat withered and twitching from palsy in a wheelchair but remained an imperious presence nonetheless. A factotum in a navy-blue suit stood behind the wheelchair, apparently ready to answer any whim as the woman gripped her black purse tightly and scanned the crowd.
“Look at the women sitting on either side of the wife,” said Detective Henderson. “It seems a little strange, them sitting there like that.”
“Why?”
“You’d think it would be the daughter comforting the mother, but she’s been shunted off to the side. These other two women have the place of honor. It might be interesting to know who they are. Any idea?”
“No.”
“Then maybe you should find out,” he said.
Detective Ramirez bristled. She never liked being given orders, and she especially didn’t like being given orders by a burnt piece of toast like Henderson. “This is a waste,” she said, turning her head away from the proceedings and scanning the empty landscape. “We should be on the street trying to catch the merchandise being moved.”
“We’ll have plenty of time for that,” said Henderson. “And I’ve already given Robbery a heads-up on the missing items. But for now why don’t you find out who those old ladies might be.”
“You want me to go up and ask them?”
“People at a funeral love to talk. The only place better for learning who screwed whom is at a wedding. Just find someone who can’t wait to spill and you’ll get it all. Go on, now, before they start throwing dirt in that hole.”
Ramirez gave him a hard, canine look, like she was about to bark him up a tree, before thinking better of it and heading off to find someone talkative to talk to.
Ramirez didn’t want to spend her morning at a cemetery. She figured she had it figured, the whole murder-robbery of Laszlo Toth. A rear door accidentally left unlocked, a lawyer working late, an opportunity for mayhem. And the crime scene backed up her view. The wallet emptied, the victim’s prized Raymond Weil watch missing, files scattered, drawers rifled, a clutch of flat-screen computer monitors gone. Ramirez assumed that the killer would have taken the copy machine if he could have lifted it. To Ramirez’s way of thinking, getting a line on the gun and searching for the fenced screens or the watch, keeping constant lookout for the credit card to be used was the way to go, and they could do all that while working the other open files piling up on their desks. Scoping out the dead guy’s funeral was simply a lazy man’s way to pleasantly pass the time as he waited for retirement.
Henderson was lazy, he’d admit it, and he did like cemeteries, admired their peacefulness and fine greenery. And Henderson agreed with Ramirez that their being at the funeral was probably a waste of time. But something about the crime scene didn’t sit right in his stomach, and he wasn’t willing to let any opportunity to figure it out slip away. The murder and looting of the legal office was a bit too careful for a kid coming off the street with a gun in his belt and a habit to feed. In random robberies with drugs as the motive, the destruction often had a frenzied quality to it; the damage wrought here seemed controlled by comparison. And no one in the building could account for the door’s being unlocked, which made it seem that instead of its being a burglary, the killer might have been invited in by the dead lawyer. Maybe the lawyer was staying late just for the meeting. The victim’s wife said the broken fingers were the result of an accident, but Toth could have been threatened before he was killed. And what about the cuff link they found beneath Toth’s desk? The widow didn’t recognize it. What kind of drug-addled killer wore cuff links? But more than anything, Henderson couldn’t understand the peculiar pressure that was being placed on him to solve this thing quickly. The captain had called him in, told him the commissioner was getting heat from the mayor to climb on top of the Toth murder as soon as possible. Which meant the mayor was getting heat himself. That was a lot of pressure for a dead seventy-year-old lawyer facing financial troubles, all of which set Detective Henderson to wondering if there might not be more to this than Ramirez figured.
“I found an old man with Italian hands who couldn’t wait to tell me everything,” said Ramirez when she returned.
“Italian hands?”
“They were roamin’.”
Henderson chuckled.
“The woman on the right is a Mrs. Byrne. Her husband was Toth’s partner.”
“He died, what, fourteen years ago?”
“That’s right. Apparently the partners weren’t getting along at the end.”
“You don’t say.”
“Fighting about money.”
“They were lawyers. Of course they were fighting about money. That’s what being a lawyer is all about.”
“But there is something else. Byrne was supposed to have been quite the ladies’ man.”
“Maybe he stepped out with the Widow Toth, is that the word?” Henderson gave the widow a new and more interested look. Her sagging jowls, her arthritic hands. She might have been something at some time, but it was hard to still see it. “How’d Byrne die?”
“The man I was talking to didn’t know.”
“We’re going to have to find out, I suppose.”
“And the woman on the other side in the wheelchair? Get this, she is a Mrs. Truscott.”
“Truscott?”
“That’s right.”
“As in Senator Truscott?”
“The mother. Apparently an old friend of the family and client of the dead man.”
“Suddenly we know who’s pressuring the mayor.”
“Good. Now that that’s all settled, can we leave and do some real work?”
“Not until we do a drill.”
“Drill?”
“Take a look around and tell me, who doesn’t belong?”
“I don’t do drills. What is this, band practice? And don’t tell me you’re expecting the killer to show up at his victim’s funeral. The captain won’t want to hear we wasted the whole morning on that old saw.”
“Old saw, huh? How long you been in Homicide?”
“Long enough to know a waste of time when I’m in the middle of it.”
“Let me tell you, lady. Old saws still cut.”
“Okay, to humor you, and so we can get the hell out of here. Let’s start with who does belong. I see the daughter, who we spoke to already, sitting down beside that Mrs. Byrne.”
“Okay.”
“Her husband’s the thin guy standing behind her. The grandkids are standing with him.”
“Fine.”
“I see the two lawyers we questioned that were working at the firm. One has a woman with him, nice-looking, with expensive hair, wife or girlfriend probably, it doesn’t really matter. They’re standing there behind the family watching their future being buried.”
“Good.”
“And then a whole mess of old men and women saying good-bye. Friends from the old neighborhood, I would expect. And from the profession.”
“Nothing makes an old man feel better than someone else dying before him.”
“You sure do like funerals, don’t you, Henderson?”
“And nothing’s more deadly than an old friend, settling scores before the reaper reaps.”
“You speaking from experience?”
“We’ll check the condolence book they all signed, find the names of these old friends with scores to settle. But now look again. Who doesn’t belong?”
Ramirez scanned the entire scene. The priest, the crowd of old and young, the gravediggers off to the side, waiting to close up the hole. There were some other people milling in the distance, visiting the dear departed at other graves. Nothing stood out. Except maybe . . .
“Who’s that?” she said. “Standing back a bit, in the gray suit?”
“Don’t know,” said Henderson, the twist of a smile bending the corner of his sour mouth.
The man in the gray suit stood with his hands in his pockets, situated on a litt le rise behind t he main mass of mourners. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his hair was unkempt, his beard casually unshaven, his loose tie stylishly askew, his stance a leisurely
contrapposto
. His eyes were guarded by a pair of Ray-Bans, and he sported a strange, crooked smile, as if he were watching an amusing lounge act.
“He’s big, isn’t he?” said Henderson.
“Yes, he is.”
“And quite good-looking.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, no? Now, is that any way to start a partnership, lying at the outset? Someone that good-looking, everybody notices. But see how he’s standing close enough to keep his eye on the proceedings, yet not so close that anyone would start talking to him.”
“Maybe he’s just shy.”
“He doesn’t look shy,” said Henderson.
“Well, this is a sad situation,” said Detective Ramirez. “Poor boy is at a funeral, trying to hide his sorrow, and no one is making an effort to give him some of the human contact he clearly craves. I think I ought to head on over and offer the man my condolences.”
“You want me to tag along?”
Ramirez took another look at the man, pulled off her sunglasses, and tossed her hair. “No thanks. I think I can handle this cutie-pie all by my lonesome.”
IF KYLE BYRNE collected comic books, Laszlo Toth’s funeral would have been Detective Comics number 27, the first appearance of the Batman. If Kyle Byrne collected baseball cards, it would have been a 1909 Honus Wagner tobacco special. But Kyle Byrne didn’t collect comic books, or baseball cards or stamps or coins or blown-glass figurines. What he collected were funerals. Of a certain type.
Every day, after stumbling out of Kat’s spare bedroom at about noon or so, scratching his stomach, emptying his bladder, and scrounging for loose Doritos scattered around the empty beer bottles or the bong on the living-room coffee table, he gathered up the pieces of the newspaper, turned swiftly to the obituaries, and hunkered down for some serious study. He was scanning for old men, born between 1935 and 1950, men in the legal profession who had practiced in Philadelphia. Then he checked their fields of expertise. He didn’t want dour corporate types, in-house hacks, he didn’t want government bureaucrats, didn’t want the bankruptcy or patent-law specialists with their cramped codes and closed fraternities. But if the dead old man had practiced criminal or personal-injury law, or even some insurance defense, then he might take a second look. And if he had an Irish surname or grew up in North Philly or graduated from Temple Law, then Kyle would rip out the obituary, circle the time and date listed for the funeral proceedings, and fill in another line on his very open schedule.
He owned one suit. Gray and single-breasted, the lapels quite narrow. He wore it only to the f unerals. It hung all alone in the closet of the spare bedroom. Open the door of the closet and there it was, his gray two-piece, solitary and limp, waiting for adventure like the Batsuit. Add to it a white shirt, a narrow black tie, a black belt, argyle socks, black shoes. And then, as safely anonymous as any superhero in his mask and cape, he’d head off to the funeral parlor or the cemetery chapel or the grave site that was listed in the obituary. Off to stand apart and breathe in the air of bereavement, take in the expressions of brave grief, watch the condolences pool together into a sea of sorrow and loss.
For a son, every funeral before his father’s death is a rehearsal and every funeral thereafter is a memorial. As Kyle Byrne stood among the mourners in his gray suit and watched body after body of old dead lawyers being lowered into the ground, lawyers whom in all likelihood his father had known, he felt as if he were standing in for his father. When he signed the condolence books, he always signed his father’s name, not his own, and felt a strange exultation. His mother was dead, his past was obliterated, his present was bleak and his future was deeply in doubt, but in these moments he felt a connection to his father that induced in him an undeniable joy.