"We weren't, actually."
"So you're not a relative?"
"Not even distantly."
"A friend?"
"Not exactly."
"A friend of a friend?"
"You couldn't really say that either."
"So what are you doing here, just enjoying the day?"
"Yes, actually. You're right, it is a lovely day. And who doesn't enjoy a good funeral?"
"Is that what this is?"
"Well, I have to admit I've seen better. This one's a little sparse on the attendance, and the words of remembrance are a tad generic, but the communal atmosphere has a certain piquant poignancy. I'd give it a solid six."
"You sound like an expert."
"Funerals are sort of a hobby of mine."
"You should get together with my partner," she said. "He loves funerals, too. Can't get enough of them. Between you and me, I think he's looking forward to his own."
"Partner? What, like a life partner?"
"Thank heavens, no."
"So you're single?"
"Yes."
"That's such a coincidence," said Kyle with a big old smile, "because so am I."
"Are you hitting on me? At a funeral?"
"Of course not. I am shocked and appalled at the implication. In fact, I think you and I need to have a rather stern talk about your perverse sense of funeral decorum. Perhaps over a drink."
She fought not to laugh and failed.
"My name's Kyle."
"Lucia," she said. "Lucia Ramirez. It's nice to meet you, Kyle."
"If you want to know the truth, this Mr. Toth isn't actually a total stranger."
"Really?" she said.
"Fourteen years ago he kicked me out of my father's funeral."
"Fourteen years ago?"
"To the month, in fact. Not that I hold a grudge."
"And that's why you're here on this fine day? Because you don't hold a grudge?"
"That's right."
"Fourteen years ago." She tapped her chin. "Isn't that when Mr. Toth's partner died?"
He looked at her again. He had thought she'd just wandered over, but there was a degree of purpose in her stance, in the way she was staring at him now.
"How did you know that?" he said.
"Was Mr. Toth's partner your father?" she said.
"Just so happens yes."
"So that's your mother sitting beside the widow?"
"No."
"But that's—"
"Yes."
"Ahh, I see."
"Do you?" He looked at her, caught the intensity of her gaze. "What do you see, exactly?"
"How did your father die, do you know?"
"Heart attack, or so I've been told."
"Told by whom?"
"Well, by Mr. Toth."
"Did you ever get any documentation?"
"Why would I?"
"Just wondering. You have the time?"
Kyle reflexively checked his watch. It was an old gold thing with a square face and an expandable metal band. "One-twenty," he said.
"Nice watch. What is it, a Raymond Weil?"
He looked at it again. "No. It's a Longines. It belonged to my mother. Who are you anyway?"
"When was the last time you saw this Mr. Toth?"
"A while ago, I don't remember. Hey, what's going on here? I thought we were mindlessly flirting."
"Where were you on Friday night? I'm talking late, now. About midnight."
"That's the night Mr. Toth was killed, right?"
"That's right," she said.
He looked at her a bit more, and then it came to him, wholly and with utter clarity, the way the most obvious things come to you when you finally grasp hold. This wasn't just a cute girl flirting as she passed the time at some boring old funeral. This was a cop, admittedly a fine-looking cop, but a cop nonetheless, a cop investigating the murder of Laszlo Toth. And Kyle Byrne realized with a shock that he had suddenly become a suspect. How cool was that?
CHAPTER 9
ROBERT SPANGLER WAS LISTENING to a priest drone on at the funeral of Laszlo Toth when he spotted the two police officers scanning the crowd. They were in plain clothes, but still, the moment he saw them, he knew, what with their law-enforcement stances—like prison guards on the walk—their sunglasses, their chins. Not to mention their races. The old black man and young Latino woman stood out like messengers from another planet in the sea of white Hungarian trash.
Robert had never before had the opportunity to attend the funeral of someone he'd actually killed, though he'd sat through the funeral and memorial service of Liam Byrne, whom he had tried to kill but who had died before Robert could get a second chance at him. That funeral was an odd experience, especially after it had been disrupted by Byrne's illegitimate son, who snatched the urn full of the old man's ashes and darted crazily into the depths of the cemetery. But this funeral was stranger still for Robert, an opportunity only a rare few ever had the temerity to experience. What did it feel like to stand by the open grave of a man whom you had murdered in the coldest of blood?
He took a moment to gauge his emotions, and this is what he felt: disgrace and exultation and boredom all at once. Disgrace at the humiliation that he accepted from her at every turn. In her eyes he was no better than a pet—worse, actually, because her cat was treated with far more respect than was he. Exultation at the act itself, not the killing per se but the execution of it, clean and hard. He had taken his time, he had set the scene, he had laid traps to cover his tracks. Except for a missing cuff link, everything had gone perfectly. It was a lucky thing he didn't have a taste for the work, because he was damn good at it. And finally boredom, yes, boredom, because, frankly, funerals were boring as hell.
But now, with the cops barging in on the graveside service, he felt something else, too. A shot of fear. Interesting. And strangest of all, he discovered that he liked it.
They were talking, the two of them, off to the side. She had left for a bit to question one of the old-timers who had shown up, and now she was back with her partner, surveying the crowd. For a moment her gaze fell upon Robert like the beam of a klieg light, and even as he maintained his stolid demeanor and stance, he felt something rise within him. A thrill, like being on a roller coaster, the moment at the crest of the initial rise when nothing but the fall is before you. And then her gaze passed on and the thrill disappeared.
He kept watching her as she scanned the crowd. After a moment more with her partner, she headed off, toward a man in a gray suit standing on a small hill beyond the coffin. He studied the man for a moment. There was something familiar about him. And then Robert recognized him. So captivated was he by the ebb and flow of his own emotions that he had turned sloppy and hadn't seen him clearly, but now he did.
It was the boy who had run off with the ashes, the son of Liam Byrne.
He'd been looking for this Kyle Byrne ever since Laszlo Toth had told him about the missing file cabinet. He needed to learn if this Kyle knew anything about where it might be and what might be inside, but the son had been hard to trace. The only pictures he had were of a younger, thinner figure, a teen, actually, still in high school, photos from the sports pages of the Philadelphia Inquirer. The address that was listed on the Internet was no longer valid; the son had moved out of the house just a few weeks before. A neighbor seemed to remember that this Kyle worked at a place called Bubba's. He had found the bar and waited there for way too long—there was only so much piss-gut beer he could drink—but the kid had never shown, so Robert had delivered his message to the scrawny black bartender and then left. He had planned to visit the bar after the funeral to sniff out what he could, but he no longer needed to.
Instead of Robert's having to search for the boy, the message had borne fruit and the boy had come to him.
Robert watched as the cop sidled up to this Kyle Byrne and started talking. The boy seemed to be lost, and it took him a moment to realize that someone had spoken, but the two eventually settle
d into conversation. Robert could imagine what was being said, the cop asking the kid questions about a murder. But wait a second, it didn't seem like an intense interview. It actually looked like she was flirting. And son of a bitch, it looked like he was flirting back. At a funeral, no less. He had to admire that. He'd have to be more careful with this Byrne boy than he'd thought. He watched as they chatted amiably, and then the conversation took an obvious turn.
She was turning cop on him, and he was getting defensive. Interesting. Whatever was going on between them had turned into an interrogation. Could the son of Liam Byrne be a suspect in the murder of Byrne's former partner? Why not? The more the merrier. Robert was only disappointed that he hadn't seen the possibility sooner. It would have been nice to add a piece of evidence to the crime scene implicating the boy. Maybe he'd still have his chance.
It lasted a moment more, the conversation, and then the cop slipped away to head back to her partner. They'd talk about the kid, they'd keep an eye on him, which meant Robert couldn't go right over. He'd have to wait.
His moment came after the priest had finished his monotonous oration, after a few prayers from the little pamphlet had been read, after the coffin had been lowered and dirt had been spilled onto its dark wooden surface with the pattering thud of finality. The three women from the front row had been helped into their respective limousines, the crowd was shaking heads and shaking hands and dispersing toward the cars parked tightly on the road that wound around the gravestones. Robert spied Kyle Byrne walking alone with his head down toward an old red sports car parked well away from the others.
"Mr. Byrne?" said Robert as he came up from behind. "Mr. Kyle Byrne?"
The kid stopped and turned around and gave Robert a careful look before saying, "Yes."
"Liam Byrne's son?"
"That's right."
"I knew your father," said Robert. He stifled his smile as he saw the son's eyes widen with curiosity. He had wondered what to offer as bait, and suddenly he knew. "Your father was a fine man."
"Was he?"
"Well, sometimes he was. And sometimes not so. If you're interested in the details, maybe we should talk," said Robert, fishing a card from his pocket, offering it to Byrne. "I think we can help each other."
Byrne took the card, glanced at it. "How can you help me . . . Mr. O'Malley?"
"I know things about your father."
"Things? What kinds of things?"
"Things about his life, his frailties, his death."
"His death?"
"Things that might surprise you," said Robert. "Secrets. What child doesn't want to probe the secrets of his father? But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you have no interest at all in your father's past. And if so, good for you. Only the foolish look back. Forward, forward is all. I'm sorry to disturb you."
"No, no, wait," said Byrne as Robert started to turn away. "We can talk. Why don't we talk now?"
"They've just buried your father's partner," said Robert. "This is an inappropriate venue for our discussion, don't you agree? Call me, and we'll meet someplace seemly."
"I don't understand."
"Call me."
"Wait, don't leave."
"Soon," said Robert as he backed away.
"Mr. O'Malley?"
"Yes?"
"You said we can help each other. How can I help you?" Robert stopped, stared for a bit, and then walked up to Byrne so his softest voice could be heard. "I am looking for something. I was a client of your father's, and I gave him certain information that he put in a file. A legal file. With my name upon its label. I would like that information back. Do you have any idea where the file might be?"
"No. None."
"That's too bad," said Robert as he backed away and then turned again to leave.
"But we should talk."
"Find me my file and we will."
"I don't even know where to look."
"Think," said Robert over his shoulder. "Think hard, and then give me a call."
CHAPTER 10
THE OLDE PIG SNOUT TAVERN in South Philly was as close to a real home as Kyle had anymore, if home was wherever family could be found. Kyle's father and mother both were dead, he had no siblings, and the only grandparent he ever knew was his mother's disapproving mother, who was now long gone. He was closer to Kat than to anyone else on the planet, but as far as blood went, Kyle had only one family member left, and he could invariably be found drinking away his disability check at the Olde Pig Snout.
"Well, lookie who the hell it is," said Uncle Max as Kyle stepped into the bar. "Yo, Fred, you know my nephew Kyle?"
"Sure," said Fred, the tall, lugubrious man who forever stood behind the bar of the Olde Pig Snout. "How you doing there, Kyle?"
"Good," said Kyle.
"That's good," said Fred. "That's real good. You still playing ball?"
"I was. For Bubba's."
"Good. Are they doing any good?"
"No."
"Good. Anything I can get you?"
"A beer is good."
"On my tab," said Max.
"Good," said Fred.
Conversation was always scintillating at the Olde Pig Snout, a simple corner joint that never seemed to change. The prevailing color was nicotine brown, the hamburgers were always overcooked, the television was always on, the Phillies were always losing. Over the years the clientele had shifted from all white to a mixture of white and black and Vietnamese, a veritable Rainbow Coalition, but this was no great circle of man holding hands and singing "Kumbaya." Because they were at the Olde Pig Snout, and that brought everyone down to the same low level, drinking for the same sad reasons, eating the same overcooked hamburgers. But that night Kyle wasn't there for the burgers.
Ever since the funeral that afternoon, and the conversations with that cop Ramirez and the strange Mr. O'Malley, Kyle had been plagued by questions. Why was Laszlo Toth murdered? Why were questions being asked about Liam Byrne's death? Was there a link between the two? What surprising things about his father's life and death could this O'Malley character really tell him? And what was in that file that O'Malley was seeking so keenly?
They were all mysteries most likely better left shrugged off and forgotten. And who was better at shrugging off questions than Kyle Byrne? Kyle didn't want to steer his life, he wanted to bob in the currents, take in the scenery as he floated here and there. Any idiot could dress to impress, work his ass off, kiss butt and climb that solid and respectable ladder of success, but only a few had the temerity to slack off as baldly as Kyle. He would always sooner spend the afternoon blowing dope and obliterating aliens on the Xbox than pounding the streets in search of the truth.
But there was another Kyle, secret and hidden. This was the Kyle who had run off with the urn holding his father's ashes. This was the Kyle who scanned the obituaries each day and trucked out to cemeteries north and west and south to pay his father's respects. And while all his slacker instincts screamed at him to leave this thing alone, the hole left by his father's death seemed to draw forth an undeniable initiative that annoyed the hell out of him. If the questions were about anyone other than his father, he'd spend the day on Halo, no doubt about it. But they were about his father. And the only person he could talk to who might have a sense of what he'd be getting himself into was his Uncle Max.
"So, to what do I owe the honor of your presence in this crappy little joint?" said Max when the beers had been served and uncle and nephew had repaired to an empty booth by the bathroom door, from which the delicate scent of urine cake seeped into the air about them.
"I just thought I'd stop in to say hello."
Max looked at him for a long moment. "How much you need?"
"Nothing," said Kyle. "For now at least. I actually fell into a small wad, so I'm a bit flush."
"What did you do, rob a bank?"
"Not that flush. How's the back?"
"Who's asking, you or the insurance company?"
"Me."
"Then it sucks. It hurt
s like a nagging wife kicking a boot into my spine every single day."
"And if it was the insurance company asking?"
"We wouldn't be having this conversation, because I can't no more get out of bed. So what's really going on? What can I do you for?"
Kyle spun his beer slowly. "Remember Laszlo Toth?"
"Your dad's partner. The one that was killed the other night."
"I went to the funeral today."
"It's a shame," said Max. "I mean, it's a shame to waste a nice day like today on that Hungarian piece of crap."
"Maybe, but some weird things happened at the funeral." Kyle leaned forward and in a quiet voice told his uncle about the strange conversations he'd had, first with the cute cop and then with that O'Malley character. Max listened with pursed lips and squinted eyes, like he was visiting the proctologist.
"That's a hell of a funeral," said Max when Kyle finished the story. "So what are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know."
"How cute was the cop?"
"Really cute."
"Still. You know, cops are tricky. Maybe you should let the whole thing die down a bit before you start slamming her with your pecker."
"But it's like all these mysteries have been tossed in my face, and I'm not sure I can let them go. I got to tell you, Max, my head is spinning."
"When that happens, there's only one thing to do," said Max. "Yo, Freddie, two more. And since he's struck it rich, put this round on the kid's tab."
When the beers came, Kyle took a swallow and then, without looking at his uncle, said, "Tell me about my father."
"What's there to tell? Truthfully, I didn't know him much, but even so, I never liked the son of a bitch."
"Why not?"
"Look, all I cared about was my sister, and then you. And this guy, he knocks her up but doesn't marry her, doesn't end up living with her, doesn't spend any time with her or the kid but instead keeps on living with his little French number. In my book a son of a bitch does that to my sister . . . well, I'm not going to like him."
"Fair enough. What about my mom?"
"Paula? She was dazzled by him. He had big words, big ideas, big emotions, big ambitions, and he was able to con her into thinking she could come along for the ride. She fell in love and never stopped loving. Even after the son of a bitch left her for the last time, she kept missing him."
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