A funeral lasts for two hours," Doug Peckham was saying as he glared at Kyle. "I don't understand why you need to take two days off."
"The funeral is in Pittsburgh. I have to fly there, then fly back. He was a fraternity brother. I'm a pallbearer. I'll need to see the family. Come on, Doug."
"I've done funerals!"
"For a twenty-five-year-old roommate shot in the head?"
"I get all that, but two days?"
"Yes. Call it vacation. Call it personal time. Don't we get a few personal days a year?"
"Sure, it's somewhere in the handbook, but no one takes them."
"Then I'm taking them. Fire me, I don't give a damn."
A deep breath on both sides of the desk, and Doug said calmly, "Okay, okay. When is the funeral?"
"Two o'clock, Wednesday afternoon."
"Then leave late tomorrow afternoon, and meet me here at five-thirty Thursday morning.
I gotta tell you, Kyle, this place is a powder keg. This Toby Roland split is getting nastier, and larger, and those of us who stay behind are about to get dumped on."
"He was my roommate."
"And I'm sorry."
"Oh, thank you."
Doug waved off the last comment, picked up a thick file, and thrust it across the desk. "Can you read this on the airplane?" While phrased like a question, it was an outright command.
Kyle took the file and locked his jaws to keep from saying, Sure, Doug, I'll give it a look on the plane and I'll sneak a peek at the wake and I'll analyze the damned thing during the service and review my thoughts at the burial when they lower Baxter into his grave, and then, when I'm flying back to LaGuardia, I'll flip through it again, and for every minute I'm even remotely thinking about this file, I'll bill, or double bill, or maybe even triple bill the poor client who made the mistake of selecting this full-service sweatshop for its legal needs.
"You okay?" Doug asked.
"No."
"Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."
"There's nothing to say."
"Any clue as to who pulled the trigger?" Doug shifted his weight as he attempted a bit of small talk. He feigned, badly, interest in what had happened.
"No." If you only knew, Kyle thought.
"I'm sorry," Doug said again, and his effort at showing interest was gone.
Kyle started for the door, but stopped when he heard, "I asked you to estimate my hours for the Ontario Bank case, didn't I? Over lunch, remember? I need the hours."
Estimate your own damned hours, Kyle ached to say, or, better yet, Just keep up with your time like everybody else.
"Almost done," Kyle said and made it through the door without further abuse.
THE INTERMENT of Baxter Farnsworth Tate took place on a damp and overcast day at the family burial plot in Homewood Cemetery, in central Pittsburgh. It followed a staid and by-the-book Episcopal service that was closed to the public and especially closed to the media. Baxter left a brother, who attended the service, and a sister, who did not. Over the weekend the brother made a gallant effort to restructure the funeral into a "celebration" of Baxter's life, an idea that fell flat with the ultimate realization that there was so little to celebrate. The brother yielded to the rector, who led them through the standard rituals of remembering someone whom he, the rector, had never met. Ollie Guice, a Beta from Cleveland who had lived with Baxter for two of their years at Duquesne, struggled through a eulogy that evoked a few smiles. Of the eight surviving members of their pledge class, seven were present. There was also a respectable showing from old Pittsburgh - some childhood friends and those required to attend because they came from the upper crust. There were four long-forgotten pals from the second-tier boarding school the Tates had shipped Baxter to when he was fourteen years old.
Unknown to Kyle and the others, Elaine Keenan had attempted to enter the church but was turned away because her name was not on the list.
No one from Hollywood made it to the funeral. Not a single soul from L.A. Baxter's C-list agent sent flowers. A former female roommate e-mailed the rector a brief eulogy that she insisted be read by someone in attendance. She was "on the set" and couldn't get away. Her eulogy made references to the Buddha and Tibet and was not well received in Pittsburgh. The rector tossed it without a word to the family.
Brother Manny managed to talk his way into the church, but only after Joey Bernardo convinced the family that Baxter had spoken highly of his pastor in Reno. The family, along with all the other mourners, eyed Brother Manny with some suspicion. He wore his standard white uniform - baggy bleached dungarees and flowing shirttail - and layered it with a garment that was probably a robe of some variety but looked more like a white bedsheet. His only concession to the solemnity of the occasion was a black leather beret that adorned his tumbling gray locks and gave him an odd resemblance to an aging Che Guevara. He wept throughout the service, shedding more tears than the rest of the hidebound and stoic collection combined.
Kyle shed no tears, though he was deeply saddened by such a wasted life. As he stood next to the grave and stared at the oak casket, he was unable to dwell on the good times they had shared. He was too consumed with the raging internal debate over what he should have done differently. In particular, should he have told Baxter about the video, about Bennie and the boys, about everything? If he had done so, would Baxter have appreciated the danger and behaved differently? Maybe. Maybe not. In his zeal to clean up his past, Baxter might have gone nuts if he knew he'd actually been filmed doing whatever he did to Elaine. He might have confessed under oath and said to hell with everybody else. It was impossible to predict because Baxter was not thinking rationally. And it was impossible to second-guess now, because Kyle did not foresee the extent of the danger.
But he certainly saw it now.
There were about a hundred mourners huddled around the grave site, all pressing close together to hear the final words from the rector. A few cold raindrops hurried things along. A crimson tent provided shelter for the casket and the family seated near it. Kyle glanced away, at the rows of tombstones where the old money was buried, and beyond them to the stone gate at the cemetery's entrance. On the other side of the entrance was a large pack of media types, waiting like vultures for a glimpse of something newsworthy. Ready with cameras, lights, and microphones, they had been kept away from the church by the police and private guards, but they had dogged the procession like kids at a parade, and now they were desperate for a shot of the casket or the mother collapsing as she said goodbye. Somewhere in their midst was at least one of Bennie's boys, maybe two or three. Kyle wondered if they had a camera, not for a shot of the casket but to record which of Baxter's friends had bothered to attend. Useless information, really, but then so much of what they did made no sense.
They knew how to kill, though. There was little doubt about that. The state police had nothing to say so far, and as the days passed, it was becoming evident that their silence was not necessarily of their choosing. There was simply no evidence. A clean hit, a silent bullet, a quick getaway, and no motive whatsoever.
Brother Manny wailed loudly from the edge of the tent, and this rattled everyone else. The rector missed a beat, then droned on.
Kyle stared at the horde in the distance, too far away for any one face to be recognized. He knew they were there, watching, waiting, curious about his movements and those of Joey and Alan Strock, who'd driven in from med school at Ohio State. The four roommates, now reduced to three.
As the rector wound down, a few sobs could be heard. Then the crowd began backing away from the crimson tent, inching away from the grave site. The burial was over, and Baxter's parents and brother wasted no time in leaving. Kyle and Joey held back, and for a moment stood near the tombstone of another Tate.
"This will be our last conversation for a long time," Joey said softly but firmly. "You're messing around with the wrong people, Kyle. Just leave me out of it."
Kyle looked at the pile of fresh dirt about to be packed on top of Baxter.
Joey kept on, his lips barely moving as if bugs were close by. "Count me out, okay? I've got my hands full here. I've got a life with a wedding and a baby in the future. No more of your silly spy games. You keep playing if you want, but not me."
"Sure, Joey."
"No more e-mails, packages, phone calls. No more trips to New York. I can't keep you out of Pittsburgh, but if you visit here, don't call me. One of us will be next, Kyle, and it won't be you. You're too valuable. You're the one they need. So for our next mistake, guess who gets the bullet."
"We didn't cause his death."
"Are you sure about that?"
"No."
"These guys are around for a reason, and that reason is you."
"Thanks, Joey."
"Don't mention it. I'm going now. Please keep me out of it, Kyle. And be damned sure nobody sees that video. So long."
Kyle allowed him to walk ahead, then he followed.
