“Right, of course,” Laurie said vaguely. She was preoccupied. Here was a new surprise. X rays existed of Franconi’s body! Of course, it didn’t matter much without the body itself, but she wondered why she’d not been told. Then again she’d not seen Bingham until after it was known that Franconi’s body had been stolen.
“Well, I’m glad I spoke to you,” Laurie said, coming out of her musing. “And I apologize for suggesting that you’d forgotten to take the films.”
“Hey, it’s cool,” Marvin said.
Laurie was about to leave when she thought about the Spoletto Funeral Home. On a whim, she asked Marvin about it.
Marvin shrugged. “What do you want to know?” he asked. “I don’t know much. I’ve never been there, you know what I’m saying.”
“What are the people like who come here from the home?” Laurie asked.
“Normal,” Marvin said with another shrug. “I’ve probably only seen them a couple of times. I mean, I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Laurie nodded. “It was a silly question. I don’t know why I asked.”
Laurie left the mortuary office and exited the morgue through the loading area onto Thirtieth Street. It seemed to her that nothing about the Franconi case was routine.
As Laurie commenced walking south along First Avenue another whim hit her. Suddenly, the idea of visiting the Spoletto Funeral Home seemed very appealing. She hesitated for a second while considering the idea and then stepped out into the street to hail a cab.
“Where to, lady?” the driver asked. Laurie could see from his hackney license that his name was Michael Neuman.
“Do you know where Ozone Park is?” Laurie asked.
“Sure, it’s over in Queens,” Michael said. He was an older man who, Laurie guessed, was in his late sixties. He was sitting on a foam rubber-stuffed pillow with a lot of foam rubber visible. His backrest was constructed of wooden beads.
“How long would it take to get there?” Laurie asked. If it was going to take hours, she wouldn’t do it.
Michael made a questioning expression by compressing his lips while thinking. “Not long,” he said vaguely. “Traffic’s light. In fact, I was just out at Kennedy Airport, and it was a breeze.”
“Let’s go,” Laurie said.
As Michael promised, the trip took only a short time, especially once they got on the Van Wyck Expressway. While they were traveling, Laurie found out that Michael had been driving a cab for over thirty years. He was a loquacious and opinionated man who also exuded a paternal charm.
“Would you know where Gold Road is in Ozone Park?” Laurie asked. She felt privileged to have found an experienced taxi driver. She’d remembered the address of the Spoletto Funeral Home from the Rolodex in the mortuary office. The street name had stuck in her mind as making a metaphorical statement about the undertaking business.
“Gold Road,” Michael said. “No problem. It’s a continuation of Eighty-ninth Street. You looking for a house or what?”
“I’m looking for the Spoletto Funeral Home,” Laurie said.
“I’ll have you there in no time,” Michael said.
Laurie sat back with a contented feeling, only half listening to Michael’s nonstop chatter. For the moment luck seemed to be on her side. The reason she’d decided to visit the Spoletto Funeral Home was because Jack had been wrong about it. The home did have a mob connection, and even though it was with the wrong family according to Lou, the fact that it was associated at all was suspicious to Laurie.
True to his promise, within a surprisingly short time Michael pulled up to a three-storied white clapboard house wedged between several brick tenements. It had Greek-style columns holding up the roof of a wide front porch. A glazed, internally lit sign in the middle of a postage stamp-sized lawn read: “Spoletto Funeral Home, a family business, two generations of caring.”
The establishment was in full operation. Lights were on in all the windows. A few cigarette smokers were on the porch. Other people were visible through the ground-floor windows.
Michael was about to terminate the meter when Laurie spoke up: “Would you mind waiting for me?” she asked. “I’m certain I’ll only be a few minutes, and I imagine it would be hard catching a cab from here.”
“Sure, Lady,” Michael said. “No problem.”
“Would you mind if I left my briefcase?” Laurie asked. “There’s absolutely nothing of value in it.”
“It will be safe just the same,” Michael said.
Laurie got out and started up the front walk, feeling unnerved. She could remember as if it were yesterday the case Dr. Dick Katzenburg had presented at the Thursday afternoon conference five years earlier. A man in his twenties had been essentially embalmed alive in the Spoletto Funeral Home after having been involved in throwing battery acid in Pauli Cerino’s face.
Laurie shuddered but forced herself up the front steps. She was never going to be completely free from the Cerino affair.
The people smoking cigarettes ignored her. Soft organ music could be heard through the closed front door. Laurie tried the door. It was unlocked, and she walked in.
Save for the music there was little sound. The floors were heavily carpeted. Small groups of people were standing around the entrance hall but they conversed in hushed whispers.
To Laurie’s left was a room full of elaborate coffins and urns on display. To the right was a viewing room with people seated in folding chairs. At the far end of the room was a coffin resting on a bed of flowers.
“May I help you?” a soft voice enquired.
A thin man about Laurie’s age with an ascetic face and sad features had come up to her. He was dressed in black except for his white shirt. He was obviously part of the staff. To Laurie, he looked like her image of a puritan preacher.
“Are you here to pay respects to Jonathan Dibartolo?” the man asked.
“No,” Laurie said. “Frank Gleason.”
“Excuse me?” the man enquired.
Laurie repeated the name. There was a pause.
“And your name is?” the man asked.
“Dr. Laurie Montgomery.”
“Just one moment if you will,” the man said as he literally ducked away.
Laurie looked around at the mourners. This was a side of death that she’d experienced only once. It was when her brother had died from an overdose when he was nineteen and Laurie was fifteen. It had been a traumatic experience for her in all regards, but especially since she’d been the one who had found him.
“Dr. Montgomery,” a soft, unctuous voice intoned. “I’m Anthony Spoletto. I understand you are here to pay respects to Mr. Frank Gleason.”
“That’s correct,” Laurie said. She turned to face a man also dressed in a black suit. He was obese and as oily as his voice. His forehead glistened in the soft incandescent light.
“I’m afraid that will be impossible,” Mr. Spoletto said.
“I called this afternoon and was told he was on view,” Laurie said.
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Spoletto said. “But that was this afternoon. At the family’s request this afternoon’s four p.m. to six p.m. viewing was to be the last.”
“I see,” Laurie said nonplussed. She’d not had any particular plan in mind concerning her visit and had intended on viewing the body as a kind of jumping-off place. Now that the body was not available, she didn’t know what to do.
“Perhaps I could just sign the register book anyway,” Laurie said.
“I’m afraid that, too, is impossible,” Mr. Spoletto said. “The family has already taken it.”
“Well, I guess that’s it,” Laurie said with a limp gesture of her arms.
“Unfortunately,” returned Mr. Spoletto.
“Would you know when the burial is planned?” Laurie asked.
“Not at the moment,” Mr. Spoletto said.
“Thank you,” Laurie said.
“Not at all,” Mr. Spoletto said. He opened the door for Laurie.