‘Me?’
‘You.’
The man extended his hand — a very large, calloused hand — but not to shake. He pointed and directed Pulaski out of the room and up the hallway to the left.
‘Sir,’ the man said, ‘you are?’
‘Stan Walesa.’ He had a cheap ID that he’d hacked together himself.
But the man didn’t ask for any identification. His eyes boring into Pulaski’s, he rasped, ‘Mr Walesa. You know some people occasionally come to services in hopes of getting something.’
‘Getting something?’
‘It ranges from food at the reception afterward to selling insurance or financial programs. Attorneys too.’
‘That a fact?’
‘It is.’
Pulaski remembered he was supposed to be playing the tough guy. Instead of looking nervous and saying that was terrible, he snapped, ‘What’s that got to do with me? Who are you?’
‘I’m Jason Berkowitz. Associate director. The family in there thought your behavior was a little suspicious. You were claiming to know the deceased.’
‘What’s suspicious? I did know him.’
‘You claim you worked with him.’
‘Not claimed. I did.’ Pulaski’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure the man could hear it. But he struggled to play the wise guy.
‘You don’t seem like the sort who’d work with Mr Ardell.’
‘Who?’
‘Blake Ardell.’
‘And who’s that supposed to be.’
‘Not supposed to be. He is, was, the man whose service you’re crashing.’
‘Crashing? What the hell does that mean? I’m here about Richard Logan.’
The assistant director blinked. ‘Mr Logan? Oh. My. I’m so sorry, sir. That’s Serenity.’
‘Serenity?’
‘The name of the room across the hall. This room is Peace, Mr Ardell’s service.’
Goddamn. Pulaski thought back. The fellow at the front door had told him to turn right. He’d turned left.
Shit, shit, shit. Fucking head injury. If this’d been a drug set, he might be dead now.
Think smarter.
But act the part. ‘One of your people, I don’t remember who, sent me to that room.’
‘I’m so sorry. Please accept our apologies. Our fault entirely.’
‘And names? I’ve never heard of naming rooms in a funeral parlor. You ought to have numbers.’
‘Yessir, it’s a little unusual. I’m sorry. I do apologize.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Pulaski grimaced. He nodded back. Then paused, recalling the curious expression on the faces of the mourners when he’d mentioned working with the deceased.
‘One question. You said I didn’t seem like the sort who worked with this Ardell. What’d he do for a living?’
‘He was an adult film star in the seventies,’ Berkowitz whispered. ‘Gay. The family doesn’t like to talk about it.’
‘I’d guess not.’
‘That’s the room with Mr Logan’s remains.’ He pointed to a small doorway.
Serenity …
Pulaski stepped through it and into a small room, twenty by twenty. There were a few chairs, a coffee table, innocuous landscapes covering the walls. Also a bouquet of subdued white flowers. And on a velvet-draped table, similar to the one holding the urn of late porn star, sat a brown cardboard box. This would, Pulaski knew, be the Watchmaker’s remains. Beside it stood a round, balding man in a dark business suit. He was making a mobile phone call. He looked at Pulaski briefly, with curiosity, and turned away. He seemed to speak more softly. Finally he disconnected.
Inhaling a steadying breath, Pulaski walked up to him. He nodded.
The man said nothing.
Pulaski looked him up and down — keep it blunt, keep it tough. ‘You were a friend of Richard’s?’
‘And you are—?’ the man asked in a soft baritone, with the hint of a Southern accent.
‘Stan Walesa,’ Pulaski said. The name almost seemed natural at this point. ‘I was asking, you’re a friend of Richard’s?’
‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t know why you’re asking.’
‘Okay, I worked with Richard. Off and on. I heard he was being cremated this morning and I assumed there’d be a service.’
‘Worked with Richard,’ the man repeated, looking the officer up and down. ‘Well, there is no service. I’ve been retained to bring his remains back home.’
Pulaski frowned. ‘A lawyer.’
‘That’s right. Dave Weller.’ No hands were proffered.
Pulaski kept up the offensive. ‘I don’t remember you from the trial.’
‘Mr Logan was not my client. I’ve never met him.’
‘Just taking the ashes back home?’
‘Like I said.’
‘That’s California, right?’
The only response was: ‘What are you doing here, Mr Walesa?’
‘Paying respects.’ He stepped closer to the box. ‘No urn?’
‘Not much point,’ Weller said. ‘Richard wanted his ashes scattered.’
‘Where?’
‘Did you send those?’
Pulaski looked at the bouquet, which Weller was nodding at. The officer tried to looks somewhat, but not overly, confused. ‘No.’ He stepped to the vase and read at the card. He gave a bitter laugh.
Inscrutable.
He said, ‘That’s pretty low.’
Weller asked, ‘How do you mean?’
‘You know who that is, who sent them?’
‘I read the card when I got here. But I don’t know the name. Lincoln Rhyme?’
‘You don’t know Rhyme?’ Lowering his voice: ‘He’s the son of a bitch who put my friend in prison.’
Weller asked, ‘Police?’
‘Works with the police.’
‘Why would he send flowers?’
‘I think he’s gloating.’
‘Well, that was a waste of money. Richard’s hardly going to be offended now, is he?’ A glance at the box of ashes.
Silence.
How to behave now? Man, this acting stuff was exhausting. He decided to shake his head at the unfairness of the world. He looked down. ‘Such a shame, really. When I talked to him last, he was fine. Or at least he didn’t mention anything, like chest pains.’
Weller now focused. ‘Talked to him?’
‘Right.’
‘This was recently?’
‘Yeah. In prison.’
‘You’re here alone?’ Weller asked.
A nod. Pulaski asked the same question.
‘That’s right.’
‘So there’s no funeral?’
‘The family hasn’t decided.’ Weller looked Pulaski up and down carefully.
Okay, time to go with the less …
‘Well, so long, Mr Weller. Tell his family, or whoever your clients are, I’m sorry for their loss. I’ll miss him too. He was an … interesting man.’
‘Like I said, I never met him.’
Pulaski pulled on dark cotton gloves. ‘So long.’
Weller nodded.
Pulaski was at the door when the lawyer said, ‘Why did you really come here, Mr Walesa?’
The young officer stopped. He turned back. ‘“Reall”Y? What’s that supposed to mean?’
De Niro tough. Tony Soprano tough.
‘There was never going to be a memorial service. If you’d called to see when I was picking up the remains — which you did, since here you are — you would have learned there was no service. So. What do I make of that?’
Pulaski debated — and made a show of debating. He dug into his pocket and produced a business card. Offered it to the man with a gloved hand. He said, ‘Give that to your clients.’
‘Why?’
‘Just give it to them. Or throw it out.’ A shrug. ‘Up to you.’
The lawyer looked at him coolly, then took the card. It had only the fake name and the prepaid mobile number on it.