The funeral mass for Alice Bryant was set for ten o'clock Wednesday morning at the Mount Curran Catholic Church, located near Parker Road and Iliff. At nine-forty, I pulled into the parking lot, which I quickly discovered was nearly full. I had to park at the far end and walk all the way back. Normally, I wouldn't have minded, but a massive arctic cold front had moved into the Denver area and a bone-chilling wind was blowing from the west. Climbing out of my car, I tightly buttoned the top of my overcoat. My icy breath hung in the air, like death itself, as I hurried toward the shelter of the church.
The media were present in full force. A dozen broadcasting trucks were parked in the fire lane, their antennae pointing skyward. When I reached the main entrance, I found myself caught in a blinding glare of television lights and electronic flashes, a handful of microphones thrust in my face. Some of them called out questions, but I couldn't make any of them out. The circus atmosphere made me angry.
Squinting through the blaze of lights, I scolded them, "This isn't the time or place for these questions. We're here for a funeral," and I forced my way past them. I learned later that the exchange was replayed on two of the news channels that evening.
Inside the church, it was standing room only. I recognized the group of NetScanners employees and moved to join them: Lloyd Garrison, Marilou Jankowsky, Stephen Randolph, Al Sprague, and Lois Murdock. We exchanged subdued greetings, with one notable exception: Lois Murdock reached over and hugged me.
"How's your mother doing?" I asked in a low voice.
"Not good," she answered sadly. "It's only a matter of a weeks. Or days." She started to say something else, but decided against it.
Paul Wyndham, wearing a gray overcoat and a scowl, appeared in the doorway and trudged over to join us. Margaret, dressed tastefully in black, was close behind.
"Those goddamned reporters are idiots!" Wyndham spat as he removed his coat.
Margaret rolled her eyes and explained to me, "The only thing he hates more than bad publicity is funerals."
"You bet I do," he agreed. "They're a complete waste of time. A bromide for the living. What good do they do for the dead?" He turned to me. "Don't you agree?"
"No," I said. "I don't."
He didn't like that, but he contented himself with glaring contemptuously at me. I noticed two large muscular men in dark suits standing slightly behind him, listening uninterestedly to our discussion.
I addressed one of the massive dark suits. "I don't think we've met."
Wyndham said, "This is--" He turned to the man. "What's your name?"
The hulk was bigger than Maurice and he looked downright menacing. "Paxton. Alex Paxton."
"Bodyguard?" I asked him.
"Cop," replied Wyndham. "No one's getting a second chance at me!"
The ushers began herding people into the chapel. Most of the NetScanners staff found seats. Randolph managed to place himself next to Lois and she made sure I ended up on her other side. Al Sprague didn't move fast enough and wound up standing with some of the other NetScanners personnel along the back wall. The mass took nearly an hour. The young priest made no reference to the circumstances of Alice Bryant's death. Instead, he spoke at length of her loyal service to the church and her dedication to her sister. When the service was over, we all filed somberly past the long wooden pew where Mary Bryant and the other family members were seated.
When my turn came, I offered my hand. "I'm very sorry about your sister."
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Larsen." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Have you made any progress with finding out--well, you know..."
"I know. And yes, I have made some progress. But not enough to do act upon. At least, not yet."
She touched my hand. "I'm grateful, Mr. Larsen, for all you've done for me. If you hadn't believed in me, even after finding out the truth about my past, I don't know what I would have done. This may not sound very Christian, but I kept wondering during the service whether whoever killed her was sitting here in this church. I even prayed to God to strike down the evil creature who did this to her. Then at least we'd know who it was. But things like that never happen, do they?"
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Just be patient. They say the Lord helps those who help themselves." I patted her hand. "You'll be hearing from me. Soon, I hope."
* * * *
Less than a block from the church, I heard the shrill sound of a siren. The flashing red lights of a police car appeared almost out of nowhere and began following me. I pulled over to the curb, even though I knew full well I hadn't violated any laws. The patrol car screeched to a halt behind me. I watched in the rear view mirror as the uniformed policeman came marching importantly up to my car. He looked like something out of every 'redneck Southern cop' movie I had ever seen, complete with mirrored aviator sunglasses that reflected my own image back to me.
Gazing up at the policeman's face I asked sardonically, "How fast was I going, Officer?"
Stone said, "I'm not amused, Larsen. I want to talk to you."
With a gesture of submission, I asked, "Your place or mine?"
"Mine."
I climbed unhurriedly out of my car and ambled back to join Stone in his Crown Victoria squad car. He immediately demanded, "What were you doing at that funeral?"
It was a stupid question and we both knew it. "Worshiping," I said. "What were you doing?"
"Observing."
"Observing what?"
He shook his head. "I'm not here to answer questions. I want to talk to Mary Bryant."
"About what?"
"Paul Wyndham."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Now you think she had something to do with that?"
"I'll find out when I question her. How soon can I talk to her?"
I eyed him coldly. "You can't. Not if she's a suspect." I regarded him for a while, waiting for some response, but he didn't move a muscle. I shook my head in disgust. "You don't seriously think she had anything to do with trying to kill Wyndham, do you?"
"You want to know what I think? I think she's in this thing up to her neck."
"That's ridiculous!"
"Yeah? What's so ridiculous about it?"
"Well, for one thing, what possible motive could she have? And why would she break into Lois Murdock's apartment? Whoever tried to kill Wyndham is also the one who--"
"That's what you say. I've already told you what I think about that burglary."
"And I've already told you, you're wrong." I let out a little sigh. I knew it would be a wasted effort, but I decided to try it, anyway. "Stone, in case you haven't yet realized this, your destiny and mine are--"
"Don't waste my time with any cosmic bullshit. I'm not--"
"Damn it, Stone! If you'd work with me for once, instead of--"
"We've had this conversation before." He tapped himself on the chest. "I'm a police officer. You're not. I carry a badge. You don't. I'm investigating a series of crimes. You're not. I don't cooperate with you, not now, not ever." He leaned toward me, putting his face six inches from mine and said, "But you'd damn well better cooperate with me. You got it, Larsen? End of discussion."
I said nothing.
"Got it?" he repeated.
"Oh, I get it," I assured him. "I just don't understand why you won't--"
"Oh?" he asked with a smirk. "You don't understand? A smart lawyer like you? What part of that was too hard for you to figure out?"
I regarded him with an expression of profound loathing. "You never bend the rules, do you? Not even when justice requires--"
"Never! Once you bend the rules, they're no longer rules."
"I know, I know," I muttered disgustedly. "The faithful Inspector Javert, doggedly pursuing the--"
His hands tightened their grip on the steering wheel. "Get out of my car!"
I opened the door and climbed out. "Stone, someday, you'll realize--"
The rest of my sentence was drowned by the roar of the Crown Victoria's powerful engine as he sped off.