The curved awning that shaded the Rock of Ages Funeral Home entrance rippled in the breeze as Billy pulled into the parking lot. Back in Memphis two days, he’d split with Mercy, Red and Little Man were dead, and Augie had dropped an unsolvable mystery in his lap concerning his mother’s death. It hadn’t been much of a vacation.
A couple of years ago he’d noticed a pair of high heels in a downtown crosswalk positioned as if the woman who’d been wearing them had stepped off the curb and was snatched away. He’d considered whether the Rapture had taken her, her shoes being the only parts of her that remained. He felt the same befuddlement now, as if cosmic forces were at work and he had not properly studied for the test.
Augie’s messages asked him to come to the casket room, where he’d be making arrangements for Davis and Lucy. The only funeral arrangements Billy had ever made were for his uncle Kane, the man who’d raised him after his mother’s car crash. Billy worked in his uncle’s Mississippi roadside diner after school until he’d left for Ole Miss, graduating with a degree in criminal justice. At his uncle’s urging, he’d entered law school.
After one semester, he’d known drafting briefs and representing creeps would not be his life’s passion. An early brush with injustice and racism in a case concerning the murder of two little black girls had compelled him to become a cop. He wanted a career hunting down the bad guys. The last conversation he had with his uncle Kane was on the day he’d left law school and signed up for police academy training. His uncle never forgave him for failing to raise the family’s standards by becoming a professional. Billy made a decision about what was right for his life that resulted in the last living member of his family cutting him off. He never had a chance to see his uncle again.
Walking down the hall, Augie’s high-octane voice jarred against the mortuary’s padded silence and guided Billy to the room full of backlit caskets. He found Augie talking with an angular young man in an ill-fitting suit and narrow glasses, who was scribbling on a clipboard. Augie flung his hand toward the heavy-gauge copper burial box that was showcased in the center of the room. Only the slight upcurve of the young man’s mouth betrayed his pleasure at having such a big fish on the line. The copper casket would easily run eight thousand.
“Write it down,” Augie said and jabbed the man’s pad with his finger. He knocked the pad to the floor, swept it up, and handed it back. “Go on, write it, write it. I want forty dozen red roses. Not the cheap kind—long-stem, first-class.” Augie’s lips drew back in an exaggerated grin, his eyes blinking. He wore a suit jacket and faded shorts that had a rip in the seat the size of a fist. His neon-orange flip-flops screamed against the room’s quiet setting.
Before leaving the barge that morning, Billy had read that the effectiveness of antipsychotics could decline over time and trigger a return of psychosis. At first he’d accepted that as a reason for Augie’s behavior, but then changed his mind. It was more likely that Augie had dropped his meds, ignoring the paranoia and manic swings, in order to have the energy to investigate his mother’s death. Yesterday he’d nearly trampled those kids. Today he looked like a madman. He was going to get hurt or hurt someone else if he didn’t straighten up.
Inspecting the casket was an older man Billy recognized—Sid Garrett, a longtime civil rights trial lawyer and social activist. Used to the limelight, Garrett commanded attention with his silvery hair, swept back from his face, and a profile like the painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware. He’d written a New York Times best seller about the civil rights struggle, detailing the underhanded tactics J. Edgar Hoover had used against the movement’s leaders. During his TV book tour, Garrett’s skillful manipulation of other guests had turned his flyby interviews into regular commentary slots on the political talk show circuit.
Billy had first come into contact with Sid Garrett as a patrol cop when he’d been dispatched to a downtown parking lot for shots fired. He found Garrett lying facedown on the sidewalk with a bullet in his back. The shooter, a suicidal client, was sitting in a nearby car, a gun in his hand and the back of his head blown off.
The bullet in Garrett’s spine left him with a pronounced limp and in constant pain. After recovering, he’d retired from his civil rights law practice and opened a refuge for homeless men with addiction issues. Garrett had dedicated Robert House to the memory of his older brother, Robert Garrett, who had been martyred during the civil rights upheaval.
Billy was aware of two muscular young men standing in the corner, watching Garrett with the intensity of Dobermans. After barely surviving the shooting, Garrett had recruited residents from the shelter’s roster and trained them to watch his back. Hiring bodyguards was extreme, but it was Garrett’s way of dealing with the trauma of being shot. He certainly had the bucks to pay for it.
Augie grabbed Billy’s hand and began pumping it at an alarming rate. “Good to see you. We’re going to miss those two guys, huh?” he said, overbright and grinning. “Did you see the caskets we’ve picked out? Pieces of art.”
Garrett, leaning heavily on a cane, angled himself between Billy and Augie as a way to prevent Billy’s hand from being wrung off.
“Detective Able,” Garrett said. “Pleasure to see you under better circumstances. The last time we met, I believe I was facedown on concrete.” The corners of his mouth lifted, his dry wit covering his pain.
“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered, sir.”
“Thank you, Detective. But this is a sadder story. Davis and Lacy lived at the shelter for a time. Fine men. Such a loss. I wanted to give Augie a hand with the arrangements.”
“I’m curious. Are you aware of any problems Red or Little Man might have had with your residents?” Billy asked.
Garrett frowned. “Why? Is there a question concerning their manner of death?”
Typical defense lawyer. Garrett didn’t like a cop asking questions about his residents.
He gave Garrett a disarming smile. “I just wondered why they would leave a clean bed and three squares a day at Robert House. Your shelter has a first-rate reputation.”
“Our sobriety rule may have played into their decision.” Garrett’s closed expression told Billy that if he wanted more answers, he’d have to get them himself.
The funeral director hovered nearby. “Mr. Poston, we have a fine selection of burial suits. Or are you bringing clothes for the deceased?”
“Tuxedoes,” Augie blurted out. “We’ll suit the guys up like Fred Astaire.”
Garrett stole a glance at Billy.
“I’m sure they would appreciate this amazing send-off,” Billy said, “but the New Orleans Musicians Relief Fund could sure use a hand. Have you considered picking less expensive caskets?”
Augie’s euphoria evaporated. “We could play canned music. Bury the guys in pine boxes. Shit, man. I can afford ten of those copper caskets and still cover the musicians fund for a year.”
Billy bit back a response and went for humor. “Okay, Augie, it’s your funeral. By the way, I have some information for you. Let’s find a quiet place to talk.”
“Sure. Great. I’m about finished here.”
“Go ahead,” Garrett said with a subtle nod. “I’ll take care of the suits.”