said. “Ask him, if you must.”
“If there isn’t any need,” Dave said, “then you can tell Leppard about the gun, can’t you? And save yourself embarrassment later. Because eventually he’ll come asking you about it. And if he doesn’t, Underhill’s lawyers are bound to.”
“I’ll lie. I’ll say it was stolen. Why not?” Glendenning smiled wretchedly. “I’m damned anyway.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Dave said.
“Oh, no.” Glendenning’s laugh was sharp and despairing. “I meant to kill that man. And I would have done it, too, if he hadn’t been quicker than I was.” He turned away, shoulders slumping. His voice was hollow. “I lost my son. And then I lost my soul.” He moved heavy-footed out of the lamplight. “I’m no longer fit to be a priest.” He stepped out the open door into the courtyard. “What in the world am I going to do with the rest of my life?” The crackle of dry leaves under his shoes grew faint and passed out of hearing. Distantly, a car door slammed, an engine started, the noise of the car faded out down the canyon. Dave switched off the lamps. Gray light filled the doorway.
“It’s morning,” Cecil said.
“Not for him,” Dave said.
“County USC Medical is near my workplace,” Cecil said. “You want me to check out Dr. Scheinwald before I take up my oar in the galley? The Tom Fraser family?”
“I’ll be forever in your debt,” Dave said.
9
T HE CHAPEL WAS A copy of an English country church. It stood on a rise among trees. Trees shadowed a lawn that sloped down to a curve of roadway where cars waited, limousines, taxis. The funeral service was over. The coffin had been lowered to the crematorium under the chapel. An electronic organ run by a computer played on to the empty pews, the damp-smelling flowers. And those who had come to say good-bye to Adam Streeter straggled off through the long shadows of the trees. Bronze grave markers were embedded in the grass. Now and then, someone turned an ankle on one of these, or snagged a toe or heel on one, and stumbled a little, to be caught and steadied by another mourner. Car doors slammed. Engines started.
Dave stood next to a lawyer called Albright in the porch of the chapel and watched the crowd leave. He had friends all over the world . Chrissie had been right about that. The skin tones had varied from intense African blue-black to the whitest Scandinavian, the body types and sizes from miniature Thais to titanic Germans. Turbans and spectacular caps had covered heads. Saris and caftans in wild colors fluttered now in the late afternoon breeze. Albright too must have been thinking about this multinational, multiracial, multireligious character of the crowd. He said:
“Why didn’t she come? Everyone else on earth did.”
“It looks that way.” Dave shrugged. “I guess she’s used to keeping out of sight. Streeter didn’t want Chrissie to know about her. Or Chrissie’s mother. Particularly.”
“I know that,” Albright said. “But it no longer obtains.” He was a trim young man in a summerweight suit and neatly clipped beard. There wasn’t any tone to his voice. He had a fine tan and he stood erect, but the voice made him sound worn out, tired to death. “And it sure as hell won’t obtain when Brenda Streeter reads the will—the ex-wife.”
“She’s getting cut out of everything these days,” Dave said. “Maybe she won’t even notice Fleur’s little legacy. I’d gauge she isn’t often sober.”
“She’s always greedy,” Albright said in his dead voice. “She’ll scratch and claw to get it all, if she can.”
Inside the chapel back of them the quavery organ went silent in the middle of a phrase. Fastenings on the carved double doors rattled. A bald man in a dark suit and modest tie swung the doors shut. Steel bars slid into place inside.
“Speak of the devil.” Albright jerked his chin. Ivy climbed the chapel walls. And past a leafy corner of the building,
“If there isn’t any need,” Dave said, “then you can tell Leppard about the gun, can’t you? And save yourself embarrassment later. Because eventually he’ll come asking you about it. And if he doesn’t, Underhill’s lawyers are bound to.”
“I’ll lie. I’ll say it was stolen. Why not?” Glendenning smiled wretchedly. “I’m damned anyway.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Dave said.
“Oh, no.” Glendenning’s laugh was sharp and despairing. “I meant to kill that man. And I would have done it, too, if he hadn’t been quicker than I was.” He turned away, shoulders slumping. His voice was hollow. “I lost my son. And then I lost my soul.” He moved heavy-footed out of the lamplight. “I’m no longer fit to be a priest.” He stepped out the open door into the courtyard. “What in the world am I going to do with the rest of my life?” The crackle of dry leaves under his shoes grew faint and passed out of hearing. Distantly, a car door slammed, an engine started, the noise of the car faded out down the canyon. Dave switched off the lamps. Gray light filled the doorway.
“It’s morning,” Cecil said.
“Not for him,” Dave said.
“County USC Medical is near my workplace,” Cecil said. “You want me to check out Dr. Scheinwald before I take up my oar in the galley? The Tom Fraser family?”
“I’ll be forever in your debt,” Dave said.
9
T HE CHAPEL WAS A copy of an English country church. It stood on a rise among trees. Trees shadowed a lawn that sloped down to a curve of roadway where cars waited, limousines, taxis. The funeral service was over. The coffin had been lowered to the crematorium under the chapel. An electronic organ run by a computer played on to the empty pews, the damp-smelling flowers. And those who had come to say good-bye to Adam Streeter straggled off through the long shadows of the trees. Bronze grave markers were embedded in the grass. Now and then, someone turned an ankle on one of these, or snagged a toe or heel on one, and stumbled a little, to be caught and steadied by another mourner. Car doors slammed. Engines started.
Dave stood next to a lawyer called Albright in the porch of the chapel and watched the crowd leave. He had friends all over the world . Chrissie had been right about that. The skin tones had varied from intense African blue-black to the whitest Scandinavian, the body types and sizes from miniature Thais to titanic Germans. Turbans and spectacular caps had covered heads. Saris and caftans in wild colors fluttered now in the late afternoon breeze. Albright too must have been thinking about this multinational, multiracial, multireligious character of the crowd. He said:
“Why didn’t she come? Everyone else on earth did.”
“It looks that way.” Dave shrugged. “I guess she’s used to keeping out of sight. Streeter didn’t want Chrissie to know about her. Or Chrissie’s mother. Particularly.”
“I know that,” Albright said. “But it no longer obtains.” He was a trim young man in a summerweight suit and neatly clipped beard. There wasn’t any tone to his voice. He had a fine tan and he stood erect, but the voice made him sound worn out, tired to death. “And it sure as hell won’t obtain when Brenda Streeter reads the will—the ex-wife.”
“She’s getting cut out of everything these days,” Dave said. “Maybe she won’t even notice Fleur’s little legacy. I’d gauge she isn’t often sober.”
“She’s always greedy,” Albright said in his dead voice. “She’ll scratch and claw to get it all, if she can.”
Inside the chapel back of them the quavery organ went silent in the middle of a phrase. Fastenings on the carved double doors rattled. A bald man in a dark suit and modest tie swung the doors shut. Steel bars slid into place inside.
“Speak of the devil.” Albright jerked his chin. Ivy climbed the chapel walls. And past a leafy corner of the building,
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