“Yeah, you go on.” And because he was asleep, and Roarke would understand, she gave his hand a little pat. “He’ll be okay.”
“Yes, he’ll be okay.”
“I think he was glad you came along.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “Return and burn. What a jerk. But I guess he’s right. Graves are out of style, mostly. Except . . . Oh no.” She whirled to Roarke. “I am such an idiot. Rich or religious. I know where he’ll go, where he’ll go to end it. You drive.”
She was already out of the room, running down the hall.
“His son’s grave.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She yanked out her PPC. “Where the hell is it? They’d have one. People who have religious statues in the living room want to bury their dead and put crosses up.”
“I’ll find it faster.” He had his own unit out as they hit the elevator. “Call your backup.”
“No, no backup, not yet. I have to find him first, to be sure. Son’s name was Thad. Thadeus Clooney.”
“I’ve got it. Three plots, Sunlight Memorial. New Rochelle.”
“Near the house. Makes sense.” She exchanged her PPC for her communicator as she strode across the lobby and out to the lot. “Peabody. Listen up.”
“Sir? Dallas?”
“Wake up, get dressed. You’re on call.” She climbed into the car. “I want you to get a squad car, have it and an officer ready to transport you. I’m following a lead on Clooney. If it pans out, I’ll contact you. I want you to move fast.”
“Where? Where are you going?”
“Back to the dead,” Eve said. “Push this thing,” she added as Roarke headed out of the lot. “He could have heard about Ricker by now.”
“Strap in,” Roarke advised, and he punched the accelerator.
The dead rested in sunlight and dappled shade, in gentle green hills, with markers of soft white, soft gray. The rows of them, the crosses and curves, made Eve wonder how the living could find comfort there,
faced with the unassailable proof of their own mortality.
But some must. For even in these days when few chose to go into the ground or could afford the real estate, many of the graves were splashed with flowers. That symbol of life given to the dead.
“Which way?”
Roarke had a diagram of the cemetery on his pocket screen. “To the left, over that rise.”
They walked around the markers together. “The first time I spoke to you,” she remembered, “we were in a graveyard. Kind of creepy, I guess.”
“Apt.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “There he is. Your instincts are excellent.”
She paused, taking a moment to study the man sitting on the tended grass beside a flower-strewn grave. And the marker was indeed a cross, pure and white.
“I need you to hang back.”
“No.”
Saying nothing, she crouched, pulled out her clinch piece. “I’m trusting you not to use this unless you have no choice.” She handed it to him. “Trust me to do my job. I need to try to talk him in. I’m asking you to let me give him that chance. Compromise.”
“All right.”
“Thanks. Call Peabody. Tell her where to come. I need her here.”
Alone, she walked down the gentle slope and through the graves. He knew she was coming. He was cop enough to hold his ground, to bide his time, but she saw from the slightest shift in his body, he knew.
Better that way, she thought. She preferred not to surprise him.