The priest’s voice boomed out, reaching to the lofty ceilings, and the congregation’s responses echoed after. Silent and watchful, Eve scanned the crowd. Dignitaries and politicians sat with bowed heads. She’d positioned herself just close enough to catch glimpses of the family. When Feeney slipped in beside her, she inclined her head.
“Angelini,” she murmured. “That would be the daughter beside him.”
“With her fiancé on her right.”
“Um-hmm.” Eve studied the couple: young, attractive. The woman was of slight build with golden hair, like her mother. The unrelieved black she wore swept down from a high neck, covered her arms to the wrists, and skimmed her ankles. She wore no veil or shaded glasses to shield her red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Grief, simple, basic, and undiluted, seemed to shimmer around her.
Beside her, Randall Slade stood tall, one long arm supporting her shoulders. He had a striking, almost brutally handsome face, which Eve remembered well from the image she’d generated on her computer screen: large jaw, long nose, hooded eyes. He looked big and tough, but the arm around the woman lay gently.
Flanking Angelini’s other side was his son. David stood just a space apart. That sort of body language hinted at friction. He stared straight ahead, his face a blank. He stood slightly shorter than his father, as dark as his sister was fair. And he was alone, Eve thought. Very much alone.
The family pew was completed by George Hammett.
Directly behind were the commander, his wife, and his family.
She knew Roarke was there. She had already glimpsed him once at the end of an aisle beside a teary-eyed blond. Now, when Eve skimmed a glance his way, she saw him lean
down to the woman and murmur something that had her turning her face into his shoulder.
Furious at the quick pang of jealousy, Eve scanned the crowd again. Her eyes met C. J. Morse’s.
“How’d that little bastard manage to get in?”
Feeney, a good Catholic, winced at the use of profanity in church. “Who?”
“Morse—at eight o’clock.”
Shifting his eyes, Feeney spotted the reporter. “A crowd like this, I guess some of the slippery ones could slide through security.”
Eve debated hauling him out just for the satisfaction of it, then decided the scuffle would give him just the kind of attention he craved.
“Fuck him.”
Feeney made a sound like a man who’d been pinched. “Christ Jesus, Dallas, you’re in St. Pat’s.”
“If God’s going to make little weasels like him, she’s going to have to listen to complaints.”
“Have some respect.”
Eve looked back to Mirina, who lifted a hand to her face. “I’ve got plenty of respect,” she murmured. “Plenty.” With this she stepped around Feeney and strode down the side to the exit.
By the time he caught up with her, she was just finishing issuing instructions to one of the uniforms.
“What’s the problem?”
“I needed some air.” Churches always smelled like the dying or the dead to her. “And I wanted to get a jump on the weasel.” Smiling now, she turned to Feeney. “I’ve got the uniforms looking out for him. They’ll confiscate any communication or recording devices he’s got on him. Privacy law.”
“You’re just going to steam him.”
“Good. He steams me.” She let out a long breath, studying the media horde across the avenue. “I’ll be damned if the public has a right to know everything. But at least those reporters are playing by the rules and showing some of that respect you were talking about for the family.”
“I take it you’re done in there.”
“There’s nothing I can do in there.”
“I figured you’d be sitting with Roarke.”
“No.”