Milo circumvented the wheelbarrow, spotted the first row of gravestones, kept going.

Old-fashioned markers, upright, carved of stone, a few of them tilting, a handful decorated by sprigs of desiccated flowers. Milo’s parents had been buried in a very different ambience, huge place, not far from Indianapolis, a suburban city of the dead bordered by industrial parks and shopping malls. Mock-Colonial buildings with all the authenticity of Disneyland, endless rolling green turf fit for a championship golf course. The markers in his parents’ cemetery were brass plaques embedded flat in the bluegrass, invisible until you got close. Even in death Bernard and Martha Sturgis had been loath to offend . . .

This place was flat and tiny and treeless except for the bordering junipers. Two naked acres, if that. Full up with gravestones, too—an old place. Nowhere to hide, and finding Broussard was easy enough.

The chief was standing off in a corner in the lower, left quadrant of the cemetery. Second-to-last row, a snug, shady place. His back was to Milo as he faced a marker, big, dark hands laced behind his ramrod back.

Milo walked toward him, making no effort to squelch the sound of his footsteps. Broussard didn’t turn.

When Milo got to the gravesite, the chief said, “What took you so long?”

The stone that had occupied Broussard was charcoal granite edged with salmon pink and carved beautifully with a border of daisies.

Jane Marie Ingalls.
MAY SHE FIND PEACE IN ETERNITY

Entry and exit dates spelled out a sixteen-year-three-month life span. A tiny smiling teddy bear had been chiseled above Janie’s name.

A gray-blue juniper berry had lodged in the bevel that created the bear’s left button eye. John G. Broussard stooped and plucked it out and placed it in a pocket of his jacket. The suit was double-breasted, blue with a maroon chalk stripe. Suppressed waist, high side vents, working buttonholes on the sleeves. Look, ma, I’m custom-made. Milo remembered Broussard’s terrific threads and poreless skin during the interrogation twenty years ago.

The thousandth time he’d thought about that day.

Up close, the chief hadn’t changed much. The graying hair, a bit of crease at the corner of his lips, but his complexion glowed with health, and his huge hands looked strong enough to crack walnuts.

Milo said, “You come here a lot?”

“When I invest in something, I like to keep an eye on it.”

“Invest?”

“I bought the marker, Detective. Her father didn’t care. She was going to end up in a potter’s field.”

“Guilt offering,” said Milo.

Broussard remained still. Then he said, “Detective Sturgis, I’m going to examine you for listening devices, so relax.”

“Sure,” said Milo, stifling the “Yes, sir” on the tip of his tongue. No matter how hard he tried, Broussard made him feel small. He drew himself up as the chief turned, faced him, did an expert pat-down.