Pulaski peeked inside the memorial service room again. The walls were painted dark green and lined with chairs, enough for forty, fifty people. In the center was a table, draped in a purple cloth; a simple urn sat on it. The visitors were four men, ranging in age from late forties up to their seventies, he judged. Two women seemed to be spouses or partners of two of the men. Wardrobe was what you’d expect – dark suits and dresses, conservative.

It was odd. He’d been told there was no viewing or service. Just someone to collect the remains.

Yeah, suspicious. Was it a setup?

Bullet in the head?

On the other hand, if it was legit, if plans had changed and it was an impromptu service for the Watchmaker, this’d be a real coup. Surely somebody here had known Richard Logan well and could be a source of info about the dead mastermind.

Okay, just go ahead and dive in.

Street cop, beat cop, goin’ to a funeral in the sleet cop.

He walked up to one of the mourners, an elderly man in a dark suit.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Stan Walesa.’ He’d rehearsed saying, and responding to, the name over and over (he’d had Jenny call him by it all last night), so he wouldn’t ignore somebody’s calling him ‘Stan’ during the set. Or, even worse, glance behind him when somebody did.

The man identified himself – Logan was not part of his name – and introduced Pulaski to one of the women and another man. He struggled to memorize their names, then reminded himself to take a picture of the guest list with his cell phone later.

‘How did you know him?’ A nod toward the urn.

‘We worked together,’ Pulaski said.

Blinks from everybody.

‘A few years ago.’

A frown from one of the younger men. Right out of The Sopranos. ‘You worked together?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Closely?’

Be tough. ‘Yeah. Pretty close.’ His gaze said, What’s it to you?

Pulaski recalled everything he could about the crimes that the Watchmaker had run. His plan wasn’t to claim outright that he’d been a partner but to suggest that he’d had some mysterious dealings – to whet the appetite of anyone who might want to get a piece of the Watchmaker’s ongoing projects after his death.

Containers, shipments, insider trading …

Less is more, more is less.

People fell silent. Pulaski realized that classical music was streaming from invisible speakers. He hadn’t heard it earlier.

To get the conversation going Pulaski said, ‘So sad.’

‘A blessing, though,’ one woman offered.

Blessing, Pulaski reflected. He supposed that, yes, rather than spend most of your life in prison, a fast, relatively painless death was a blessing.

Pulaski continued, ‘A couple years ago, we were working, he seemed healthy.’ He could actually picture Logan from that time. He had seemed healthy.

Those present exchanged glances once more.