‘And so young,’ the undercover cop added.

Something was wrong. But the oldest one of the mourners leaned close and touched Pulaski’s arm. A smile. ‘To me, yes, he was young.’

The visitors eased away. One, he noticed, had left the room.

To get his gun?

This isn’t going well. He turned back to the older man but before he could speak another voice intruded. Soft but firm. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

Pulaski turned to find a large man, in a dark suit, looking him over closely. He had silver hair and dark-framed glasses. ‘Could I speak to you for a moment?’

‘Me?’

‘You.’

The man extended his hand – a very large, calloused hand – but not to shake. He pointed and directed Pulaski out of the room and up the hallway to the left.

‘Sir,’ the man said, ‘you are?’

‘Stan Walesa.’ He had a cheap ID that he’d hacked together himself.

But the man didn’t ask for any identification. His eyes boring into Pulaski’s, he rasped, ‘Mr Walesa. You know some people occasionally come to services in hopes of getting something.’

‘Getting something?’

‘It ranges from food at the reception afterward to selling insurance or financial programs. Attorneys too.’

‘That a fact?’

‘It is.’

Pulaski remembered he was supposed to be playing the tough guy. Instead of looking nervous and saying that was terrible, he snapped, ‘What’s that got to do with me? Who are you?’

‘I’m Jason Berkowitz. Associate director. The family in there thought your behavior was a little suspicious. You were claiming to know the deceased.’

‘What’s suspicious? I did know him.’

‘You claim you worked with him.’

‘Not claimed. I did.’ Pulaski’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure the man could hear it. But he struggled to play the wise guy.

‘You don’t seem like the sort who’d work with Mr Ardell.’

‘Who?’

‘Blake Ardell.’

‘And who’s that supposed to be.’

‘Not supposed to be. He is, was, the man whose service you’re crashing.’

‘Crashing? What the hell does that mean? I’m here about Richard Logan.’

The assistant director blinked. ‘Mr Logan? Oh. My. I’m so sorry, sir. That’s Serenity.’

‘Serenity?’

‘The name of the room across the hall. This room is Peace, Mr Ardell’s service.’

Goddamn. Pulaski thought back. The fellow at the front door had told him to turn right. He’d turned left.

Shit, shit, shit. Fucking head injury. If this’d been a drug set, he might be dead now.

Think smarter.

But act the part. ‘One of your people, I don’t remember who, sent me to that room.’

‘I’m so sorry. Please accept our apologies. Our fault entirely.’

‘And names? I’ve never heard of naming rooms in a funeral parlor. You ought to have numbers.’

‘Yessir, it’s a little unusual. I’m sorry. I do apologize.’