What Happened to the Bennetts(58)

I headed that way, my gaze straying to the trees for cameras. I didn’t see any, but assumed they were there, now that I knew standard operating procedure. I was hoping the FBI wouldn’t recognize me in a cap and sunglasses, even if they were already onto me. No one at Junior’s funeral would know me, since I was betting Milo wouldn’t be there. He would have to stay away because he was pretending to be a fugitive, and Big George would buy it, unaware that Milo was working for the FBI.

I cruised uphill, feeling a tingle of fear. I would expect most if not all of GVO to attend the funeral, since it was the boss’s son who had died. I would keep my distance, but there was no turning back. I approached the line of flagged cars at the curb, scanning them for the dark BMW that had been sent to kill me and my family. Dom had said its driver was a lower-level member of GVO, so he should be here.

I kept going, my face forward and my expression impassive. Two uniformed limo drivers stood together, smoking by the cars. A placard in the window read colon funeral home, kennett square, pennsylvania. There were a few black SUVs, a red Miata, and a BMW two-door in a dark blue color.

I had to know if it was the same BMW. I cruised forward and passed the BMW, and I didn’t know if the plate matched. But then I noticed something on the passenger side of the bumper; a shadow-like vertical dent, like from backing into a stanchion. I remembered seeing that on the photo I had taken of Dom’s laptop screen. It was the same BMW.

My mouth went dry but I kept going, aware that limo drivers were looking over. I reached the head of the line, forcing a pat smile for the drivers, then drove forward as if I were visiting a different grave. I parked behind an old white Kia with a faded VFW Post 5467 decal, grabbed my drugstore bouquet, and got out of the car.

I made my way down the grassy aisle between the mounded graves, keeping Junior’s funeral in my peripheral vision. The seated mourners under the tent were facing me, and beefy types in suits stood apart from them, positioned at the perimeter like bodyguards.

I passed gravestones shaped like an angel and a Celtic crucifix, then a row of granite tombstones with textured tops. I found myself wondering what type of tombstone we would get Allison. I couldn’t begin to guess what kind she would’ve wanted. She was too young to have thought about it. She was too young to die.

I shooed the thought away. I couldn’t afford to be emotional now. I read the names etched into the smooth granite: Gavin, Forster, DiJulio, Rodriguez, and Sanchez. Ahead an elderly man leaned on a cane at the foot of one of the graves, whose headstone read helen westerly, beloved wife and mother. He had to be in his late seventies, stooped in a loose tan sweater and baggy jeans, his head bent in an old VFW cap. I noticed that his wife had died two years ago.

We fit.

I suppressed the thought, focusing instead on the opportunity presented by the mourner. If I picked a grave near him, the FBI or the bodyguards at Junior’s funeral would assume we were together. I approached, and the old man looked over.

“Hello,” he said, smiling with yellowing teeth.

“Hi,” I said briefly, but his hooded eyes lit up behind his bifocals.

“Nice to see a new face. I’ve never seen you here before.”

Uh-oh. “Right, I don’t live here anymore. I came to visit my dad.” I scanned the names on the tombstones: Harvey Villard, James Hernandez, Arthur E. Nielsen. I set the bouquet down on the Villard grave.

“Where do you live?”

“California,” I answered, since it was far away. Oddly, I found myself not wanting the old man to think I was a bad son. My father always said I was a good son. He deserved a good son.

“I was there once. Coronado.”

“Right.” I had never been.

“I’m here for my wife Helen.” The old man returned his attention to the tombstone, pushing up his bifocals. “I visit every day. I miss her every day. People say time helps, but it doesn’t.” He looked over, his cloudy eyes searching my face. “Does it help you?”

“Honestly, no,” I told him. I missed my dad every day. Now Allison, all the time. I was in pain, standing there. I just couldn’t let myself feel it.

“Sorry to disturb you. My wife always said I’m too friendly. She said I could chat up a parking meter. I’ll leave you to it.” The old man looked down. “You won’t mind if I talk to Helen.”

“Not at all.” I regained focus, eyeing Junior’s funeral. I found Big George sitting in the front row of the mourners, broad and squat in a dark suit. He had lost weight since the photos I’d seen online, and his hair had gone grayish-white at the temples. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, his head tilted down. He had lost a son, I had lost a daughter. No one expected to bury his child, even if the child had been a thug.

I scanned the mourners, men, women, and kids of all ages, even toddlers and babies. Worlds separated us, but they came together at the death of one of their own, heartbroken, devastated, and reeling. I tried not to project a kinship where there wasn’t one. They were the criminal organization responsible for Allison’s murder.

The priest stood at the head of the casket between large flower arrangements. An oversize photo of Junior rested on an easel, and I shuddered at his baby-faced menace. The photo brought back his glittering leer at Allison, the earsplitting gunshot, my daughter’s eyes, terrified.

I put the thought from my mind. Milo wasn’t there, I had been right. There were about fifty adult mourners, mostly rough-looking men in ill-fitting suits and a handful of young women in tight dresses. A short, shapely woman with long curls was crying more than the others, and I wondered if she was Junior’s girlfriend or wife.