Eyes of Prey

breath. God, it was fine to be alive. Without Stephanie.
    The funeral home was built of tan stone, in what some funereal architect must have supposed was a British style. Inside, it was simply cold. A hundred people came to the funeral, people from the decorating world, from the university. The women, he thought, all in their dark dresses, looked at him speculatively as he walked slowly up the aisle. Women were like that. Stephanie not yet cold in the grave . . .
    He sat down, blocked out the organ music that seeped from hidden speakers and began toting up the assets. Hard to do with the phenobarbital in his blood, but he persisted. The house was worth better than half a million. The furnishings another two hundred thousand—not even her asshole relatives realized that. Stephanie had bought with an insider’s eye,had traded up, had salvaged. Bekker didn’t care for the place, but some people considered it a treasure house. For himself, Bekker wanted an apartment, up high, white walls, pale birch woodwork, a few Mayan pieces. He’d get it, and still put a half-million in the mutual funds. He’d drag down seventy-five thousand a year, if he picked his funds carefully. On top of his salary . . .
    He almost smiled, thinking about it, caught the impulse and glanced around.
    There were a number of people he didn’t recognize, but most of them were sitting with people he did, in obvious groups and pairings. People from Stephanie’s world of antiques and restoration. Stephanie’s family, her father, her brothers and sisters, her cop cousin. He nodded at her father, who had fixed him with a glare, and looked farther back into the crowd.
    One man, sitting alone near the back, caught his attention. He was muscular, dark-complected, in a gray European-cut suit. Good-looking, like a boxer might be. And he seemed interested in Bekker. He’d followed his progress up the aisle, into the chair that half faced the coffin, half faced the mourners. Safe behind the sunglasses, Bekker returned the man’s gaze. For one goofy minute, Bekker thought he might be Stephanie’s lover. But that was crazy. A guy like this wouldn’t go for Stephanie, would he? Chunky Stephanie? Stephanie No-Eyes?
    Then Swanson, the cop who had interviewed him when he got back from San Francisco, walked into the church, looked around and sat next to the stranger. They leaned their heads closer and spoke a few words, the stranger still watching Bekker. The tough guy was a cop.
    All right. Bekker dismissed him, and looked again through the gathering crowd. Philip George came in with his wife, Annette, and sat behind the cop. Bekker’s eyes traveled across him without hesitating.
    The lover. Who was the lover?
    The funeral was mercilessly long. Twelve people spoke. Stephanie was good, Stephanie was kind. Stephanie worked for the community.
    Stephanie was a pain in the ass.
    Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me . . . .
    Bekker went away . . . .
    When he came back, the mourners were on their feet, looking at him. It was over, what? Yes, he should walk out, one hand on the side rail of the coffin . . . .
     
    Afterward, at the cemetery, Bekker walked alone to his car, aware of the eyes on him. The women, looking. He composed his face: I need a mask, a grave mask, he thought. He giggled at the pun. He couldn’t help himself.
    He turned, struggling to keep his face straight. The crowd was watching, all right. And on the hillside, in the grass, the man in the European suit, watching.
    He needed something to enhance his mood. His hand strayed to the cigarette case. He had two more of the special Contacs, a half-dozen methamphetamines. They’d be fine after the barbs.
    And a little ecstasy for dessert?
    But of course . . .
     
    The funeral was crowded, the coffin closed. Lucas sat next to Swanson, the lead investigator. Del sat with Stephanie Bekker’s family.
    “The sonofabitch looks stoned,” Swanson mumbled, poking Lucas with an elbow. Lucas turned and watched Bekker go by. Astonishingly good-looking: almost too much, Lucas thought. Like a mythological beast, assembled from the bestparts of several animals, Bekker’s face seemed to have been assembled from the best features of several movie stars.
    “Is he hurt?” Lucas whispered. Bekker was walking awkwardly, his legs like lumber.
    “Not that I know of,” Swanson whispered