The Skin Collector(Lincoln Rhyme)

Chapter 48





Something was up.

Ron Pulaski had been told that there was no memorial service planned for Richard Logan.

But apparently that had changed.

Six people stood in the room he’d been directed to in the Berkowitz Funeral Home, Broadway and 96th.

He hadn’t gone inside yet. The patrol officer stood in the hallway, off to the side, peering in. He was thinking: Tough to blend comfortably when you’re a stranger facing a half-dozen people who know each other – one or all of whom might have a very good incentive to suspect you’re an intruder and shoot you dead.

And the name of the place! Wasn’t Berkowitz the Son of Sam? That serial killer from the 1970s or ’80s?

Bad sign.

Even though Ron Pulaski tried hard to be like Lincoln Rhyme and not believe in signs or superstitions, he kind of did.

He started forward. Stopped.

Pulaski had been spending a lot of nerves on the idea that he was going undercover. He was a street cop, a beat cop – he and his twin brother, also blue, used to say. He was thinking of bad hip-hop riff the bros threw together.

A beat cop, a street cop, write you up a ticket and send you on your way.

Or let your know your rights and put your ass away …

In Rikers, the island, in the bay.

He knew next to nothing about the art of sets and covert work – so brilliantly played by people like Fred Dellray, the tall, lean African American FBI agent who could be anyone from a Caribbean drug dealer to a Charles Taylor–style warlord to a Fortune 500 CEO.

Man was a born actor. Voices, postures, expressions … everything. And apparently this Gielgud guy too (maybe Dellray worked with him). And Serpico. Even if he got shot.

Beat cop, street cop, walking through the sleet cop …

The rap riff skipped through his head, somehow stilling the uneasiness.

Why’re you so damn nervous?

Not like he was having to pass with druggies or gangbangers. Richard Logan’s family or friends, whoever these visitors were, seemed like your average law-abiding Manhattanites. The Watchmaker had moved in a different circle, a higher level than most criminals. Oh, he’d been guilty of murder. But it was impossible to picture Logan, the Watchmaker, the sophisticate, in a crack house or in the double-wide of a meth cooker. Fine restaurants, chess matches, museums had been more his thing. Still, he was aware that the Watchmaker had tried to kill Rhyme the last time they’d met. Maybe he’d left instructions in his will for a hit man associate of his to do just what Pulaski was doing at the moment: hang out in the funeral home, identify any nervous undercover cops, drag ’em into the alley afterward.


All right. Jesus. Get real.

There is a risk, he reflected, but not a bullet in the back of the head. It’s that you’ll f*ck up and disappoint Lincoln and Amelia.

That damn uncertainty, the questioning. They never go away. Not completely.

At least he thought he looked the part. Black suit, white shirt, narrow tie. (He’d almost worn his dress NYPD tie but decided: Are you out of your f*cking mind? It didn’t have little badges on it but one of these people might’ve known cops in the past. Be smart.) He had scruffed up, per Lincoln Rhyme’s request. A one-day growth of beard (a bit pathetic since you had to get close to see the blond stubble), shirt stained, shoes scuffed. And he’d been practicing his cold stare.

Inscrutable, dangerous.

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.

‘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. F*cking 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.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Pulaski grimaced. He nodded back. Then paused, recalling the curious expression on the faces of the mourners when he’d mentioned working with the deceased.

‘One question. You said I didn’t seem like the sort who worked with this Ardell. What’d he do for a living?’

‘He was an adult film star in the seventies,’ Berkowitz whispered. ‘Gay. The family doesn’t like to talk about it.’

‘I’d guess not.’

‘That’s the room with Mr Logan’s remains.’ He pointed to a small doorway.

Serenity …

Pulaski stepped through it and into a small room, twenty by twenty. There were a few chairs, a coffee table, innocuous landscapes covering the walls. Also a bouquet of subdued white flowers. And on a velvet-draped table, similar to the one holding the urn of late porn star, sat a brown cardboard box. This would, Pulaski knew, be the Watchmaker’s remains. Beside it stood a round, balding man in a dark business suit. He was making a mobile phone call. He looked at Pulaski briefly, with curiosity, and turned away. He seemed to speak more softly. Finally he disconnected.


Inhaling a steadying breath, Pulaski walked up to him. He nodded.

The man said nothing.

Pulaski looked him up and down – keep it blunt, keep it tough. ‘You were a friend of Richard’s?’

‘And you are—?’ the man asked in a soft baritone, with the hint of a Southern accent.

‘Stan Walesa,’ Pulaski said. The name almost seemed natural at this point. ‘I was asking, you’re a friend of Richard’s?’

‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t know why you’re asking.’

‘Okay, I worked with Richard. Off and on. I heard he was being cremated this morning and I assumed there’d be a service.’

‘Worked with Richard,’ the man repeated, looking the officer up and down. ‘Well, there is no service. I’ve been retained to bring his remains back home.’

Pulaski frowned. ‘A lawyer.’

‘That’s right. Dave Weller.’ No hands were proffered.

Pulaski kept up the offensive. ‘I don’t remember you from the trial.’

‘Mr Logan was not my client. I’ve never met him.’

‘Just taking the ashes back home?’

‘Like I said.’

‘That’s California, right?’

The only response was: ‘What are you doing here, Mr Walesa?’

‘Paying respects.’ He stepped closer to the box. ‘No urn?’

‘Not much point,’ Weller said. ‘Richard wanted his ashes scattered.’

‘Where?’

‘Did you send those?’

Pulaski looked at the bouquet, which Weller was nodding at. The officer tried to looks somewhat, but not overly, confused. ‘No.’ He stepped to the vase and read at the card. He gave a bitter laugh.

Inscrutable.

He said, ‘That’s pretty low.’

Weller asked, ‘How do you mean?’

‘You know who that is, who sent them?’

‘I read the card when I got here. But I don’t know the name. Lincoln Rhyme?’

‘You don’t know Rhyme?’ Lowering his voice: ‘He’s the son of a bitch who put my friend in prison.’

Weller asked, ‘Police?’

‘Works with the police.’

‘Why would he send flowers?’

‘I think he’s gloating.’

‘Well, that was a waste of money. Richard’s hardly going to be offended now, is he?’ A glance at the box of ashes.

Silence.

How to behave now? Man, this acting stuff was exhausting. He decided to shake his head at the unfairness of the world. He looked down. ‘Such a shame, really. When I talked to him last, he was fine. Or at least he didn’t mention anything, like chest pains.’

Weller now focused. ‘Talked to him?’

‘Right.’

‘This was recently?’

‘Yeah. In prison.’

‘You’re here alone?’ Weller asked.

A nod. Pulaski asked the same question.

‘That’s right.’

‘So there’s no funeral?’

‘The family hasn’t decided.’ Weller looked Pulaski up and down carefully.

Okay, time to go with the less …

‘Well, so long, Mr Weller. Tell his family, or whoever your clients are, I’m sorry for their loss. I’ll miss him too. He was an … interesting man.’

‘Like I said, I never met him.’

Pulaski pulled on dark cotton gloves. ‘So long.’

Weller nodded.

Pulaski was at the door when the lawyer said, ‘Why did you really come here, Mr Walesa?’

The young officer stopped. He turned back. ‘“Reall”Y? What’s that supposed to mean?’

De Niro tough. Tony Soprano tough.

‘There was never going to be a memorial service. If you’d called to see when I was picking up the remains – which you did, since here you are – you would have learned there was no service. So. What do I make of that?’

Pulaski debated – and made a show of debating. He dug into his pocket and produced a business card. Offered it to the man with a gloved hand. He said, ‘Give that to your clients.’

‘Why?’

‘Just give it to them. Or throw it out.’ A shrug. ‘Up to you.’

The lawyer looked at him coolly, then took the card. It had only the fake name and the prepaid mobile number on it.

‘What exactly do you do, Mr Walesa?’

Pulaski’s gaze began at the lawyer’s bald head and ended at his shoes, which were nearly as shiny. ‘Have a good day, Mr Weller.’

And, with an oblique glance at the box containing the Watchmaker’s ashes, Pulaski headed for the door.

Pulaski, thinking: Yes, nailed it!