Blood of the Demon (19 page)

My fingers paused on the pin.
Except for me
. There was a part of me that still felt guilty for subjecting everyone to the agony of thinking I’d died, even though it wasn’t my fault and the only other option would have been for me to actually die permanently. But funerals were horrible, wrenching affairs, and the brotherhood of police officers was a tight one. The loss of a cop was the loss of a family member, and I knew I wasn’t the only one dreading going to this funeral.

And Brian’s is guaranteed to be a ridiculously overblown affair
. Since he’d been the son of Judge Harris Roth, that meant that every attorney, politician, and kiss-ass would be there.

I winced and gave myself a mental smack for the uncharitable thoughts. Brian had been a cop, and as such he would get the honor due a cop, even though he hadn’t died in the line of duty, and even though his death had numerous questions still surrounding it. However, apparently word had leaked out that there were questions as to whether Brian had killed Carol. I suspected that Pellini
had probably let something slip, but on this occasion I couldn’t find it in myself to be annoyed with him for sharing information about an ongoing investigation. Everyone’s morale had lifted immeasurably, just knowing that there was a chance Brian had been innocent.

But this service would be a far cry from Carol Roth’s funeral. Her parents had insisted on a very private, very personal service, which had been performed with an extreme minimum of fuss the day before. I wasn’t sure if her former father-in-law, Judge Roth, had attended—or been invited. I couldn’t blame Carol’s family for that. Since it had been assumed that Brian killed her, I could see why they didn’t want any of his family there. Plus, Judge Roth was likely having a hard enough time as it was.

Sighing, I stepped back and regarded myself in the mirror again. I looked like shit. Even I could recognize that. I had dark circles permanently embedded under my eyes, my face was sallow, and my uniform was about three sizes too big for me now.
Yeah, well, maybe averaging only three hours sleep a night isn’t helping much either. And that’s only with the help of a few glasses of wine
.

A hard knock on the door interrupted my self-loathing. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection, then went to the door and peeked out through the peephole.

I pulled the door open and frowned at Ryan. “You look sharp,” I said. And he did too, which made me feel ten times as sloppy. He looked one hundred percent Fed, in a well-tailored dark-blue suit, crisp white shirt, and gray tie. “Why?”

“I figured I’d come with you to the funeral.”

My knees nearly wobbled in relief, and I realized how nervous I’d been about facing the rest of the department. I knew I was being stupid, but since the last funeral had
been mine, I couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of
awkward
. “Thanks,” I said fervently. I didn’t need to say any more. He got it.

“You need a new uniform,” he said, narrow-eyed gaze traveling over me.

I snorted and grabbed my keys. “I wear the damn thing barely once a year, and we don’t get our annual uniform allowance until next January. By then I’ll probably have gained all the weight back.” I headed out the door, locking it behind me.

“Good,” he said as he followed me down the stairs. “You’re all angles and elbows right now.”

I gave him a sour look. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel sexy.”

He grinned. “Well, how about: If anyone can make an oversize polyester uniform look hot, it’s you.”

I had to fight to keep from revealing how tickled I was at the thought that he might consider me hot. Not that he did. He’d already said I was all angles and elbows. Instead, I made a point of looking down at my attire and then rolling my eyes. “You are obviously incredibly desperate for female company.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I have a thing for smart chicks in uniform?”

This time I did laugh. “And apparently the heat is affecting your perception. Just get in the damn car.”

I’D BEEN MORE than right about the expected turnout. The location of the funeral had been changed at the last minute to the municipal auditorium, since none of the churches in the area had anywhere near sufficient capacity to handle the number of people who wished to pay their
respects—even with Brian a suspect in Carol’s death. I found a spot against the wall and did my best to blend in and stay unnoticed, though I wasn’t having too much success with Special Agent Ryan Kristoff standing beside me in full-fledged FBI mode.

The line for the viewing snaked throughout the auditorium, and I couldn’t help but think that the place would have been best served by having a setup with ropes and poles like the ones for the rides at Disney. I didn’t join the queue. I’d never had a desire to look at the carefully waxed and made-up faces of the dead, and I also felt no desire or need to offer my regrets to the grieving parents. I didn’t know them, they didn’t know me, and there was no need to make the line even longer, in my opinion.

I casually scanned the crowd. About every third person was a police officer—either from Beaulac PD or from neighboring agencies. Brian had been fairly well-known and had also worked with the sheriff’s office for a time, so I could understand why so many officers were here. But I had to force myself not to roll my eyes at the insane number of political hangers-on that streamed in. This place was a local lobbyist’s wet dream. I mentally tagged every parish and city councilman, darn near every courthouse employee, the entire DA’s office, the mayor, constables, judges, justices of the peace …

I finally gave up trying to track who was attending.
Face it, everyone is here
. But at least that gave me more of a crowd to hide in.

Unfortunately, though, not enough of one. I stiffened when I heard the loud whisper off to my side, clearly meant to be heard.

“Too bad the last funeral was complete bullshit.”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give the speaker the
satisfaction of looking over to see who he was. Besides, I didn’t have to look. Detective Boudreaux’s redneck twang was distinctive even in a stage whisper.
Dickhead
, I thought murderously, and shoved my hands into my pockets to hide the fact that they had tightened into fists.

My tension must have been palpable. Ryan turned his head and gave me a questioning look.

“It’s nothing,” I said softly. “It’s only a couple of people being idiots. It’ll blow over.” I still couldn’t fathom why
anyone
would think I had faked my death to get attention, but I knew there was no accounting for the stupidity of some people.

His eyes narrowed and then his gaze lifted toward Boudreaux—or so I assumed, because I still wouldn’t look over.

“Who’s the fat fuck standing next to the pimple-faced fuck?” he asked in a low calm voice, as if he were asking what time lunch would be.

I flicked the quickest of glances toward Boudreaux. “The fat fuck is Pellini. The pimple-faced fuck is Boudreaux.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. Ignore them.”

Ryan made no response, his gaze sweeping the rest of the room. “I’m sorry, Kara,” he said after a moment.

“About what?”

A flicker of annoyance and regret passed over his face. “I didn’t realize that anyone honestly thought you’d faked your death. I thought it was only a couple of idiots.”

I forced myself to shrug. “It
is
only a couple of idiots. Don’t sweat it. It’ll blow over. Eventually something else will happen that they can sink their teeth into and they’ll forget all about it.”

His mouth tightened. “Right. They’ll forget all about it.” I could feel the tension coming off him.

I sighed softly, exceedingly grateful when the service started. I was even more grateful when Jill came up to me, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. I smiled at her, suddenly aware of how lucky I was. It was too damn easy to fall into a cycle of oh-poor-me.

The service was long and tedious, with every possible political figure making his or her weeping way to the podium to extol Brian’s virtues—which was surreal and strange, considering the ongoing investigation. As I’d expected, the funeral was turning into the ultimate suck-up for everyone who wanted to get in or stay in Judge Harris Roth’s good graces. The air-conditioning in the auditorium wasn’t dealing with the enormous crowd very well, and by the time the service finally wrapped up, everyone was sweaty, edgy, and bored.

I hung back while people filed out. I watched Harris Roth walk by, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that I suspected was not from a department store. I’d seen him only in photographs before, but I had to admit that they didn’t do him justice. He was tall and imposing, handsome in a way that had nothing to do with the set of his features and everything to do with his air of confidence and authority. He was far from ugly, though, with a strong jaw, black hair heavily touched with gray at the temples, and dark eyes that looked straight ahead without seeming to see anyone. Though his eyes were dry, I had no doubt about the depth of his grief. It was etched into his face and seemed to surround him like a cloud. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child—especially in such a way.

I recognized the woman on his arm as Rachel Roth. She
was the second Mrs. Roth—but I didn’t know a lot more than that. I was hideously uninformed when it came to the social scene. Where Harris was strong-featured and handsome, Rachel Roth was strong-featured and … well, handsome really was the best word. She was by no means unattractive, but she definitely had to work hard to make the most of what she had. To give her credit, she did so, and did it well. She carried herself with confidence and ease, her figure was toned and fit, her hair was exquisitely highlighted, her makeup was flawless, and her clothing was impeccably styled. Even her crying was perfect, as she dabbed very carefully at her eyes with an actual cloth handkerchief, looking poised and dignified doing so—which was personally annoying. When I cried I looked like the Elephant Man, and I was in the habit of taking the back door out of tearjerker movies so the rest of the people in the theater wouldn’t see my puffy eyes and swollen nose.

But even her delicate crying seemed to be too much for Harris to handle. I saw him glance at her, then look quickly away—pain rippling across his face as if her tears were a brutal reminder of what he’d lost. For an instant it looked as if he wanted to pull away from her, but she kept hold of his arm. Apparently she needed his support more than he wanted to distance himself from her grief.

“She and Brian were really close,” Jill murmured from beside me. I glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, and she shook her head. “No, not the icky kind of close,” she said, nose wrinkling. “She was his stepmother, but from everything I heard she was more of a mother to him than his natural mother.”

“What happened to his real mother?”

“The first Mrs. Roth? Oh, she passed away a little over a decade ago. Some sort of cancer, I think.”

I gave the appropriate grimace.

“The judge married Rachel less than a year later,” Jill continued. “I think that most people thought it wouldn’t last, that it was just a reaction to his grief, but it’s been almost ten years now.” She shrugged. “Proved them all wrong. And she’s a pretty hotshot attorney on her own. Does a lot of pro bono work too, especially at nursing homes and neuro centers like the one your aunt’s in. Victims’ assistance, abuse and neglect, that sort of thing.” Her eyes followed Harris as the pair exited the front door. “Ya gotta admit, he’s not bad-looking at all, and there are puhlenty of women who would have loved to have a chance to be the next Mrs. Judge Harris Roth.”

I glanced at Ryan to see his reaction to Jill’s assessment, but he was scanning the crowd and not paying attention to our conversation. I looked back to Jill. “He’s good-looking, sure, but he’s only a local judge.”

“He still has a fair amount of influence. Any judge does. He just won his third term too, since no one qualified to run against him last month.”

Ryan flicked a glance our way. “Well, Judge Roth got lucky when Ron Burnside broke his leg the day before qualifying opened,” he said. Obviously he’d been paying more attention than I’d given him credit for.

I blinked stupidly at him while Jill let out a low whistle. “Oh, man,” she breathed. “I didn’t know he was planning to run against Roth.”

Ryan gave a stiff nod. “He hadn’t started campaigning, but there was some talk around the parish about it.”

“Why would a broken leg stop him?” I asked.

His face clouded. “Because he died the next day during
surgery to put a pin in. He had a history of atrial fibrillation, and it was concluded that the accident triggered an attack.”

“Ah.” I felt a small pang of regret. I hadn’t known Ron Burnside well at all, but I’d been in court with him numerous times. He was a public defender—genial and good-natured, with a quick smile and a firm handshake—who did what he could for the crap clients that he had. Unlike a lot of cops, I didn’t view all defense attorneys as evil incarnate, and most certainly not public defenders. They had an essential place in the system. It wasn’t a perfect justice system, but it was what we had, and I knew that if I was ever arrested I’d want the chance to have someone defending me.

I fisted my hands in my pockets and frowned. “I remember him being a nice guy. But I don’t think he would have had a chance of beating Roth. I mean, I don’t know much about politics, but it seems as if it would be pointless to run against a sitting judge unless there’s some big scandal or something.”