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I casually sca
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 a
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 a
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 sca
“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 pla
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.