No weepers that I could see—the whole affair played like a have-to ritual. This peculiar distance brought me back to the day of my uncle’s funeral, how I couldn’t bear to see him lowered into the ground so I hid at a coffee shop counter, jittery and bewildered. And it was bewildering, this life that ends in death, this game of hot potato. Here I was, stalking a total stranger’s funeral, incognito and alone, yet now I could sense Herschel beside me, looking over my shoulder surveying the scene. The dead don’t go far. They hover like nurses on-call. With some, you can get closer than you ever could in life.

A team of Mexican laborers in matching long sleeves approached. How they bore the heat was the real mystery. Shovels caught the sunshine as they thudded ground. Goodbye, Devon Hawley Junior, builder of cities, player of songs.

I got up and leaned on a tree for a better angle. Nobody familiar, no sight of Hawley Senior or Marjorie Persky or Socorro Durazo, but one old reed of a cocoa-toned guy caught my eye because of his gray Jew-fro and his rock-and-roll threads—black Harley Davidson tee, black jeans, black Converse, silver dog tags. As the crowd dispersed, I shoved the binoculars in my windbreaker pocket and moseyed slow down the hill, hoping to line up with him and get a closer look.

“Excuse me.” I pointed. “Are you Jeff Grunes?”

He stopped in his tracks, went skeptical. “Who are you?”

Flowing fields of plaques surrounded us in every direction. His dark skinniness cut a dramatic figure against the green. He was early sixties at least, an aging half-Black, half-Jewish rock dude in thick prescription glasses, but the spark of life in him was still jumpy, youthful, looking for a place to spread. Behind the heavy lenses he had the kind of learned eyes you know have read everything—cognitive theory, poli-sci, The Life Cycles of Empire. No People magazine for this guy.

“I’m Adam,” I said. “I’m a Daily Telegraph fan.”

“No, you aren’t,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Well—I’m working for Charles Elkaim.”

“Ah, one of those. Good luck on that.” He turned and made for his car in the glaring sun. I followed.

“Must have been a rough day today,” I said, “saying goodbye to an old friend.”

“Yeah, not exactly. More like…a lifelong enemy.”

“Really?”

“Everybody’s got one. Hawley was mine.”

“So you two haven’t been in touch?”

“Not since Bush Senior was president.”

“But how did you know about the funeral?”

“I kept tabs. Old band members do that.” He snorted. “What the hell’s the internet for, anyway?”

“Mr. Grunes, if you would just—”

“You know you’re like the eighth person that’s tried to figure this shit out, right?”

“So I’ve heard, but—”

“Everyone wants to talk about ’em, the teenage killers, slaying and dope and runaways and all that fun stuff.”

“Right. But you don’t see it that way.”

“The world didn’t stop in 1984.”

“For Charles Elkaim it kind of did,” I said.

“Yeah well.” The funeral crowd was dispersing. Grunes turned to face me, then changed his mind and started walking away again, and I followed him in silence to an unwashed gray Prius. He clicked the fob to unlock his car and turned one last time to look me over. He wasn’t pissed exactly, but he didn’t know what to do with me, and I couldn’t be sure what he saw. Maybe an opportunist, maybe a sycophant. I zipped my lip and stood for inspection. He considered the long hill of graves and something human in him turned over.

“Listen, man,” he said, getting into his ride, “I stay away from the past, you know what I mean? Took me years. Now, I work with the actually needy. You know, as in—reality?”

He started up his engine and rolled down his window.

“And as far as Emil goes—” He shrugged at the wheel, drank deep from his own scorn. “Sure, I miss him. I miss all of it. But it ain’t coming back.”

I leaned on the open car window so that he couldn’t drive away without knocking me over.

“Jeff,” I said, speaking low and serious, “I’m the guy who found your frenemy.”

“Yeah?”

“It was the worst thing you could ever imagine.” Our eyes met. “Who do you think did this?”

A long pause and then, “I don’t know.”

“But you have guesses.”

He scanned the fields. “Where’s Mickey? Why isn’t he here?”

“But…Mickey’s in prison.”

“Bullshit. He’s been out since last August.”

“He has?” I let go of the car window and stood.

“Last I heard he was living in Tent Town over on Ohio, under the 405. When he got out, first thing he did was hit me up for cash, as usual. Wanted to talk old times, as usual. Stuck in the past, as usual. Now back off, dude. I got kids to take care of—and they’re stuck in the present.”

Grunes began to roll his window up and I stepped back, watched him drive away over the dotted green hill.

Outside the Forest Lawn Flower Shop, I called Fry and asked him to meet me at Newton Station.

“Addy, I told you to stay away from the Hawley scene. Dude, I’m trying to keep you from getting indicted.”

“I know that,” I said, “but this is too hot to ignore. This Sandoz character has a serious criminal record, and he’s been out and about for months. Don’t the police need to know about that?”

“Not really, and definitely not from us. Besides…”

“What?”

He hesitated. “The department’s already got a sus—”

“They do?”

“They do. They made an arrest late yesterday. And frankly, their guy’s a little closer to the action.”

“Who is he?”