Fifteen minutes later, Jack was back in his Hyundai Accent, drumming his fingers on the driver's-side air-bag cover. What to do was the question. He looked at his watch. It was twelve twenty-five. Any thoughts of returning to the courtroom were nixed, since the court would be in recess for lunch. He could have called Alexis's cell phone, but instead he decided on paying a visit to the funeral home. With that decided, he unfolded his Hertz city map and plotted his course.

Driving out of Boston was no easier than driving in, but once he stumbled onto the Charles River, he was oriented. Twenty minutes later, he was on the appropriate street in the suburban area of Brighton, and five minutes after that, he found the funeral home. It was a housed in a large, white, wood-frame, previously single-family home built in the Victorian style, complete with a turret and Italianate details. Extending from the rear was a modern addition of an indeterminate style built of concrete block. Most important from Jack's perspective was that it had ample parking.

After locking the car, Jack walked around to the front of the building and mounted the stairs to a spacious wraparound porch. There was no porch furniture. The front door was unlocked, so he walked into the building's foyer.

Jack's immediate impression was that the interior was as serene as a deserted medieval library, with muted Gregorian chants providing the appropriate background noise. He would have liked to have said it was as severe as a deserted funeral home, but since it was a funeral home, he felt obligated to come up with something else. To his left was a casket gallery with all the caskets propped open to reveal their velvet or satin interiors. Comforting names like Eternal Bliss were displayed, but prices were not. To the right was a viewing room, which was currently vacant. Rows of collapsible chairs faced a raised dais with an empty catafalque. Floating in the air was a whiff of incense, as though it were a Tibetan souvenir shop.

At first Jack was confused as to where to go to find a live human, but before he could wander too far, one appeared as if by magic. Jack hadn't heard a door open or even approaching footsteps.

"Can I help you?" a man inquired in a barely audible voice. He was slender and austere in his black suit, white shirt, and black tie. With his pasty and cadaverous face, he looked like a candidate for the establishment's services. His thin, short, and deeply colored dyed hair was plastered to the scabrous dome of his head. Jack had to suppress a smile. The man embodied a familiar but false stereotype of a funeral home employee. It was as if he'd been called by central casting for a part in a ghoulish movie. Jack knew that reality didn't support the Hollywood image. In his role as a medical examiner, Jack had a lot of interaction with funeral home employees, and none of them resembled the man standing in front of him.

"Can I help you?" the man repeated slightly louder but almost in a whisper despite there being no one, not even the dead, whom he could have disturbed. He held himself rigidly in check, with his hands clasped piously over his abdomen and his elbows tucked in against his body. The only thing moving were his narrow lips. He didn't even seem to blink.

"I'm looking for the funeral director."

"At your service. My name is Harold Langley. We are a family-owned and -operated establishment."

"I'm a medical examiner," Jack said. He flashed his official badge quickly enough to be reasonably certain Harold didn't have time to notice it was not from Massachusetts. Harold visibly stiffened as if Jack were an emissary from the Massachusetts Division of Professional Licensure. Suspicious by nature, Jack thought the reaction curious, but he pressed on. "You people handled the arrangements for Patience Stanhope, who passed away this past September."

"Indeed, we did. I remember it well. We also handled the services for Mr. Stanhope, a very prominent gentleman in the community. Also for the only Stanhope child, I'm afraid."

"Oh!" Jack grunted in response to information he'd not been seeking. He quickly stored it away and returned to the issue at hand. "Some questions have arisen surrounding Mrs. Stanhope's death, and an exhumation and autopsy are being considered. Has the Langley-Peerson Home had experience doing such a thing?"

"We have, but on an infrequent basis," Harold said, relaxing back to his originally restrained, ceremonious self. Jack was apparently no longer viewed as a possible threat. "Are you in possession of the required paperwork?"

"No. What I'm hoping is that you could help in that regard."

"Certainly. What's needed is an exhumation permit, a transportation permit, and a reinterment permit, and, most importantly, the permit must have the signature of the current Mr. Stanhope as the next of kin. It is the next of kin who must give authorization."

"So I understand. Would you have the necessary forms here?"

"Yes, I believe so. If you'll follow me, I can give them to you."

Harold led Jack through an archway in the direction of the main stairs but immediately turned left into a darkened, deep pile-carpeted hallway. It was now apparent to Jack how Harold had managed to silently appear.

"You mentioned that the first Mr. Stanhope was prominent in the community. How so?"

"He was founder of the Stanhope Insurance Agency of Boston, which was very successful in its heyday. Mr. Stanhope was a wealthy man and quite a philanthropist, which is rare in Brighton. Brighton is a working-class community."

"Meaning the current Mr. Stanhope must be a wealthy man."

"Undoubtedly," Harold said as he led Jack into an office as austere as he was. "The current Mr. Stanhope's history is a marvelous Horatio Alger story. He was born Stanislaw Jordan Jaruzelski, a local boy from a working-class immigrant family who started working at the agency right out of Brighton High School. He was a whiz kid, even though he didn't go to college, who worked himself up by his bootstraps to management. When the old man passed on, he married the widow, sparking some lurid speculation. He even took the family name."

Although it was a bright, sunshine-filled June day outside, inside Harold's office it was dark enough to necessitate the desk lamp and a floor lamp to be on. The windows were covered by heavy, dark green velvet drapes. After finishing the current Mr. Stanhope saga, Harold went to an upright, four-drawer file cabinet covered with mahogany veneer. From the top drawer, he pulled out a folder. From within the folder, he took three papers, one of which he handed to Jack. The other two he placed on his desk. He motioned toward one of the velvet-upholstered chairs facing the desk for Jack before sitting himself down in his high-backed desk chair.

"That's the exhumation permit I gave you," Harold said. "There's a place for Mr. Stanhope to sign, giving authorization."

Jack glanced at the paper as he sat down. Getting the signature was obviously going to be the deal-breaker, but for the moment, he wasn't going to worry about it. "Who will fill in the rest after Mr. Stanhope signs?"

"I will do that. What is the time frame you are looking at?"

"If it's to be done, it has to be done immediately."

"Then you'd better let me know quickly. I'd have to arrange for the vault company's truck and a backhoe."

"Could the autopsy be done here at the home?"

"Yes, in the embalming room, working around our schedule. The only problem is we might not have all the tools you would like. For instance, we don't have a cranial saw."

"I can get the tools." Jack was impressed. Harold looked rather weird, but he was informed and efficient.

"I should mention this will be an expensive undertaking."

"What are we talking about?"

"There'll be the vault company and backhoe charge, as well as cemetery fees. On top of that will be our charges for obtaining the permits, supervision, and use of the embalming room."