“In the ceiling fixture.”
I looked up at the fixture, wrought iron with yellow glass, like an old-time lantern. “Is there one on the back door, too?”
“Yes, and several out back.”
“Can they hear us, too?”
“No. No audio.”
“The house isn’t bugged, is it?”
“No,” Dom answered, his tone official again. “The intent is to protect you, not spy on you. Now, was there something you needed?”
“I wanted to ask you about arrangements for my daughter’s . . . funeral.” I still couldn’t believe I was saying the words. “Do you know when her body will be, uh, available?”
“It will be released in about seven days. It takes longer when there’s an autopsy.”
I winced inwardly, but stayed on track. “Uh, Lucinda and I were talking last night. How do we make arrangements for the funeral? And where do we have it? Do we pick out a casket down here, or what?”
“You can choose online or I can get you some brochures.” Dom hesitated. “But Jason, you can’t go to the funeral. For security reasons.”
“What?” I didn’t understand. “I’m talking about Allison’s funeral.”
“I know, I’m sorry. You can’t go.”
My mouth dropped open. “But it’s my daughter, our daughter. Of course we go to the funeral. We’re holding the funeral.”
“No, it’s not procedure.”
“Look, I get that we don’t invite her friends or our friends. But we go. We go. We’re her family.”
“You have to follow procedure—”
“And not go to my own daughter’s funeral?” Suddenly I wasn’t sure Dom and I were going to be pals. Our Tate’s moment was gone. “You can’t tell me there’s a procedure for my daughter’s funeral.”
“There is, and if you think about it, you’ll realize why.” Dom pursed his lips. “The only link Milo and Big George have to you is your daughter. So let’s say they put out feelers. They start calling area funeral homes.” Dom paused, his eyes flinty in the dappled sunshine. “They know you’ll want to go.”
“What if their feelers don’t go this far?”
“Delaware’s not that far.”
“So why didn’t we go farther? Delaware was your choice, not ours. I’d fly anywhere to bury my daughter. I’d do anything, go anywhere, to lay her to rest as a family . . . with . . . love.” My voice broke so I stopped talking.
“How would you fly? Under what name? We haven’t begun to clear your new identity.” Dom’s gaze softened, and I could see he felt for me, so I couldn’t even be mad at him.
“Can’t you make a temporary one?”
“No.”
“Why not? Teenagers can get a fake driver’s license. Why can’t the FBI?”
“That’s not procedure.”
“Then fly us on military transport. When I went to Gitmo, we flew military transport.”
“We don’t have military transport at our disposal. We’re not the military.”
“Then get a private plane. You can’t tell me you don’t have that. What does the FBI Director fly? Commercial?”
“It’s not like the movies.” Dom frowned, pained. “We have budgets.”
“I’ll pay for it.” I couldn’t accept it, not for Allison. “She has to have a funeral.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, she’ll have a funeral. We’ll clear a funeral home and we’ll bury her properly. My fellow agents will attend—”
“What?” I recoiled. “The FBI will bury my daughter? Who goes? What agents?”
“The Babysitters Club goes. We have female agents, too. We pose as couples, as families.”
“Really? Why? If you use a secured funeral home, why go through this charade?”
“We backstop ourselves.”
I tried to think. “Wait, I have an idea. If there’s going to be female agents dressed as fake moms, why can’t Lucinda go as one?”
Dom shook his head. “Milo saw your wife. He knows what she looks like.”
“What if it’s not Milo who’s watching?”
“They have her picture. She takes selfies with the moms on the team and her friends. They’re all over her Facebook page. I knew what she looked like before we met. Make no mistake, they’ll kill her.”
“What if one of your daughters was shot to death?” I knew it was cruel, but let him feel what I felt. “Could you even keep your wife away?”
“If my family were in the danger yours is, I wouldn’t allow them to go. Jason, I know this is hard. You can all watch the ceremony on closed-circuit TV.”
“On TV? On TV?” I looked down, hands on hips, fighting for emotional control. I wondered if the cameras in the trees were recording us. Or if Special Agent Hallman was watching on his laptop.
“Look, our goal is to keep you safe. This is the first test. Unfortunately, it’s the hardest. If you want, I can explain this to Lucinda.”
“Oh no you can’t,” I told him, looking him in the eye.
* * *
—
I went back inside the house, crossed to the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water, my mind reeling. It seemed impossible that we wouldn’t be going to Allison’s funeral. My daughter, buried without me. I didn’t even get to see her one last time to say goodbye. I had assumed there would be a viewing, private, just us. I wanted to give her a note, a wish I hadn’t acknowledged until this very moment.
I sipped the water, trying to recover. At my father’s viewing, I had slipped a note under his hand, which held a rosary of chalky blue plastic. I had touched his skin, and makeup came off on my finger pads. I remember him feeling cool, hard, and oddly tacky. I didn’t want to think about what my note to him had said.
I hope I am as wonderful a father as you. Love you, Dad.
I set the glass in the sink, trying to shoo the thoughts from my mind. The house was still quiet, and my gaze fell on the open laptop. I went over, logged on to Google, and searched for images of John Milo. The screen showed a line of John Milos from all over the country. I added Philadelphia to the search, and one face jumped instantly off the screen.
Him. I reacted viscerally, as if my body remembered Milo. His eyes glittered darkly. His cheekbones were set high, and he had marble slabs where cheeks should have been, ending in a broad jawline. I shuddered, then moved the mouse to his image, clicked, and saved it to the desktop in a folder. I didn’t know what to label the folder. I didn’t label it.
Next I searched under George Veria, Jr., and after some doing, found a photo of Junior. The image was grainy and pixelated, taken from a newspaper a few years ago. His eyes were round and brown, his nose thick, and his cheeks puffy. I flashed on his disgusting leer at Allison. Nevertheless, I saved the image to the desktop folder.
My next search was for Big George Veria, Sr., and I identified him because his son looked so much like him, the origin of his son’s wide nose and fleshy lips. Big George’s eyes were smaller than Junior’s. He was graying, and there was a V-shaped ridge in his short forehead. He’d been photographed at the federal courthouse on Market Street, a grim expression on his face and his tie flying as he hustled along. Junior hurried at his side, grinning in a badly fitting suit, and on his right was Milo in long hair and a black leather jacket.