The bourgeoisie keep themselves neat and tidy in the suburbs. But the crime scene tapes and the flashing lights reminded me of home. So did the detective who appeared to be in charge. I parked the hearse and got out. “You again, Purdue,” the cop said. It wasn’t a question and this evening he seemed to have remembered my name. “You’re a bit willing. And what the hell’s that you’re carrying? Think this is a party?” “Willing? Rebeiro,” I said with a nod, having no trouble at all remembering his. I swung the Esky negligently. Whatever it con­tained, I wasn’t leaving it with bloody Culpepper. “The fucking hearse. You appear to be carrying a coffin. Ambu­lance chasing’s one thing, but this is macabre.” “A coincidence,” I said. Share climbed out of the driver’s door. Culpepper stayed put, looking haughty. He had no wish to invite police attention.
