Eyes of Prey by John Sandford Page A

He took the brass cigarette case from his pocket, keeping one eye on the road, opened it, popped a phenobarbital tab. Thought about it, took a second. Naughty boy. And just a lick of PCP? Of course. The thing about PCP was, it stiffened you, gave you a wooden look. He’d seen it in himself. And that would be right, too, for a grieving husband. But not too much. He popped a PCP tab, bit it in half, spit half back into the cigarette case, swallowed the other half. Ready now.
    He parked a block from the funeral home, walked briskly, if a bit woodenly—the PCP already?—down the sidewalk. Minnesota had turned springlike with its usual fickle suddenness. It could revert to winter just as quickly, but for now it was wonderful. A warm slanting sun; red-bellied robins in the yards, bouncing around, looking for worms; fat buds on the trees, the smell of wet grass . . . The warm feeling of the phenobarbital coming on.
    He stopped outside the funeral home and took a deep breath. God, it was fine to be alive. Without Stephanie.
    The funeral home was built of tan stone, in what some funereal architect must have supposed was a British style. Inside, it was simply cold. A hundred people came to the funeral, people from the decorating world, from the university. The women, he thought, all in their dark dresses, looked at him speculatively as he walked slowly up the aisle. Women were like that. Stephanie not yet cold in the grave . . .
    He sat down, blocked out the organ music that seeped from hidden speakers and began toting up the assets. Hard to do with the phenobarbital in his blood, but he persisted. The house was worth better than half a million. The furnishings another two hundred thousand—not even her asshole relatives realized that. Stephanie had bought with an insider’s eye,had traded up, had salvaged. Bekker didn’t care for the place, but some people considered it a treasure house. For himself, Bekker wanted an apartment, up high, white walls, pale birch woodwork, a few Mayan pieces. He’d get it, and still put a half-million in the mutual funds. He’d drag down seventy-five thousand a year, if he picked his funds carefully. On top of his salary . . .
    He almost smiled, thinking about it, caught the impulse and glanced around.
    There were a number of people he didn’t recognize, but most of them were sitting with people he did, in obvious groups and pairings. People from Stephanie’s world of antiques and restoration. Stephanie’s family, her father, her brothers and sisters, her cop cousin. He nodded at her father, who had fixed him with a glare, and looked farther back into the crowd.
    One man, sitting alone near the back, caught his attention. He was muscular, dark-complected, in a gray European-cut suit. Good-looking, like a boxer might be. And he seemed interested in Bekker. He’d followed his progress up the aisle, into the chair that half faced the coffin, half faced the mourners. Safe behind the sunglasses, Bekker returned the man’s gaze. For one goofy minute, Bekker thought he might be Stephanie’s lover. But that was crazy. A guy like this wouldn’t go for Stephanie, would he? Chunky Stephanie? Stephanie No-Eyes?
    Then Swanson, the cop who had interviewed him when he got back from San Francisco, walked into the church, looked around and sat next to the stranger. They leaned their heads closer and spoke a few words, the stranger still watching Bekker. The tough guy was a cop.
    All right. Bekker dismissed him, and looked again through the gathering crowd. Philip George came in with his wife, Annette, and sat behind the cop. Bekker’s eyes traveled across him without hesitating.
    The lover. Who was the lover?
    The funeral was mercilessly long. Twelve people spoke. Stephanie was good, Stephanie was kind. Stephanie worked for the community.
    Stephanie was a pain in the ass.
    Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy