“Mark, it’s Dan. Hey, sounds like you’re in a tavern. The whole gang there, huh?”

“Yep. Everyone over seventy-five is here to party. That’s my waiting room!”

He chuckled. “Well, I hate to be the pooper, but I’ve got Chaz Braden and his father, plus Kelly McShane’s parents in my office, all of them squabbling over her remains.”

“What?”

“It started last night with phone calls from their lawyers, just as soon as Everett made it official that everything is now in our hands.”

Son of a bitch. “I’ll be right over.”

Dan’s office was in a large, colonial building that dominated Main Street. Shabby wood siding toward the back made it look as if the contractor had run out of money. Once nicknamed the White House, the building hadn’t been painted in years and was now a sooty gray. Inside, county officialdom was cut down to size. The courthouse, the jail, a records room, the fire hall, the police station – all were crammed into three floors and a basement. There was even a small coroner’s office that Mark used only during inquests or for campaign headquarters on those occasions when someone challenged his reelection.

Floorboards creaking under his feet, he walked up to a door with a clear window that had SHERIFF written across it and peeked in at the people he’d be dealing with.

Dan slouched in his chair massaging his temples. An immaculately groomed, sophisticated-looking older woman sat across from him. She wore a well-tailored black suit and hat. Lord, Mark only saw hats like that in old movies these days. She held black leather gloves in her left hand and kept tight hold with her right on the gold clasp of a black snakeskin handbag in her lap. Behind her stood a compact man, also elderly, but his tanned complexion, though creased, had a youthful tautness that was at odds with his shock of white hair. Arms folded across his chest, his mouth grim, he seemed to be studying his shoes.

Kelly’s parents, Mark assumed. He hadn’t seen them since he was a small boy. They’d moved away shortly after their daughter’s disappearance.

Charles Braden III was the only one who seemed to be at ease. Mark remembered him vividly from his days as a resident at NYCH when the man served as outgoing chairman of the Obstetrics Department prior to retirement. Still sleek, sporting the same wiry, brushed steel haircut, and dressed in a two-thousand-dollar suit, he leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets.

By contrast, his son Chaz looked anxious, though no less sartorially splendid. His wiry body was taut; dark circles underscored his eyes.

Mark took a breath, squared his shoulders, and walked in, adopting the swift stride he used to impose his authority while making rounds at Saratoga General, another arena where money tried to outrank him. “Good afternoon, everyone.”

They all looked up at him.

Before Mark had enough time to clear his throat, Mrs. McShane was on her feet, her handbag placed precisely on her chair, and standing before him. “Dr. Roper, I am Kelly’s mother-”

“Samantha, my dear-” Her husband followed on her heels, reaching out, placing his hands supportively on her shoulders.

She wrenched away from his touch. “Please, Walter, let me have my say.” She turned a beseeching face to Mark. “Do forgive me, but I simply must demand a little respect here as Kelly’s mother.” She had a tremor in her voice that reminded him of Katharine Hepburn’s performances in her later movies like On Golden Pond or A Lion in Winter. “My darling girl meant everything to me and to learn that I was right all along, that she didn’t run away from us, that someone viciously murdered her – well, I’m sure you understand how devastating, how traumatic this has been for me.”

From behind, Mark heard one of the Bradens mutter, “Garbage!”

Samantha obviously had also heard. She drew herself up to her full height, but didn’t turn around. “As I was saying, Doctor, it should be a parent’s right to bury her only child, her beloved chi-”

“For heaven’s sake, Samantha,” Chaz said, stepping forward. “You and Kelly hadn’t exchanged a single civil word in years before she-”

“That’s quite enough!” Walter said. His arm shot protectively around his wife’s shoulders. “And after all you put Kelly through during those years, how dare you say anything about us. The least you can do now is agree to let Samantha give her a proper, loving funeral.”

“I have every right to bury my wife,” Chaz shot back. “Every right. It was you two and Kelly who were estranged, but we, Kelly and I, were not. Let me repeat that. We weren’t the ones estranged, and I insist-”

“You insist?” An incredulous look rearranged Samantha’s beautifully made-up face. “All her friends said she wanted to leave you, and you know it. If Kelly estranged herself from anyone, it was you.”

“I don’t know any such thing!” Chaz said, alarmingly red in the face.

“And you drove her away from me,” Samantha continued. “Every chance you had. You’re the last one who’s going to take her from me now by trying to turn the tables on me like this.” Walter still steadied her as if she were a fragile piece of Baccarat.

This was fast growing out of control, Mark thought. He glanced at Dan, who shrugged, rolled his eyes, and raised his hands as if to say, “See what I’ve been trying to deal with?”

Then Charles Braden III moved into the middle of the fray. “Chaz, please, we know you adored Kelly and are distraught, but, as I’ve said before, have a care for a mother’s feelings as well. Do sit down, Chaz.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder. “And let’s all try to remember that Kelly would have been dreadfully upset by this wrangling.”

Although Charles sounded reasonable, Mark thought, the guy was so smooth he reeked of hypocrisy. Time to take charge himself, and impose his own agenda. “Listen up, people,” he said, moving to position himself behind Dan. “I’m afraid neither side will get any satisfaction today. Her remains are evidence still, and I’m not releasing them to either party.” He knew that he couldn’t get anything more out of the bones from a forensic point of view, yet instinctively balked at letting them go.

Everyone looked surprised.

“I thought you’d have done everything necessary by now,” Chaz said, walking quickly around the end of Dan’s desk to where he could stand toe-to-toe with Mark. He exuded anger, but also seemed edgy, his fingers continually opening and closing as if he were practicing his grip. “What are you playing at?”

Not exactly a presence to back down from, Mark thought. In fact, why not probe a little. See how the man reacts to the prospect of his wife’s death being looked at locally. “You think I’m playing here, Chaz? This investigation is just beginning, and I’m bound to hold Kelly’s remains for as long as I need to do a proper inquiry.”

He got even more flushed. “You? But the NYPD told me as far as they were concerned it was a cold case. They’re not working on it.”

“They dumped it in Dan’s and my laps.”

“That was just for you to do their paperwork, for Christ’s sake. Any fool could see that. Surely you’re not going to drag this out?”

Mark caught the condescension, and an old enmity stirred. But he kept it in check.

Nevertheless, he saw Dan looking up at him apprehensively.

“Listen to me, Roper,” Chaz said. “You may think you’re some kind of big shot here, being coroner and all, but I can rally enough votes to fix that at the next election.”

Mark’s discipline in dealing with assholes nearly folded. He smiled, slowly, showing his teeth a few at a time. “Take your best shot.”

“This is not fitting for Kelly,” Braden Senior said. His tone had the quiet authority of someone who never raised his voice to get an order followed.

Mark had to admit Braden had spoken the truth. “I’ll say it’s not fitting.” He kept his gaze on Chaz.