"But then," the monsignor said, "catastrophe blindsided the Mullens. First came the much too early death of Katherine Patricia from cancer. Last week the still unsatisfactorily explained death of Peter Mullen, a blow that unquestionably contributed to Sam's death Friday night.

"To see the hand of God in any of this is obviously beyond our limited knowledge. I only offer what I know to be true. That this life, however short, and it's almost always too short, is precious beyond measure."

Mack, Dana, and I sat in the front row. Behind the three of us, the room shared a cathartic sob – but Mack and I were dry-eyed that morning at least. To us, this wasn't divine mystery, it was murder. Whoever had killed Peter was also partly responsible for my father's heart attack, or at least his broken heart.

As the monsignor continued over his parishioners' tears, I felt the grip of my grandfather's hand on my knee. I looked into his ravaged face and bottomless Irish eyes.

"There's a couple of mysteries of this precious life," he whispered, "that you and I are going to get to the bottom of, whether God in heaven chooses to throw in with us or not."

I put my own bony Mullen hand on his and squeezed back hard enough for both of us to know that a pact had been made.

Somehow, someway, we were going to avenge Peter and my father.

IF YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A NEAT TRICK squeezing a thousand full-bodied mourners into a church built for two hundred, imagine the human gridlock when the same crowd arrived on our doorstep at 18 Ditch Plains Road.

Shagwong ran the bar and Seaside Market did the food, and for six hours the entire population of Montauk wended its way through our half a dozen small rooms. I believe that every single person who ever had any contact with my father or brother in the past twenty years walked into our living room, took my hand, and looked into my eyes.

Teachers and coaches going back to kindergarten showed up and described Peter's unlimited potential at this sport or that subject. As did the merchants who had kept my father in hardware and bacon sandwiches. The politicians, of course, were out in full force. So were the firemen and cops; even Volpi and Belnap showed their faces.

Despite how badly things had panned out for the Mullens in Montauk, it was impossible not to feel enormous affection for its unpretentious residents. People give a shit about their neighbors out here.

Nevertheless, after a couple of hours, all the faces ran together. I guess that's what funerals are for – turning grief into a blur. In that way, they're diverting.

Dana finally left about seven. She's not much of a drinker, so I understood. And I appreciated that she knew I had to be there and drink with my old friends and relatives.

All my friends were there. After the bulk of the guests left, we gathered in the kitchen. Fenton, Marci, Molly, Hank, and Sammy – the same crowd that had been there for me that night at the Memory.

We had all been working on Peter's case, the situation, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. Fenton had been lobbying hard with the Suffolk County medical examiner, an old girlfriend of his, that Peter's death not be treated like a routine drowning. I had talked to contacts at the Daily News and Newsday about possible stories, or at least coming out there to talk to somebody about what really happened that night.

"People are talking," Sammy reported about his A-list clientele. "They're starting to feel some heat at the Beach House, too. The Neubauers already canceled a party for the weekend of the fourth. Out of respect, no doubt."

We all applauded ourselves. Big deal, right, we'd gotten them to cancel a goddamned party.

Not all the news was good. Three nights before, Hank had walked into Nichols Cafe, where he'd been head chef since it reopened, and was fired on the spot.

"No reason or explanation," said Hank. "The manager handed me my last check and said good luck. For two days I was going nuts. Then a waitress spelled it out for me. Nichols is owned by Jimmy Taravalla, a venture capitalist worth a couple hundred million. Taravalla is tight with Neubauer. He's a frequent guest at parties. According to my friend, Neubauer called Jimmy, Jimmy called Antoinette Alois, the manager, and that was that. Hasta la vista. Put down the chalupa. Go directly to the back of the unemployment line."

"It gets scarier," Molly said. "I've been doing some asking around about the party, right. Then, the other night, somebody was following me. It was a black BMW. Tonight I saw the same car parked outside my house."

"That's so weird," Marci spoke up. "The same cretin was following me. It's creepy."

"Hang on to your privates, boys and girls," said Sammy. "The empire is starting to strike back."

It was after midnight before the last mourner gave me a last damp hug. Then it was just me and Mack in the brightly lit kitchen. I poured two whiskeys.

"To Jack and Peter," I said.

"To you and me," said Macklin. "We're all that's left."

I AWOKE WITH A HANGOVER the morning after my father's funeral and wake. About eleven, I decided to go see Dana, partly to apologize for not paying enough attention to her the day before, but mostly I needed someone to talk to. I knew that her parents were still out of town; otherwise, I don't think I could have gone to the house.

What can you say about the "summer cottage" that the Neubauers had already turned down $40 million for? Is it real, or is it Manderly? I could never drive onto the property without thinking about how much Dana loved the house and the twelve acres it sits on. What's not to love? A grand Georgian-style house surrounded by apple orchards? Two glorious pools – a reflection pool for the mind, a lap pool for the body? A formal rose garden? The English-style garden? A circular drive in front of the house that looked as though it were built for vintage cars, and vintage cars only?

I rode Peter's motorcycle up close to the garage, cut the engine, and parked in an unobtrusive spot. Even though I had an open invitation to the house, I suddenly felt weird just being there. I tried to shake off the feeling, but it wouldn't shake.

I heard a splash in one of the pools.

I could see the "north pool," as the family called it, the lap pool, and suddenly I stopped walking. My stomach clutched.

Dana was climbing out of the pool and she had on a kickass suit that I'd told her was my personal favorite. Beads of water glistened on her skin and the black Lycra of the string bikini.

She tiptoed across the ornate, hand-painted tiles of the deck to one of several cream-and-royal-blue-striped chaise longues. She smiled as she drank in the warmth of the sun.

I couldn't believe my eyes. Propped comfortably on the chaise was none other than Frank Volpi. The sickening thing was that Frank looked none the worse for the wear and tear of his very demanding detective's job. He was as relaxed and tanned and toned as Dana was.

Dana was still smiling as she went and sat next to him on the longue. She laid her water-chilled hands on his stomach, and he playfully grabbed her wrists. He pulled her on top of him, and she covered his mouth with hers. As they kissed, all I could see was the back of her blond head and his hands untying the strings of her suit.

I wanted to look away, to get the hell out of there, but before I could actually move, the kiss ended.

Then Dana looked over Volpi's shoulder, and I was pretty sure she saw me before I skulked off to the Beemer and headed back where I belonged.