The eulogies begin, and Brent’s voice coach is the first to speak. She’s a bosomy brunette, middle-aged and wearing lipstick that’s theatrically red. Brent once described her to me as robust; actually he said robusty. But she doesn’t look robust tonight: She looks broken. Her speaking voice, which has a remarkable timbre, sounds so grief-stricken I can’t bear to listen. I look around the room and spot Lombardo, sitting alone on one of the folding chairs against the wall. His hair is slicked down with water and he wears an ill-fitting black raincoat. He looks like an overgrown altar boy, not somebody smart enough to catch Brent’s killer. And maybe Mike’s.

“He had a fine voice, mind you,” the singing coach is saying. Her head is held high, her posture almost a dancer’s. “But Brent was never ambitious in music. He never entered any of the competitions I told him to, even when I got him the forms. He refused to do it. ‘I won’t go onStar Search, Margaret,’ he said to me. ‘Dance Fever,maybe. ButStar Search, never.’”

There’s laughter at this, and quiet sniffles.

“Brent studied because he loved music with all his heart. He sang because he loved to sing. It was an end in itself for him. I used to try to instill that in all my students, but I stopped after I met Brent. That was the lesson Brent taught me. You can’t teach joy.” She faces the audience in a dignified way, then steps away from the podium.

There is utter silence.

I try not to think about what she said.

Two young men appear on the dais. One is almost emaciated, obviously very sick, and is being physically supported by the other. Both wear red ribbons, which on them means more than it does on all the Shannen Dohertys put together.

I know I cannot hear this.

I screen it all out.

I go somewhere else in my mind.

I think about what Judy said before the service started. How she apologized for being sharp with me on the phone. How she really doesn’t trust Ned. Nothing I said could change her mind. It was the closest we’ve come to a fight, and at the end she backed off. Her nerves were frayed, she said. I look over at her, weeping quietly, with Kurt at her side. She loved Brent too. That’s why she’s acting so crazy.

The eulogies are almost over, and someone’s introducing the final speaker.

Mr. Samuel Berkowitz.

I look up in amazement.

Sure enough, itis Berkowitz, lumbering up to the flower-filled podium in a dark suit. He adjusts a microphone barely camouflaged by Easter lilies and clears his throat. “I didn’t know Brent Polk very well, but as I listen to you all here today, I wish I had. What I do know about Brent is that he was an intelligent young man, a fine secretary, and a good and loyal friend to many people. Also, that he broke every rule my stuffy old law firm holds dear.”

There’s laughter at this, and renewed sniffles. I smile myself, and feel so proud of Berkowitz for being here. He has more class than any of them put together. I squeeze Ned’s hand, but he’s not smiling. Neither are my parents; they look somber and upset. They must be thinking of Mike. They hardly knew Brent.

“In addition, I would like to announce a donation in Brent’s name, which has been authorized by my partners at Stalling and Webb. Tomorrow we give ten thousand dollars on Brent Polk’s behalf to Pennsylvanians Against Drunk Driving. It is our sincere hope that we can help prevent what happened to Brent from happening to other fine young men and women. Thank you.” Applause breaks out as Berkowitz steps down and disappears into the crowd.

“What are they talking about?” I whisper to Ned, over the din.

“I don’t know.” He looks grim.

“Drunk driver, my ass!”

My mother nudges me. Don’t talk in church, says the nudge.

I wheel around and look at Lombardo. His dull eyes warn me to relax. Drunk driver? I mouth to him.

He puts a finger to his lips.

Christ! I can barely contain myself. Brent is murdered in cold blood, and they’re going to say it was drunk driving? It’s all I can do after the service not to pound directly over to him, but I have to take care of my parents first. Ned and I help them down the steps of the Art Alliance and wait with them for a cab. My mother’s eyes are smudged and teary behind her glasses; my father looks crestfallen.

“I don’t like that man from your office, Maria,” she says. “The big one. You know which one I mean? The big one?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“No. I don’t like that man at all.” She shakes her head, and her heavy glasses slip down.

“Why not, Mrs. DiNunzio?” Ned asks, with a faint smile.

She holds up a finger, mysteriously. “Thin lips. You can’t even find the man’s lips. Like pencil lines, they are.”

“Ma. His lips aren’t thin. It’s just your eyes.”

“Don’t be fresh, I saw them. He’s got the thin lips. Mark my words.”

Ned seems amused by this. “He’s the boss, Mrs. DiNunzio.”

She drills her index finger into the hand-stitched lapel of Ned’s coat. “I don’t care who he is. I don’t like him.”

“Don’t give the kids no trouble, Vita,” says my father. “They got enough trouble right now. A world of trouble.”

“I’m not giving them trouble, Matty. I’m taking care of Maria!” People leaving the service look over, startled at the loudness of her voice. “That’s what mothers are for! That’s a mother’s job, Matty.”

A yellow cab stops at the light, and I wave it down.

“Look at Maria, Veet,” says my father, momentarily cheered. “Just like a big city girl.” My mother looks at me proudly. I’ve hailed a cab,mirabile dictu.

“Please, guys. Don’t embarrass me in front of Ned, okay? I’m trying to make a good impression.”

My father smiles, and my mother gives me a shove. “You. Always with the jokes.”

The cab pulls up and Ned opens the door for them. I lean down and give them both a quick kiss. Ned helps my father into the dark cab, but my mother is tougher to shake. She grabs me by my coat and whispers, “Call me. I want to talk to you about this young man.”

“Okay, I’ll call you.”

She whispers loudly into my ear. “It’s good to see you with someone. You’re too young to put yourself up on the shelf.”

“Ma…”

She looks at Ned sternly. “You take good care of my daughter. Or you answer to me!”

“I will,” he says, surprised.

“Time to go, Ma.” I fight the urge to push her into the cab.

“We love you, doll,” says my father, as my mother gets in.

“Love you too,” I say, closing the heavy door with relief. I feel like I’ve tucked them into bed. I wave, and the cab pulls away.

Ned gives me a hug. “They’re wonderful,” he says happily.

“The Flying DiNunzios. They’re something, aren’t they?”

“You’re lucky, you know.”

“I know, but let’s not get into it now. Help me find Lombardo.” I squint at the crowd coming out of the building’s narrow front doors.

“I don’t know what he looks like.”

“Fred Flintstone.”

Judy comes out with Kurt, who has managed to find a suit jacket for the occasion. She waves good-bye over the sea of people. I wave back.

Ned points over at the far edge of the crowd. “Is that him?”

“Yes!” Sure enough, it’s Lombardo. I flag him down and he finally spots me. Even from a distance, his expression tells me he wishes he hadn’t.

“Don’t get upset, Mary.”

“I’m already upset. I feel like I want to break his face.” I plunge into the crowd of people, with Ned beside me. Lombardo threads his way toward us, and we meet in the middle.

“Drunk driver, Lombardo?” I say to him. “You have to be kidding!”

Lombardo looks around nervously. “Mary, settle down.”

“That’s almost as absurd as gay-basher!”

Lombardo takes me aside, and Ned follows. “Look, Mary, it’s just a preliminary finding, we haven’t stopped the investigation. You said the car was driving crazy when it left the sidewalk. It crashed into the sawhorse. We know it was driving crazy to go up on the-”