They thanked Goldfield for his time and patience, and he escorted them out to the reception area.
Tony stopped at the desk and asked Agnes, the secretary, for the name of the funeral home that had claimed Frye’s body. She looked through the files and said, “It was Angels’ Hill Mortuary.”
Hilary wrote down the address.
Goldfield said, “You don’t still think–”
“No,” Tony said. “But on the other hand, we’ve got to pursue every lead. At least, that’s what they taught me at the police academy.”
Eyes hooded, frowning, Goldfield watched them as they walked away.
***
At Angels’ Hill Mortuary, Hilary waited in the Jeep while Tony went inside to talk to the mortician who had handled the body of Bruno Frye. They had agreed that he would be able to obtain the information faster if he went in alone and used his LAPD identification.
Angels’ Hill was a big operation with a fleet of hearses, twelve roomy viewing chapels, and a large staff of morticians and technicians. Even in the business office, the lighting was indirect and relaxing, and the colors were somber yet rich, and the floor was covered with plush wall-to-wall carpet. The decor was meant to convey a hushed appreciation for the mystery of death; but to Tony, all it conveyed was a loud and clear statement about the profitability of the funeral business.
The receptionist was a cute blonde in a gray skirt and maroon blouse. Her voice was soft, smooth, whispery, but it did not contain even a slight hint of sexual suggestiveness or invitation. It was a voice that had been carefully trained to project consolation, heartfelt solace, respect, and low-key but genuine concern. Tony wondered if she used the same cool funeral tone when she cried encouragement to her lover in bed, and that thought chilled him.
She located the file on Bruno Frye and found the name of the technician who had worked on the body. “Sam Hardesty. I believe Sam is in one of the preparation rooms at the moment. We’ve had a couple of recent admissions,” she said, as if she were working in a hospital rather than a mortuary. “I’ll see if he can spare you a few minutes. I’m not sure how far along he is in the treatment. If he can get free, he’ll meet you in the employees’ lounge.”
She took Tony to the lounge to wait. The room was small but pleasant. Comfortable chairs were pushed up against the walls. There were ashtrays and all kinds of magazines. A coffee machine. A soda machine. A bulletin board covered with notices about bowling leagues and garage sales and car pools.
Tony was leafing through a four-page mimeographed copy of the Angels’ Hill Employee News when Sam Hardesty arrived from one of the preparation rooms. Hardesty looked unnervingly like an automobile mechanic. He was wearing a rumpled white jumpsuit that zipped up the front; there were several small tools (the purpose of which Tony did not want to know) clipped to Hardesty’s breast pocket. He was a young man, in his late twenties, with long brown hair and sharp features.
“Detective Clemenza?”
“Yes.”
Hardesty held out his hand, and Tony shook it with some reluctance, wondering what it had touched just moments ago.
“Suzy said you wanted to talk to me about one of the accounts.” Hardesty had been trained by the same voice coach who had worked with Suzy, the blond receptionist.
Tony said, “I understand you were responsible for preparing Bruno Frye’s body for shipment to Santa Rosa last Thursday.”
“That’s correct. We were cooperating with a mortuary up in St. Helena.”
“Would you please tell me exactly what you did with the corpse after you picked it up at the morgue?”
Hardesty looked at him curiously. “Well, we brought the deceased here and treated him.”
“You didn’t stop anywhere between the morgue and here?”
“No.”
“From the moment the body was consigned to you until you relinquished it at the airport, was there ever a time when it was alone?”
“Alone? Only for a minute or two. It was a rush job because we had to put the deceased aboard a Friday afternoon flight. Say, can you tell me what this is all about? What are you after?”