THE POPULATION OF COLMA, California, is heavily skewed toward the dead. The ratio of those below the ground to those breathing air is about twelve to one. My mom is buried at Cypress Lawn in Colma, and so is Yuki’s mom, and now Kelly Malone and her brother, Eric, were burying their parents here, too.
It would appear to the casual observer that I was alone.
I’d put flowers at the base of a pink granite stone engraved with “Benjamin and Heidi Robson,” two people I didn’t know. Then I sat on a bench a hundred feet from where the grass-scented breeze puffed out the tent flaps where the Malones’ funeral was in progress.
My Glock was holstered under my blue jacket, and the microphone inside my shirt connected me to the patrol cars at the entrance to the cemetery. I was watching for a gangly kid named Ronald Grayson, or someone else who looked out of place, a stranger with a penchant for torture and murder. It didn’t happen every time, but some killers just had to see the end of the show, give themselves a psychic round of applause.
I hoped we’d get lucky.
As I watched, Kelly Malone stood in front of the group of fifty, her back to the pair of coffins. And I saw Richie, his eyes on Kelly as she gave her eulogy. I couldn’t hear any of the words, just the sound of a lawn mower in the distance and soon enough, the squeal of the winch lowering the coffins into the ground. Kelly and her brother each tossed a handful of earth into their parents’ graves and turned away.
Kelly went into Rich’s arms and he held her.
There was something touching and familiar about the way they fit together, as if they were still a couple. I felt a painful pull in my gut and tried to shut it down. When Kelly and Rich left the tent and walked with the priest in my direction, I turned before they came close enough to see my eyes.
I spoke into the collar of my shirt, said, “This is Boxer. I’m coming in.
