CHAPTER 3
I WASN’T USED to wearing a tie. It was one of those things I didn’t have to worry about in my day-to-day life. Unfortunately, I was about to attend a funeral. A cop’s funeral. A retired cop who’d died too soon. I guess that’s how we feel about anyone we like and respect who passes. Lou Sanvos had spent most of his career as a detective in narcotics. Like a lot of people, I lost touch with Lou after he retired about ten years ago.
The Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church on West 91st looked like something out of a Gothic literary story. Tucked in the middle of Manhattan, the stone walls and tower seemed somewhat out of place. And although I’d passed it about a million times in my life, this was the first time I’d ever been inside. It somehow seemed more solemn than Holy Name, the Catholic church my family attended.
There were about 150 people here, a decent crowd for a guy who’d retired almost a decade ago. I’d brought my new twenty-four-year-old partner, Rob Trilling, with me. He was having a hard time making contacts within the department, mainly because he was so quiet, and also because he was technically still on temporary assignment to Manhattan North Homicide. He couldn’t work a case solo yet. Currently, he was helping Detective Terri Hernandez with an investigation involving a gang responsible for at least two recent homicides. I figured there’d be a few people at this funeral still on the job who I could introduce him to. Besides, I liked having Trilling around. He was entertaining, quirky and unpredictable.
As we slipped into a pew near the rear of the church, I turned to Trilling and said, “You said you were a little weird, and that you like funerals. What do you think of this one so far?”
The young man almost smiled. I’d realized by now that Trilling wasn’t as gloomy and brooding as he often seemed. “I don’t necessarily like funerals, Bennett,” Trilling said. “I like the traditions and rituals. Back in Montana, I was in school with some kids from the Blackfeet Nation. When one of their own died, they had four days of mourning. And also cut their hair short to show that they were grieving. That kind of stuff impresses you as a kid.”
“After a funeral like this, we usually hold a wake at a bar and tell stories about the departed. That’s the NYPD tradition.”
Trilling said, “My grandfather always said that going to a funeral is the one thing that you can never expect any repayment for. The deceased can’t return the favor and come to your funeral. It’s sort of an act of good faith and respect. I always thought that was a good way to look at funerals.”
We watched silently as an honor guard marched down the center aisle of the church.
Trilling leaned in close and said, “I know Sanvos died in a car accident. What happened?”
I kept my voice low as a decidedly non-Catholic priest started to speak at the pulpit. I said, “Lou retired to White Plains to be near his kids. I heard he lost control of his car somehow and drove right through the front window of a store. The car caught fire. Ironically, the store he crashed into was a fire equipment and safety store.”
“It looks like he was popular. I’ve been to funerals with only three or four people in attendance.” Trilling looked around at the turnout.
“Aside from a long career in the NYPD, Lou did a lot for youth groups, especially in the Bronx. He really felt like the key to solving the gun crisis, as well as crime in general, was to provide kids with a safe place to grow up with decent role models. He focused on the worst neighborhoods that got the fewest resources.”
Trilling mumbled, “I can see why you two were friends.”
That might’ve been the nicest thing my young partner had ever said to me.