Page 48 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

Five minutes later, we were at Winstanley’s funeral home on Riverdale Avenue. We identified ourselves to the receptionist and asked for the owner.

“Mr. Winstanley is in our gallery,” she said. “I’ll get him for you.”

“I have a better idea,” I said, not wanting Winstanley to have any time to think before we asked him our first question. “How about you take us to him?”

We followed her into a large, sterile windowless room. The floor was lined with an array of opulent caskets—gleaming oak, warm mahogany, andyou-ain’t-never-gettin’-outta-heresteel. The lids were flipped open to reveal plush linings of silk, satin, or velvet in a range of colors from pastel pink to manly midnight blue.Gilt-framedsigns in cursive fonts discreetly announced that smart shoppers could save 30 percent if you buy before you die. It was a grim testament to the fact that death is big business.

A man was standing at the far side of the room, next to a wall of ornate cremation urns. He looked up when we entered.

“Mr. Winstanley,” the receptionist said. “These police officers are here to see you.”

“Detectives!” Winstanley said. It was an effusive greeting, but it also felt like his way of correcting her without correcting her. She backed out of the room, and he approached us.

If we’d been casting a movie and looking for someone to play a funeral director, we wouldn’t have had to look any further. He was tall and trim, with comforting eyes and a pleasant smile. His white hair was perfectly combed, his dark suit neatly pressed, and his blackcap-toeoxfords shined to a high gloss.

He extended his hand. “Eldon Winstanley. I don’t think we’ve met, and I’m pretty sure I know everyone from the Fiftieth,” he said. “What precinct do you work out of?”

Kylie handed him a business card.

“NYPD Red,” he said, duly impressed. “And what brings you to Riverdale?”

“Martin Sheffield.”

The warm smile turned somber. “Sadly, he passed last night,” Winstanley said, his voice dropping an octave.

“We’re aware,” Kylie said. “We’ll need you to turn the body over to the medical examiner’s office for an autopsy.”

“An autopsy?” he said, clasping his hands in front of his chest. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Sir,” Kylie said, “it’s not only possible, but the medical examiner will be here in less than an hour with all the paperwork you’ll need to release the body. It will be returned to you for burial when they’re done.”

“No, Detective, you don’t understand. I’m not objecting to the autopsy. It’s just that Mr. Sheffield’s remains were cremated. I was looking for an appropriate urn when you arrived.”

“When?” Kylie demanded.

“Three hours ago,” Winstanley said.

“We were told you picked him up at midnight. What was the hurry?”

“There was no viewing, no service, no family, so there was no reason to store the body. I’m sorry if it sounds cold, but it’s a very efficient way to run a mortuary. Every detail was prearranged by Mr. Sheffield himself. I’d be happy to provide you with all the documentation.”

My cell rang. It was Theo. I flashed the caller ID to Kylie, and she gave me a satisfied smile—her way of taking credit for the male bonding experience she had effected.

“Excuse me a second,” I said to Winstanley, and I took the call.

“Zach, it’s Theo.”

“I know. What’s going on?”

“Don’t get pissed, but I didn’t go straight home. I decided that I needed to pay my last respects to Mr. Sheffield.”

“I see,” I said, doing my best to look like a bored cop fielding yet another routine call. “And where are you now?”

“I’m right outside in the parking lot of Winstanley’s funeral home. And he’s here, too.”

“Who?”

“Oh, shit! He just got out of his car, and he’s walking toward the front door.”