Free Unknown Remains by Peter Leonard Page A

good-bye.
    Cobb had also been opening cards: condolences from friends and relatives saying nice things about Jack McCann, cute stories and remembrances, and a few that just said, I’m sorry for your loss. He had taken the funeral registry, the list of everyone who had come to the funeral home, from the McCann’s house. He’d noticed it on the kitchen counter the first time he’d stopped by, waited one morning for the wife to leave, and went in and took it.
    The registry was leather bound and had a color photo of a golf course on the cover. Every name and address listed was in the area, either New York, New Jersey, or Connecticut. The three out-of-towners who sent cards were J. D. Hagan from Denver; Chris Beard, not sure if it was a guy or a girl, from Scottsdale, Arizona; and Keith Mullen from Tampa.
    Cobb tried the first number Jack had called the morning of 9/11 again, and when the man said hello, Cobb said, “Am I talkin’ to J. D.?”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œA friend of Jack’s.”
    Guy hung up on him again.
    He called Kathy Zack, an old high school girlfriend he’d stayed in touch with who worked for the Illinois State Police.
    â€œCorporal Zack,” she said in her girlish voice.
    â€œCan you help out an old altar boy?”
    â€œDuane?”
    â€œHow’d you know?”
    â€œWho else but Duane Cobb would say something like that? How’re you doing, you well?”
    â€œNot bad.”
    â€œDuane, you settled down yet?”
    â€œI had, you’d know about it.”
    â€œYou calling ’cause you miss me? I must say I still do think about you.”
    â€œThat was one hell of a night,” Cobb said, like it had just happened. “I left the next day to make my fortune.”
    â€œYou got there yet?”
    â€œI believe I’m close.”
    â€œYou’re gonna call me when you do, aren’t you? We got to celebrate.”
    â€œYou can count on it,” Cobb said. “I got a phone number. I need to find out who it belongs to and where the person lives. Think you can help me out?”
    â€œYou know that’s against the law,” Kathy said in a serious tone of voice, followed by a few seconds of silence and then laughter. “Well, what’re you waitin’ for, Duane? Give it to me.”
    â€œI forgot what a kidder you are.” Cobb read her the number, and she said, “It’s gonna take a half hour or so. Where can I reach you?”

ELEVEN
    â€œFind him yet?” Frank DiCicco said. His Mafia name was Frankie Cheech. That’s how he was referred to on the street, though Cobb would never say it to his face. Frank was sitting at a table with Dominic Benigno, Dapper Dom, in the almost empty restaurant dining room. The two big men had their elbows on the table and looked like they were crowding each other. Frank had a white cloth napkin tucked in the neck of his shirt and wiped his mouth after every bite.
    â€œSit down, how can I eat, you clowns standing there?”
    Cobb and Ruben sat. Now Dominic Benigno whispered something to Frank in Italian, got up, and glanced at Ruben. “I seen Micky Ward kick your ass. Now you’re tiptoeing for chili, uh?”
    Ruben stared at him without expression, Cobb wondering what he was thinking. Dominic Benigno grinned, patted Ruben on the cheek, and walked out of the dining room.
    Frank’s bodyguards sat at another table about twenty feet away, keeping an eye on them. They looked bored. Val, the one with the ponytail, yawned. Cobb didn’t like watching someone eat, but Frank was the neatest eater he’d ever seen. Wouldn’t let his fillet touch the mashed potatoes and gravy or peas. Cobb thought it was a mortal sin. He’d have taken a big glob of potatoes, dipped it in the gravy, then pressed the potatoes into a mess of peas and shoveled it in his mouth.
    â€œWe’re not gonna find McCann,” Cobb said. “’Cause