Graham was a practical man. His temper could get the better of him at times, but he never let his feelings cloud his judgment. Let bygones be bygones, his grandfather had told him when he was little, and Graham took it as his personal motto. Whatever shitty mood he was in, he left it behind as he took his seat at his immaculate desk. Taking off from where he was reading before, he realized that, just like he feared, there wasn't much to work with.

The incident report stated that, on the night of December 30th, Zinet Geber drove through the Massachusetts Turnpike in a Maybach 57 after she failed to locate her husband at a business party held at the Park Plaza Hotel. At approximately twelve-fifteen o'clock on the morning of December 31st, on the exit lane connecting the Mass Pike with Back Bay, Zinet crashed the vehicle into the side of a semi-trailer truck. She spun out of control, hitting the fender of an upcoming Hyundai Tucson, sending both cars crashing into a guardrail. The Tucson got flipped over, while the Maybach crashed against the pavement, ejecting Zinet out of the car through the windshield and onto the pavement, where she was subsequently crushed by the bouncing Maybach.

After the body was examined by a coroner, it was returned to her spouse for cremation. The interrogation of her husband, Henry White, confirmed much of what they already investigated, except for his whereabouts on the night that Mrs. Geber drove away from the Hotel. He was noted to be rather vague about it.

Deciding to follow the Captain's advice, he marked down his address on his notepad, realizing that it was fairly close. He left the precinct in a rush, heading for the nearest subway station, taking the Orange line directly to Back Bay. From there, it was a short five minutes walk towards the ostentatious house.

The building itself had always been a landmark on Commonwealth Avenue, and Graham would often think about what kind of person would own such a monstrosity of a house. Both on the fact that he could not even imagine how much money it would take to buy it — much less to maintain it — and that whoever lived in such a place would either have a huge family, or be a lonely person, with all those empty rooms all to themselves. 

After his divorce, Graham would couch-surf on friends' houses for a week or two at the time, more often than not in cramped studio apartments that barely fit the minimum living arrangements stated by law, with no privacy to speak of. But that sense of closeness and intimacy was something he always relished.

As he got near the building, Graham started to notice rows upon rows of expensive-looking vehicles parked out front. Everything from top-of-the-line sports models to classic limousines and luxury cars. Graham wished he had brought a moisturizer with him. All that lavish made him feel self-conscious. He knocked on the imposing door before realizing that there was a buzzer right next to it. He rang it once while tucking his shirt inside his pants.

After what seemed like an eternity, a young man in a jet black tuxedo opened the door. He looked very neat and proper with his sharp suit clean from head to toe.

"Yes, how may I help you?" said the well-dressed man, half closing the door behind him.

Graham flashed the man his badge, bright and polished as the first day it was given to him. "Good morning. I'm Detective Graham Dunne, Boston P.D. Is Mr. Henry White home?"

The man slowly scanned Graham from top to bottom, judging his fashion choices. Faded jeans and snow boots, paired with an appalling sweater and trench coat combo. The look on the man's face was of pitiful disgust, instinctively closing the door a little more behind him.

"I am afraid Mr. White is currently preoccupied. Please come back again at a later time."

The man tried closing the door on Graham, but he was faster, jamming his foot on the door and preventing him from closing it all the way. "Well, I'm afraid this is an official police business, so I must insist."

The man weighed his options briefly, before releasing his clutch from the doorknob, with only a hint of resignation in his eyes. "Very well. Please wait in the foyer while I fetch him."

Graham welcomed the warmth that the house as he stepped inside, a deep contrast to the cold color scheme that the bizarre foyer assaulted him with. 

On each of the walls, surreal and nonsensical paintings on all kinds of designs and textures stood undaunted over him, making him feel observed by the otherworldly figures. A man with a black banana for a head. A woman with mouths for eyes. An elephant twisting itself to infinity. All painted on black ink and charcoal. In the middle of the room, standing on an easel, was the weirdest one of all — a woman, with flowers for hands, holding a bouquet of arms.

Graham's gaze was caught on a floral arrangement next to the painting, one that he had seen many times before. A funeral wreath, with a sash reading "Zinet Geber."

He panicked — he was about to bother a widower on the day of his wife's funeral.

Picking up his phone, he thumbed through the phone list, finding the number of the Captain, who quickly picked up the phone.

"Hey, Dunne. Didn't expect to hear from ya so soon. What's crackin'?"

"Dara, I'm at the husband's home. They are having her funeral today," he said, whispering as low as he could. 

"What husband? Who died?"

"Geber? The case? Jesus, get it together."

"Oh dip, the funeral's today? Ya picked a wicked good time to show up," she said nonchalantly. 

Graham could almost see her shrugging through the phone. "What do you recommend me to do?"

"Well, if yer already inside..."

"Which I am," interrupted Graham impatiently.

"Then, ya screwed. Try not to force him to make an official complaint and yer gonna be fine. Have tact and shit. I think. Maybe." 

And with that, she hung up.

Graham had half a mind to call her again but was interrupted by the man in the black tuxedo, followed by another person close behind. 

"Obese" was the first word that came to Graham's mind when he saw him. His shiny black suit was so big it could almost double as a trash bag for all he knew. Squat and lumpy, it reminded Graham of a fat bulldog. He had liver spots all over his face, especially on his pug nose. His olive eyes, small and beady, leered at him since the moment they made eye contact. His handshake was soggy and moist, but surprisingly hard.

"Mr. White, Detective Graham Dunne, Boston Police Department, I'm sorry for the interruption. I had no idea. My deepest condolences."

The man gave him a bitter smile, one that his eyes didn't share. "You'll have to meet Henry another time. I'm Murray Prendergast, a friend of the family. Why don't we have a chat outside?"

Murray lit up a cigarette to keep himself warm, blowing the thin smoke away from Graham's face. "Pardon my french, but you picked a shitty time to come knocking. Mr. White is busy with the guests, as you might have realized, so he sent me here to deal with you."

"I was hoping to ask Mr. White some questions."

Murray took another puff from the cigarette before flicking the ashes onto a puddle of melted snow. "The police already came a few days ago asking questions. What do you wanna ask that you didn't ask before?"

"That's not information I can reveal freely, Mr. Prendergast," answered Graham, curtly.

"Suit yourself," replied Murray, throwing his cigarette butt carelessly to the ground, "but you won't be talking to Henry today. He's got enough on his plate as it is to have a crusty-looking cop adding more to it. I'm sure you can understand that."

While he did not appreciate the insult, Graham was already ashamed enough for one day, so he just decided to nod in approval. "Please tell him that I'll be back. Here is my card; it has my number and e-mail on it."

Murray grabbed the card dismissively before re-entering the mansion, leaving Graham outside once again with nothing to go on. He got his phone out to report his situation when a voice called him from behind.

"Excuse me! Hi. Sorry to bother you. Did the funeral end?" said a thin, bespectacled man.

"Can't say. Doesn't seem like it."

"Good, good," replied the man, quickly getting flustered. "I mean, no. It's not good that she died in the first place. That was very bad. She was just a sweet woman. But I'm late for the funeral, so it's good that it hasn't finished yet."

The man continued to ramble on without realizing that he was being ignored by Graham.

"You know what? I'm sorry," the man said, extending a friendly hand towards Graham. "My name is William Wolfe, nice to meet you."

"Graham Dunne, BPD, likewise."

William whistled playfully in awe. "What is one of Boston's finest doing at a funeral?"

Graham grunted. "Official business."

"Oh, okay. Does it have anything to do with Mrs. Zizi? Shame how she died. I was taught never to speak ill of the dead, but she should have known better than to drive in her condition."

"Well, narcolepsy can be a bitch."

"Really? She was narcoleptic?" said William, snapping his fingers. "That would explain why she was acting so wobbly that night when I left her in her room."

"You saw her on the night of the accident?" 

"Yeah. When I left her near her room, she collapsed from fatigue. I think she was having some kind of sleep attack, now that I think about it."

Bingo. A lead.

"Really? Do tell. Actually, do you wanna grab a cup of coffee? I would love to learn more about that."