Page 87 of Coram House

Garcia nods. “That’s what I think too. But we have to check it out.” She leans forward. “Mr. Rooney was into some nasty stuff. Mostly opioids. A little dealing, a little using. The money could be from a number of sources.”

It doesn’t add up. Annual deposits don’t sound like drug money to me. It sounds more like a salary.

“This has been helpful,” Garcia says abruptly. “Thank you for coming in.”

She closes the folder and then, as if it’s an afterthought, she adds, “Oh, and could you put us in touch with your interview subject? It sounds like they might be able to shed some more light on this.”

I pause. Of course. This is what she’s been angling for. My stomach sinks. On the one hand, Karen was happy to have me use her interview in the book. But she’s angry. I’m not sure she fully considered the consequences of accusing a person, especially someone as well connected as Bill Campbell, of bribery.

“I’ll have to talk to them first,” I say.

“Look,” Garcia says, her tone friendly as a knife in its sheath. “I understand you have to protect your sources. But this is a murder investigation.”

I almost laugh. I don’t even know which case she’s referring to anymore. Which body. I open my mouth, but then shut it again. I can seethe look of betrayal on Karen’s face when the police show up at her door without warning. No. She trusted me with her story.

“I understand that,” I say. “Which is why I’ll call my source as soon as I leave and urge them to get in touch with you.”

Garcia sighs loudly. “Is there anything else you learned during the course of your interview that might be relevant? Anything at all?” There’s a hint of desperation in her voice.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t transcribed the interview yet, but I can do that today. Right after this. I’ll redact the name and email you a copy.”

Garcia looks surprised. “That would be very helpful. Thank you.” She glances at her watch. “Sorry to rush you, but I have a call in five minutes. Let me walk you out.”

She sweeps the folder and notebook into her hand. We stand to go, but she pauses with her hand on the knob and turns back to me. “Alex, I’d appreciate it if you’d give the investigation some space.”

She doesn’t sound angry this time, just exhausted.

“I never stopped trying,” I say.

She nods, but doesn’t look convinced.

Garcia walks me to the front desk where Bev hands over my car keys. “Stay warm out there, honey,” she says. “They say a big storm’s rolling in tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say. The sliding doors open and spit me into the cold, but I don’t feel a thing.

Snow crunches underfoot as I walk toward the parking lot. No one’s plowed the sidewalks yet. My little gray car is parked on the far side, waiting like an old friend.

“Alex,” calls a voice behind me. My stomach lifts like I’m in a plane that’s just dipped in midair.

Parker is dressed in his dark blue uniform. “I was off this morning,” he says. “They sent me home—too many hours this month. I just heard what happened. You okay?”

I feel hot and cold at once, as if I’ve touched a live wire. “What the hell, Parker?”

He looks as surprised as if I’d slapped him, but I’m so angry I don’tcare. “I’m in there and Garcia starts going on about the ‘allegations’ I’ve made against Bill Campbell. What did you say to her?”

“I had to tell her about the money, Alex.”

“But did you have to make it sound like I was on a witch hunt? No wonder she thinks I’m some psycho spotlight hound.”

Absurdly, tears burn the back of my throat. Parker looks away, which gives me a chance to really look at him. The circles under his eyes are so dark they look like bruises. I try to harden myself against it, but just like that, my anger is gone. Two dead bodies. A hundred thousand dollars of unexplained deposits. The thankless balancing act of trying to do his job and help me. However hard the last few weeks have been on me—he hasn’t gotten off unscathed.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I know you had to tell her.”

Parker turns back to me. There’s an intensity to his gaze that wasn’t there before. “I won’t pretend I’m sorry Rooney’s dead,” he says. “But I am sorry that you were the one who found him.”

His voice is thick. I wonder if he also has the feeling of being trapped in a whirlpool—going around and around, pulled down no matter what he does. He clenches his jaw like there’s something else he wants to say. I step closer.

“What?” I ask, but my voice is barely louder than a whisper.

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