Page 88 of Coram House

Our eyes lock and we stand like that for a second, almost but not quite close enough to touch. That feeling comes again, of pressure building.

Then Parker clears his throat and takes a step back. “Just—be careful out there, okay? Give this all some space.”

I laugh, but it tastes bitter. “Garcia said the same thing five minutes ago.”

“Alex.”

“I have to go.”

I turn away and fumble in my pocket for the keys. Behind me, his footsteps crunch away over the ice. When I turn back, he’s halfway across the parking lot. I want to shout for him to wait, but I don’t have anything else to say. I just don’t want him to go yet. I’m like a child who wants to yell and beat my fists and be comforted all at once. The station doors open and swallow him.

Forget the car. Walk. I need to walk. I cross Battery Park, and then follow the street as it slants downhill. At the bottom, I pass a cluster of stores. Two coffee shops and a vintage clothing store with a glossy, headless mannequin in the window. All the while, my brain is spinning.What the hell were those deposits in Rooney’s account?They could have been drug money like Garcia said. But why would she bring it up unless she suspected otherwise? I have all these puzzle pieces, but no matter how I put them together, nothing quite fits. It makes me want to scream.

The sidewalk ends at the rail yard, a huge expanse of dirt with a maze of train tracks crossing in every direction. There must be a method to it, but it looks like chaos. I turn right, into the marina’s parking lot, and walk until I reach the pier. It’s empty, except for a bench at the end and some kind of sculpture—an undulating line of green copper.

At the end of the pier, I stop and look out at the harbor. The ice isn’t whole, but made of many pieces that fit together like the shards of a shattered mirror. Seagulls nap on the frozen surface, heads tucked under their wings. It’s perfectly still until I look closer. The gulls are bobbing gently up and down with the movement of the ice. Indigo water gushes up from a crack between the floes like blood pumping from an alien heart. It’s not really solid. It’s just an illusion.

I picture Fred Rooney paddling the canoe around the point, pulling himself up onto the icy rocks. Hiding among the trees in wait for Sister Cecile’s footsteps in the snow. But that never happened. He had an alibi. Drunk in the ER. The figure slowly changes shape. Instead of Fred Rooney’s flannel shirt and worn boots, I see a black cashmere coat, leather dress shoes, Bill Campbell’s face.

Bill bribed people to drop the case more than twenty years ago. What if those deposits are also from him? He could have kept paying Rooney, either to keep him quiet about the hush money or some other shady dealing. He paid him and kept paying him. But what changed?

Then, with a sinking feeling, I know.

I showed up, and Rooney saw an opportunity. If I wouldn’t pay him for the story, maybe he could squeeze more money out of Bill in exchange for keeping his mouth shut. Maybe none of this was everabout Tommy or about Coram House at all, at least not directly. Money is the oldest motive in the books. And I’d missed it.

Admittedly, it was hard to imagine Bill Campbell crouched in the bushes or—what—strangling Rooney with a rope? But isn’t that what people always say when their neighbor turns out to be a killer?He was the nicest guy. Salt of the earth.Bill has already proven the lengths he’ll go to get what he wants. Maybe murder is just one step beyond bribery. Or maybe I’ve totally lost my mind. Either way, I’m not going to find the answer here, staring at the ice while my toes freeze.

As I turn to go, the sculpture catches my eye. It’s nearly as tall as I am, but its long, undulating form is curled up like a snake about to dive into the water. I run my hand over the surface, which is rough like fish scales rubbed the wrong way. Its face is something between a dragon and snake with tufts that could be ears or feathers, a long snout, and a forked tongue.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see it’s Xander. I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail or, better yet, drop my phone in the lake, but then I think of the case of wine and how I never called him back. “Hey,” I answer too brightly.

“Alex. Hi—um—hey, how’s it going? I wanted to see if you got the wine.”

“I nearly broke my foot on it last night.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, I—”

I wince. “Xander, it was a joke.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Sorry. Not a very good one. I’m tired. Thank you for the wine. And thank you again for dinner. Really. It was great. And sorry for grilling you about the canoe thing, but I think it was helpful.”

“Great, great,” he says in a way that makes me think he’s not really listening. “Actually, I called to see if you wanted to come ice sailing.”

“Ice sailing?” Confusion pushes other thoughts from my head. “Now?”

He laughs. “Tomorrow. It’s been so cold, the bay is frozen solid. Perfect conditions.”

I scrabble for an excuse. I need time to think—I have too much going on. “I heard there was a storm coming tomorrow.”

“Not until tomorrow night,” he says, dismissively. “We’ll go in the afternoon. It’ll be fun, I swear. Seriously, there’s no feeling like it.”

He goes on about the wind and the type of boat and what to wear and some strange alchemy turns his excitement into my own. Garcia asked me for space. Even Parker is trying to get rid of me. I’ve found two bodies in as many weeks. Maybe it would be good to step away from all this—just for a few hours.

“Okay,” I find myself saying. “I’ll come.”

By the time I hang up, I’ve agreed to be at his house tomorrow at two. Before I can change my mind, I also text Stedsan and tell him I’m coming by his office tomorrow, that it’s important. It’s time to find out what he knows about Bill Campbell.

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