Page 92 of Coram House

“Ask yourself how many of them were happy to settle the case,” he says sharply. “To get what they could and have it go away. Vengeance doesn’t pay the bills.”

“How much did Bill offer them?”

“I don’t know exactly.” He holds up a hand when he sees I’m ready to interrupt. “Truly. I didn’t want to. But, from what I inferred, I’d guess a few thousand here or there. The kind of money that could be easily passed off as a helping hand. A loan that never got repaid. That kind of thing.”

I frown. That’s a long ways from the hundred thousand dollars inFred Rooney’s bank account. “And these were onetime payments? They weren’t ongoing after the case?”

Stedsan’s brows knit together. “I assume so. What possible reason would he have had to pay them after we settled?”

“What about Fred Rooney? Did Bill pay him?”

Stedsan snorts. “Fred was never one to let a dollar out of his grasp.”

“They worked together for years. Why?”

Stedsan frowns. “You know, I’ve often wondered. Maybe Bill felt bad for him. But more likely he wanted someone around who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“Alan, why did you tell me not to look into Tommy’s death?”

Alan swallows. “We could never prove anything. And Fred—he was my client too. I had to be careful about anything that hurt our case.”

His face, which had been made of stone, starts to crack. Suddenly, he looks old.

“There was no proof, Alex. No body. Nothing except a witness who couldn’t make out anyone’s faces for sure on a day nearly twenty years before. It never would have held up in court and the church was happy enough to make the whole thing go away.”

I sit there for a moment, stunned, as I realize what he’s saying. “You used Tommy’s death to negotiate the settlement.”

“I used everything at my disposal,” Stedsan snaps. Two spots of color burn in his otherwise pale face.

Tommy’s story was more useful as a bargaining chip, so that’s what he did. Bargained. That’s why he tried to steer me away from the story. The optics for his legacy aren’t great.

We sit for a moment, staring at each other. I want to scream. I want to pick up the glass paperweight off his fancy coffee table and throw it through the window. Tear the branches from the trees. I want to destroy something.

“I believed Sarah,” he says, “but the case was over. My support wouldn’t have changed anything.”

I think of her obituary. Of what Bill Campbell said.An old drunk.

“It might have changed something for her,” I say.

To that, he has nothing to say.

“And what happens if I include all this in the book?”

Stedsan smiles sadly and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”

It’s all there in the contract. His final editorial approval. The consequence of breaking my silence—money I don’t have and legal problems I can’t afford. The only thing I can do is quit, which we both know I’m not going to do. Suddenly I can’t be in this house for one more second. I stand and stalk into the front hall, slam my feet into my boots.

Behind me, Stedsan clears his throat. “Do they have any theories about who killed Fred?”

Something in his tone makes me turn back to look at him sitting on the couch, legs crossed, sipping his coffee. Behind him, water drips from the icicles hanging from the roofline.

“You’re the one who’s friends with the chief of police,” I say. “Ask him.”

He sighs at me, as if I’ve disappointed him. My hand is on the doorknob, but I turn back.

“You were wrong, you know. I found Tommy’s last name. His photo in the newspaper. I’m going to find out where he was from, if he had family.”

“Good for you,” he says. “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

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