Page 85 of Coram House

“Did he say what he wanted to discuss?”

I shrug. “Only that there are ‘things I should know.’ He wanted to talk to me about Bill Campbell. He said, ‘Bill isn’t what you think he is.’ That was it.”

“Do you know what he was referring to?”

I pause, wondering if Parker already shared what I told him last night at dinner—about Bill Campbell and the bribes. Maybe I got him into trouble and that’s why he’s not here.

“Maybe,” I say, hedging. “I have some ideas—but I’m not sure if they’re relevant.”

Garcia stares at me. How is it she never seems to blink?

“All right,” she says finally. “We can talk back at the station. It’s freezing out here. Hold on a second.”

She rejoins the knot of medics and police officers now gathered on the front porch. Another squad car shows up, tries to find a place to park in the driveway, then gives up and backs into the road. I resign myself to slowly freezing to death. An image of blowing curtains pops into my head. Then that angry red line on the loose skin of Fred Rooney’s neck. My mouth fills with saliva. I swallow it down.

“Officer Davis will drive you back to the station.”

Garcia is standing in front of me again, this time with Officer Paunch beside her. Where had they come from?

“I’ll follow shortly,” she says. “And another officer will bring your car.”

I nod and hand over my keys, but before she can leave, I call out, “The windows were all open when I got here.”

She pauses, turns back.

“Why would someone do that? Open all the windows.”

She frowns at me. “Turn up the heat. She’s turning blue.”

“Sure thing,” Paunch says and opens the passenger door of the cruiser.

He does indeed blast the heat the entire way back to Burlington, which makes me wish I’d given him a kinder nickname.

Turn up the heat.

I think of the groaning floorboards and Rooney’s blue skin. Whoever opened the windows was trying to turndownthe heat. But why? To buy more time before someone discovered the body? If I hadn’t been there, I wonder how long until someone would have noticed Rooney missing.

By the time we arrive at the station, I’ve finally stopped shivering, but feel wrung out. In the lobby, Bev sits at her desk in a plain black sweater. It feels like a bad sign. “They’re waiting for you,” she says. “Go right on in.”

Paunch holds open the glass door. A few officers sit behind desks doing paperwork. The room smells stale—like old coffee and unwashed bodies. Parker’s desk is empty. No mugs. No pens littering the surface. I scan the room, but don’t see him anywhere.

“Alex. Hi, how are you doing?”

Officer Washington has traded her uniform for jeans and a fluffy pink sweater. It should look ridiculous—Officer Barbie—but instead it highlights the smoothness of her skin and the flecks of gold in her braids. Her smile is wide and warm. Right now, I want to take a bath in it.

“How are you holding up?” she asks. “Come on, let’s find a room. Technically, I just got off duty, but we’re short-staffed. I’ll keep you company until Detective Garcia arrives.”

I turn to thank Paunch for the ride, but he’s already gone.

Once again, I drag myself down the hallway to the interview rooms, feeling like someone stuffed my boots with rocks. Officer Washington opens the door at the end of the hallway. The room looks the same as the others—the same plastic chairs and generic art. But this one has ahuge window that looks out onto the lake. The VIP room. Today, the ice is streaked white and gray, like an expensive marble countertop.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asks.

I nod, grateful, and sink into the nearest chair.

Crows gather in the tree just outside the window. One lets out a guttural cry as it lands, then another and another, until the tree is a mad cacophony of flapping and jostling.

Rooney died at home. Rooney was murdered.

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