Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE DEAD MAN’S COAT
Arthur reached into his pocket.
Norah’s fingers tightened around the chair.
If he pulled out a gun, she decided she would throw the chair at him.
It was not an impressive plan.
It was simply the only one available.
Instead, Arthur removed a folded photograph.
The paper was damp from the rain and stained dark along one corner.
Blood.
He held it between two fingers.
“Do you know this man?”
Norah took it.
Her heart stopped.
The photograph showed her father outside St. Catherine Medical Center.
Henry Walsh had been thinner then, his cheeks already hollow from chemotherapy, but the crooked smile was unmistakable.
Norah stood beside him.
Eighteen years old.
Graduation dress beneath an oversized hospital coat because her father had insisted on leaving treatment long enough to see her receive her diploma.
She remembered that afternoon.
She remembered pretending not to notice when he nearly collapsed getting back into the wheelchair.
“Where did you get this?”
Arthur’s voice was quiet.
“Dominic’s coat.”
The old friend he had killed.
Norah looked up.
“Why did a man you murdered have a picture of my father?”
Arthur flinched at the word.
Good.
“He had several papers on him.”
“What papers?”
“Financial records.”
“And my picture.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Norah laughed once.
It was sharp.
Ugly.
“You don’t know much for a man everybody is terrified of.”
Arthur looked almost too exhausted to be offended.
“I know enough to tell you to pack.”
Her anger vanished.
“What?”
“You’re leaving the estate this morning.”
“No.”
His eyebrows drew together.
“Norah.”
“You don’t get to come bleeding into my room, tell me you killed someone, wave a picture of my dead father in my face, and then fire me before breakfast.”
“I’m not firing you.”
“Wonderful. Am I being promoted to unemployed woman who knows too much?”
His jaw tightened.
“I’ll cover six months’ salary.”
“No.”
“A year.”
“No.”
“Your father’s medical debt too.”
That stopped her.
Norah stared.
“How do you know about that?”
Arthur’s eyes moved toward the photograph.
“It’s written on the back.”
She flipped it.
Three lines had been written beneath the faded image.
HENRY WALSH
ST. CATHERINE — ACCOUNT 6174
THE GIRL HAS PAID ENOUGH.
Norah’s breathing changed.
“Dominic wrote this?”
“I think so.”
She looked at Arthur.
“How much do you know about my father?”
“Until ten minutes ago, nothing.”
“Then why offer to pay his debt?”
“Because Dominic died with your picture in his pocket.”
“And guilt is making you generous?”
Arthur’s face hardened.
“Guilt is making me cautious.”
There.
The boss again.
Norah hated him more when he sounded reasonable.
A sudden pounding came from upstairs.
Not a knock.
Running footsteps.
Arthur straightened.
The transformation was immediate.
He took the bloody photograph from Norah’s hand, crossed to the lamp, and switched it off.
“Stay here.”
“I thought you wanted me gone.”
“Not through that hallway.”
Another sound.
A man shouted upstairs.
Then came three sharp electronic chirps.
Arthur cursed.
“What?”
“My office alarm.”
He opened her door an inch.
The basement corridor was empty.
Then his head of security appeared at the stairwell.
Nico Brennan.
Forty.
Built like a refrigerator.
Norah had seen him smile exactly once, when the estate gardener’s old Labrador stole half his sandwich.
This morning he wasn’t smiling.
“Boss.”
Arthur stepped into the hall.
“What happened?”
“Someone opened the wall safe.”
Arthur became very still.
“What was taken?”
“Dominic’s ledger.”
Norah’s eyes moved between them.
Arthur said, “Who knew I brought it back?”
“Me. Mercer. Your uncle.”
Nobody else.
Three men.
One stolen book.
Nico noticed Norah.
Then Arthur’s bloodied shirt.
Then the open basement bedroom.
His expression revealed absolutely nothing.
That somehow felt worse.
Arthur said, “She saw nothing.”
Norah folded her arms.
“I’m standing right here.”
Both men looked at her.
“I’m starting to understand why everyone in this house communicates so badly.”
Nico’s mouth almost twitched.
Arthur did not appreciate it.
“Go upstairs,” Arthur said.
“To the room where somebody just robbed your safe?”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Then Nico said, “She has a point.”
Arthur looked as if betrayal had arrived from every direction.
“Fine.”
He turned toward Norah.
“Lock this door.”
“No.”
His patience cracked.
“Why are you determined to make this difficult?”
“Because somebody brought my father into it.”
She held up the photograph.
“And because I’m tired of people thinking debt means they own my choices.”
Something passed across Arthur’s face.
Recognition, perhaps.
He knew something about ownership too.
Nico cleared his throat.
“The ledger contained the port withdrawals.”
Arthur looked at him.
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
Norah frowned.
“What port withdrawals?”
Neither answered.
She looked from one dangerous man to the other.
“Arthur.”
Maybe it was because she had bandaged him.
Maybe because six hours earlier he had been kneeling against her leg, begging not to be sent away.
Whatever the reason, he finally answered.
“The money Dominic stole.”
“How much?”
“Over eleven years?”
Arthur looked toward Nico.
“Two-point-eight million.”
Norah blinked.
“You said it wasn’t much.”
“Not by our numbers.”
“That may be the most criminal sentence I’ve ever heard.”
Nico definitely smiled that time.
Arthur ignored him.
“Dominic moved it in small payments. Hospital accounts. Pharmacies. Mortgage companies. Funeral homes.”
Norah’s anger slowed.
“Hospital accounts?”
Arthur looked at the photograph.
“Yes.”
“St. Catherine?”
His silence answered.
Norah grabbed the picture.
Account 6174.
She knew that number.
She had written it on checks for years.
Her father’s treatment had left $186,000 unpaid after insurance collapsed.
Norah had reduced it to seventy-three thousand through six years of monthly payments.
She knew every digit of that account the way other people knew birthdays.
“Check the withdrawals.”
Arthur frowned.
“What?”
“Check whether Dominic paid 6174.”
Nico pulled out his phone.
Arthur said, “You have the records?”
“Backup.”
“You told me the ledger was the only copy.”
“I lied.”
Arthur slowly turned toward him.
Nico shrugged.
“Your paranoia is contagious.”
Norah almost liked him.
Thirty seconds later, his expression changed.
“What?”
Nico looked at her.
“Account 6174 received eight payments.”
Her knees weakened.
“How much?”
“Hundred and twelve thousand total.”
“No.”
Norah shook her head.
“That can’t be right.”
Her father’s insurance statements had shown anonymous adjustments.
Charity credits.
She had never understood where they came from.
“Dates?”
Nico read them.
Norah closed her eyes.
The first payment arrived the week her father lost his employer coverage.
The last came eleven months before he died.
Arthur sat heavily on the edge of her bed.
The weight of it had finally reached him.
Dominic had not been buying cars.
Or houses.
Or women.
He had been paying sick people’s hospital bills.
Nico scrolled farther.
“There are twenty-seven medical accounts.”
Arthur looked up.
“All port employees?”
“Twenty-three.”
“And the others?”
Nico turned the screen toward Norah.
Her father’s name was first.
HENRY WALSH.
Occupation:
ELECTRICAL MAINTENANCE — COSTELLO PIER SIX.
Norah stared.
“My father never told me he worked for you.”
Arthur whispered, “That was before I took over.”
Below Henry’s name was another notation.
EXPOSURE CLAIM — CLOSED.
Norah’s skin went cold.
“What exposure?”
Arthur did not answer.
Nico did.
“Chemical.”
Norah looked at him.
“What chemical?”
Nico swallowed.
“Benzene.”
She stopped breathing.
Her father had died from acute myeloid leukemia.
The doctors had asked about long-term chemical exposure.
Henry always said there wasn’t any.
Norah slowly turned toward Arthur.
“You didn’t kill Dominic because he stole from you.”
Arthur looked destroyed.
May you like
She pointed at the payment records.
“You killed him because he was paying the medical bills of people your family poisoned.”
