Free Covenant by Brandon Massey

 
                “Based on a handful of details.”
                “Not just any details.  He told me stuff no one else would know, things that hadn’t been reported.  He must’ve been there.”
                “Maybe he was there—as an innocent bystander.  Or, he might know someone who’d been present, and they fed him the details.  You know how nosy people can be, snooping around murder scenes, gawking at traffic accidents.”
                “That seems pretty far-fetched,” he said. 
                “But it’s possible.”
                “How about the place he scheduled for our meeting tonight?  How would he know that my dad used to take us there after Tech games?”   
                “A little research,” she said.  “All he’d have to do is get his hands on your dad’s obituary.    Your dad was a sports writer, so the paper he worked for ran his obituary, correct?”
                He nodded reluctantly.        
                “Do they have archives of the paper stored somewhere?” she asked.
                “Probably online.”
                “And does the obituary say anything about how your dad would take you on fishing trips, and to Tech games?”  
                “It does.” 
                “And anyone who’s been to a Tech game knows where folks like to go eat on game days.”
                “Yeah.”  He absently twisted the wrist watch a few times.  “Now that I think about it, I may have even mentioned it during an interview or two.”
                “There you go.”  Lisa smacked the table.  “I rest my case.”         
                “But why wait fifteen years to contact me?  There must have been a good reason for him to wait so long.”
                “That was one of my first questions.  Why wait fifteen years—unless there’s something to be gained from sharing the alleged truth with you?  And why contact you on the anniversary of your father’s death , when you’re guaranteed to be at an emotional low, heartsick and vulnerable?”
                He tossed back his second shot.  The cognac’s slow burn couldn’t match the tension boiling in his chest.            
                “You’re making a lot of sense, and it bugs the hell out of me,” he said. 
                “Think about it, Tony.  We don’t advertise our wealth, and I know money doesn’t matter much to you, but the publishing industry mags have reported some of your recent book deals, haven’t they?”
                “They have.”
                “This Bob character could easily find all of that information online, too.”
                He gazed at his empty glass.  Although he’d earned a substantial income from his books over the past five years or so, his self-image wasn’t based on the number of zeroes on his bank account statement.  The money was there, he was thankful for it, and that was that.  He knew as well as anyone the pitfalls in materialism—like a loved one, it could all be taken away in an instant.   
                But could this be a set-up?  An elaborate, cold-blooded con?
    I was there when they found your father’s body . . . I want to help you find out the truth . . . justice needs to be done . . . .
                He slowly shook his head.  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on this one.  This is real.  I feel it in my gut.”
                She threw up her hands.  “God, you can be so stubborn sometimes.”
                “Blame my dad.  Got it from him.”
                “I don’t want to see you hurt.  You’ve suffered so much already, more than anyone ever should in a lifetime.” 
                “I have to see this