Epilogue:

"Mr. Murdock."

Matt groaned and pushed his forehead further into the space between the arm and back of Steele's couch. After last night, and indeed, the last couple of months', emotional and physical toil, he just wanted another hundred or so years of sleep. But it was too late; Steele's extraordinary accent and timid touch had already begun the cacophony of sensory information that plagued Matt's every waking moment. He sat up, felt for his old, blue-shaded glasses, and a second later, found them and slipped them on.

Only then did he address the lanky detective and his host for the night. "Something wrong?"

While the last vestiges of sleep and night-phlegm muffled Matt's voice, Steele's was crisp, if a little hesitant at having to wake his guest.

"I thought you would want to see this."

"And it couldn't have waited?" Matt shuffled to the kitchen, notably brightening when his nose caught the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

"Third cupboard over, top shelf. No, thank you, I've got already got my cup," Steele answered Matt's silent question. He waited until Matt had taken a sip of the caffeine elixir before continuing what he'd started in the living room. "When I fetched the paper, I found this letter. It's addressed to you." Steele stopped, unsure of where he was supposed to go from there.

Matt gestured for him to pass the letter over, and Steele gratefully did so. He watched in bridled fascination as Matt's nimble fingers scanned the elegant cursive pressed with Chalmers' favorite fountain pen into the thick stationary. As Matt's fingers trailed down the page, his eyebrows rose and then pulled together, his head sunk slightly down, his jaw flexed, and his mouth pursed and then slowly relaxed.

When Matt's fingers reached the loopy signature, he laid them flat against the page, his expression unreadable. After a few silent moments during which Steele tried and failed to glean what the lawyer was thinking, he broke. "Well?"

Matt startled slightly and then pushed the letter away, toward the private eye, cupping his now idle hands under and around his chin.

Steele paused for a beat before picking it up and starting to read.

September 22, 1980

Mr. Murdock,

What I am about to pen pains me more than you know. What you have done for me these last few weeks has been beyond courageous, and I do not just mean your involvement in my most recent adventure. You are willing to do whatever you feel you must, no matter the consequences, and that, Mr. Murdock, is not something I take lightly. I only wish that determination had not been focused on an old trickster like me. If you had known what I do then, perhaps you would not have spent the last two months chasing me through the bowels of the criminal underworld.

As Patrick Murray, I worked as a negotiator for certain parties, some of whom you know, some of whom I pray you never meet. You were correct in suspecting what stories I could tell, what I knew before and learned then. But as you have no doubt already guessed, that knowledge will remain with me and me alone.

Please allow me to explain. It is not fear or loyalty that holds my tongue. The things I saw as Patrick Murray were not about the craft; the things I covered were without need, the methods crude and actions often excessively brutal. I hold nothing but shame and disgust for those parties for whom Patrick Murray worked. And yet, I cannot and therefore, will not, speak.

I have lived many years, Mr. Murdock, done more in one lifetime and had more lives than any man has the right to. Once, in another life, a man I called a friend held his tongue, and today, I must return the debt, no matter that in this life, that man is no friend of mine. I asked him to keep my secret and now his secret I will keep.

I am sorry, Mr. Murdock. Had things been different, I would like to think we would have been friends.

Forgive me.

Sincerely,

Daniel L. Chalmers

Steele looked up. Matt hadn't moved. "What are you going to do?"

Matt lifted his head, his trance shattered. He stood, finished his now lukewarm coffee, and finally answered. "I'm going to get dressed and then I'm going home."

Steele trailed Matt back into the living room. "And the Kingpen? What of him?"

Matt paused in his search for his socks. The corners of his lips twitched into a wry, serious smile. "All I ever needed were the rumors to be true. Now I know I have a chance."

A/N: I would like to thank everyone who reviewed, especially JJ Rust, who made sure I posted and fluffed my feathers. I hope you all enjoyed "Dewey, Cheetum, and Steele". Once again, if I missed any edits, I am sorry. I wanted to just get this out to you.