The Instruments of Darkness: A Thriller

Chapter XXVIII

True to her word, Delaney Duhamel arrived at the Walnut Street Café just over an hour later. I saw her take a moment to look around before she entered, checking that no one else from her firm was present. I had a coffee in front of me, but I’d barely touched it. There was only so much coffee a person could drink, especially in middle age and with a ninety-minute ride home ahead of them.

“Can I get you anything?” I said.

“I won’t be staying.”

She sat on the edge of a chair, produced a flash drive from her purse, and slid it under my copy of the New York Times.

“It contains Mara Teller’s registration details, copies of all the photographs taken by the freelancer during the forum, and details of the attendees at individual sessions. I figured in for a dime, but I couldn’t find her name on those lists. If she attended, she did so on the spur of the moment.”

I put the drive in my pocket.

“Any images we used,” she continued, “had to be with the consent of those pictured, so most of the publicity shots are grip-and-grins, though there are some general ones. But at first glance, I didn’t see Stephen Clark or Mara Teller identified in any of the captions.”

“What about Teller’s registration fee?”

“It was paid by USPS money order. I included a PDF of that, too. She originally tried to use one of those prepaid credit cards, but a glitch in the system meant it was rejected. Our registrants don’t tend to rely on prepaid cards.”

“Or money orders.”

“Yes, a money order is unusual. Can it be traced?”

“I should be able to find out where it was purchased,” I said. “That’ll be a start. Thank you, by the way. I’ll do my best not to bother you again, and I won’t let this blow back on you.”

“Two years and change is long enough to spend in the same position. It’s about time I started looking for a new challenge.”

It struck me then how young she was: late twenties, at most. She was of a different generation. My father had drummed into me the importance of finding a job for life, one with a strong union behind it, good healthcare and benefits, and from which you couldn’t easily be dismissed, short of setting fire to your place of employment and giggling while it burned. That hadn’t really worked out for me, but I doubt it had ever even crossed Delaney Duhamel’s mind.

Before she left, I gave her my card.

“In case I’m ever in trouble?” she said.

“It’s your favor to call in.”

She placed the card in her purse.

“Are you sure Colleen Clark didn’t hurt her son?”

“Yes.”

“What if you found out otherwise?”

“I’d be under a legal obligation to share that information with the police, not to mention a moral one.”

“And would you tell them?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Okay, then. Goodbye, Mr. Parker. It’s been—”

“Interesting?”

For the first time since we’d met, she brightened. Had he been present, Botticelli might have embarked on a new sketch.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s just the word I was looking for.”