Page 5 of The Instruments of Darkness

“I may bring in someone of my own, no offense meant.”

“None taken. It’s not a glamour detail.”

I thanked him and headed for the house. I could, of course, have arranged to meet Colleen at Moxie’s office, but I wanted to observe her in her own environment and view the room from which her son had vanished. I didn’t expect to learn anything more than the police, but it was an important first step in understanding what might have taken place.

Moxie had supplied me with contact details for Colleen, including her new cell phone number, and promised to let her know that I was on my way. Regardless, I decided to call before knocking, because in her situation I’d have been cautious about opening my door to strangers. She picked up on the second ring. Her voice was very small, and I could almost see her preparing to flinch. New number or not, she’d probably received enough abuse to last two lifetimes. Whatever might happen in the future, it would be years before she heard a knock on the door, or the ringing of a phone, without her stomach tightening.

“My name is Parker,” I said. “I believe Moxie Castin told you I’d be calling.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside. I can be on your doorstep in ten seconds, if that’s not inconvenient.”

“It’s not inconvenient at all. I’ll be waiting.”

As I set foot on the Clark driveway, an elderly woman had appeared on the doorstep of the house next door, her arms folded and her face set like a sulky child’s. Her silver hair was cut close to the skull, revealing a hearing aid behind each ear.

“You from the police?” she said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Huh?”

“I said—”

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘I’m not the police!’?”

It came out louder than I’d intended. The pilots of planes coming in to land at Portland Jetport now probably knew I wasn’t a cop.

“Who are you, then?”

I could have lied, or told her to mind her own business, but the police would already have spoken with her, which meant that I’d need to speak with her, too. As part of the preparation for a possible trial, I’d be following in the footsteps of the law like a delayed shadow.

“I’m a private investigator,” I said.

“Huh?”

I walked to the boundary hedge, where I could strike some balance between volume and mutual comprehension.

“I’m a private investigator.” I showed her my ID.

“I can’t read that,” she said. “I don’t have my glasses.”

“How about you just take my word for it?”

“I’ll just take your word for it,” she said.

If the situation hadn’t been so serious, I’d have been searching for a hidden camera.

“That’s very good of you.”

“You working for the Clark girl?” she asked. Seen up close, she had shrewd eyes, and the wiriness of a long-lived hound.

“I’m working for a lawyer,” I said neutrally.

“Her lawyer?”

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