Page 107 of The Instruments of Darkness

“He’ll make a good governor,” said Macy.

“I’d dispute that, if he’s willing to sacrifice my client for it.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t ruthless.”

“Seriously?”

Macy took another sip of her old fashioned.

“Damn it, I don’t know,” she said. “We really are talking about this, aren’t we? And there I was, thinking we might have a proper romantic evening, like regular people.”

“Regular people don’t have to seek out dark corners in case the cops, or potential future governors, catch them canoodling.”

“No, they don’t. And is ‘canoodling’ even still a word?”

“I’m older than you,” I said, “so my vocabulary is richer.”

A young couple entered the Bar of Chocolate, bringing the clientele up to six. I didn’t recognize the newcomers, but they looked like tourists, God bless them.

“Colleen Clark is innocent,” I said. “She’s been set up.”

“By whom?” said Macy, proving that all hope was not lost for the young, grammatically speaking.

“I’m still digging, but I think a woman named Mara Teller is at the heart of it, or that’s the name she used to approach Stephen Clark. I’m getting closer to her. Portland PD had her first, but the investigators lost interest after that blanket showed up and Becker and Nowak began counting the column inches for a conviction.”

“All true,” said Macy. “A blanket covered in a child’s blood hidden in his mother’s car will do that; and once Erin Becker became involved, the case got fast-tracked. You know how it works: there’s only so much time, and no shortage of crime to fill it.”

“Plus, Furnish is a bum.”

“Furnish is a bum,” she agreed, “but in this instance, he isn’t completely to blame.”

“Is it okay if I blame him anyway?”

She patted my hand. “Sure, honey, if it makes you happy. Meanwhile, your theory about the disappearance of Henry Clark requires taking something simple and making it very complicated. We’re talking questions of access to the family home, a car, and a lot of planning.”

“I realize that.”

She watched me over the rim of her glass. I watched her back. It wasn’t a chore.

“You’re looking at the husband, aren’t you?”

“I might be.”

“Evidence?”

“He’s a louse.”

“We may need more than that before putting the cuffs on him.”

“All I have are broken threads,” I said, “but they’re starting to accumulate. By tomorrow, I hope to begin assembling them into a pattern.”

“You think Stephen Clark conspired with Mara Teller to abduct and kill his own child?”

She couldn’t hide her skepticism.

“Well, when you put it like that.”

“Is there another way you’d prefer me to put it?”

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