Chapter XXVI

The National Gas and Petrochemicals Forum was the brainchild of an organization called the Gas and Petrochemical Energy Research Center, based in the Old Post Office Building in Lynn, Massachusetts. It was doubtful that asking for details of forum guests over the phone would yield results, so I decided it might be more productive to make the approach in person.

I hadn't been in Lynn in years, not since someone had blown up the business premises of an elderly lawyer named Eldritch. Since then, Eldritch had dropped from sight. For all I knew, he might be dead. If so, it could have come as a relief to him. He'd suffered his own losses over the years, too many and too deep for an old man to bear. He'd also kept some very bad company, terrifyingly so.

As I drove south, I touched base with Moxie. He was preparing his list of depositions, but Erin Becker was playing hard to get on discovery.

"It's because Becker knows she's weak across the board," said Moxie. "We'll know more when we read the affidavit, but it'll come down to Stephen Clark's testimony, along with whatever corroborating expert opinions she can rustle up, backed by Colleen's subpoenaed medical and therapy records—assuming she can gain access to them, which we'll fight. After that, there's just the blanket from the car. Becker has nothing else."

I hadn't seen the blanket, but Erin Becker, aware of its power, had been happy to share pictures with Moxie, and he'd passed them on to me. All that blood: the blanket, if displayed as evidence in court, would do Colleen no favors. It could only have been sourced from inside the house, and she and her son had been alone there on the night he disappeared. But if Colleen wasn't involved in Henry's abduction, how had the blanket come to be be used?

"The police have obtained a warrant to search the Clark property," said Moxie. "They'll be looking for any traces of Henry's blood."

This had been anticipated. It was only a surprise it had taken so long.

"They'll find them, too," I said. "He was a young boy, still getting the hang of walking, and we already know he had bumps and bruises."

"There's a big difference between a cut that requires a Band-Aid and wounds that drench a blanket. But that won't stop them from adding anything that shows up to the evidence list. Have you spoken with Colleen's doctor and therapist yet?"

I told him I had appointments to meet each of them. "I've also arranged to have a quiet conversation with Steady Freddy White," I added.

Detective Frederick White was second lead on the Clark investigation. The lead was a suit called Furnish, but he and I had never seen eye to eye, and I couldn't expect any cooperation from that direction. Nobody liked Furnish, not even within the Portland PD, and possibly not within his own family. The only reason he didn't own a dog was because it would undoubtedly have bitten him before leaving home forever. Freddy White, by contrast, was two years away from retirement with full benefits and had rarely met a boat he wanted to rock. He wouldn't do anything to screw up the Clark case, but neither would he object to being straight with me, especially if I was paying for the pleasure.

"Don't give away more than you get," warned Moxie.

"And there I was hoping to work both sides against each other for personal gain," I replied, before hanging up.

LYNN'S OLD POST OFFICE Building was included on the National Register of Historic Places. With its copper domes, it looked like it belonged in another country, or at least another environment, but then, Lynn had long endured a bad rap from the rest of Massachusetts, although its architecture was more curious and interesting than its "city of sin" reputation suggested. Back in the day, Lynn's hookers had worked out of some pretty nice buildings.

The Gas and Petrochemical Energy Research Center might have evoked images of men and women in white coats laboring over test tubes, but it more closely resembled an insurance office, one that was superficially slick but wouldn't pay out on a policy until it had been dragged kicking and screaming to the courthouse steps. It occupied a suite of corner rooms, the lobby walls decorated with glossy photographs of pristine valleys and mighty flowing rivers, suggesting that the land could have asked for no better stewards than the people responsible for Louisiana's Cancer Alley, or closer to home, violating the Clean Air Act in South Portland, where, on a bad day, the smell from the petroleum storage tanks was enough to make the eyes water.

I'd called in advance to let the center know I was on my way. Nobody had objected, or threatened to barricade the doors against me, but that might have been because I hadn't specified the purpose of my visit. A secretary showed me straight to the office of the director of public affairs: a woman named Delaney Duhamel, with the face of one of the sadder Botticelli angels. She offered me coffee before setting her phone to record our conversation.

"Just a precaution," she said.

"Against what?"

Her slightly downturned mouth dipped further, as though there was no end to the sorrows an unjust world might be prepared to inflict on a well-meaning shill for the gas industry.

"Future litigation. You're a private investigator and were noticeably reluctant to specify the nature of your inquiry over the phone. Naturally, we have to protect ourselves—and you, of course."

"Of course," I said. "God forbid we should start off on the wrong foot."

"That," she agreed, "would be bad."

If Delaney Duhamel had ever encountered irony before, either the experience hadn't registered or she was even more comfortable with it than I was. The coffee arrived, along with some dinky little cookies that would stick between one's teeth for the rest of the day. I let Delaney Duhamel pour. Someone laughed shrilly in an adjoining office, and she winced at the sound.

"So, what are you investigating, Mr. Parker?"

"The disappearance of a child."

"Henry Clark?"

Sensibly, she'd googled me before I arrived. The most recent results would have been related to the Clark case.

"That's right."

"How interesting," she said, which was itself an interesting choice of word to use about a missing, possibly murdered boy. "I had initially assumed it might be something else, until I googled your name."

"Something else such as—?"

"When private investigators come our way, it's usually in relation to environmental issues. I don't think we've ever had one ask about a missing person, or not since I've been here."

"And how long have you been here, Ms. Duhamel?"

"Two years—actually, closer to three."

"Were you involved with the most recent forum?"

"Deeply. Why?"

"Stephen Clark, the father of the missing boy, was an attendee."

"But you're working for the mother, right? Or so I read."

"That's correct."

"How interesting," she said again. Perhaps she just found everything interesting, which wasn't much different from finding nothing interesting at all. "And what, apart from his attendance, connects the forum to your case?"

"He had an affair with another participant," I said, "because nothing screams romance like oil and gas. I'd like to talk to the woman involved. The name under which she registered was Mara Teller."

"We can't give out those details."

"I haven't told you the kind of details I'm looking for."

"Nevertheless, we have certain obligations when it comes to protecting the privacy of attendees."

"Ms. Duhamel," I said, "I went online. The forum guide included contact information for all the attendees: job titles, company names, websites, even some email addresses. Short of their sexual preferences and how they like their martinis, I'm not sure what's left to hide."

"But if that information is freely available, why are you here?"

"Because the woman I'm looking for may have registered under a false name. Her consultancy business consisted of a placeholder site and nothing more. The phone number she gave to Stephen Clark has since been reassigned to another user, and the email address came from a Swiss-based startup that provides anonymous accounts to users. That address, too, is now defunct. I can find no Mara Teller with a background corresponding to the woman who attended your forum. It makes me curious about who she really was, and why she was there."

Delaney Duhamel, visibly unhappy, played with her engagement ring. The stone was blue and artificial, which made it doubly apt for her.

"We operate on trust," she said. "We can't contact every attendee to ensure that the particulars they've submitted are accurate. It simply wouldn't be feasible."

"Just as long as the check clears. What was the attendance fee, five hundred dollars?"

"It included coffee," she said icily.

"Unlimited, I hope. I'm not criticizing your registration policy, just making a point. You have no obligation to protect someone who has provided false information."

"But I only have your word for that."

I'd have tried to look hurt if I thought it might have helped. Instead, I shrugged and made heavy work of getting to my feet.

"Well, then, the next step is for me to return to Portland and inform Mrs. Clark's attorney of your reluctance to divulge material that may be germane to the defense's case, and your unwillingness to assist in an investigation into the whereabouts of a missing child. He will relay that intelligence to a judge as the basis for a subpoena, which will become a matter of public record. It never looks good for a company to appear to be hiding something, especially when it comes to the abduction of a little boy. I wouldn't want to be forced to explain that position to the press."

I didn't bother pointing out to Delaney Duhamel that, since she was the spokesperson for a branch of the oil and gas industries, she was already mired in dirty waters as far as any question of reputation was concerned, though that didn't mean her life couldn't be made more awkward. But I was also aware that she was recording our interaction, and blackmail always sounded worse when played back in court.

Delaney Duhamel regarded me with disappointment. Men, that look seemed to say. First, they stiff you with a bum stone…

She killed the recording.

"Everything from this moment on is off the record," she said.

"With respect, I wasn't the one recording the conversation to begin with."

She conceded this with a wave of a hand, like a dowager duchess wafting away the smell of poverty.

"Other issues have arisen out of recent forums," she said.

"What kinds of issues?"

"Two sexual harassment suits, and one allegation of serious sexual assault, which is under police investigation. Some of these men are little better than animals in suits. The harassment allegations should be settled quietly, but the sexual assault case may go the distance."

"In other words, you don't need any more bad publicity."

"It would be unwelcome. It might also cost me my position."

"I can't help but detect a note of ambivalence about the second part."

Delaney Duhamel tilted her head, as though examining me from a different angle might explain this previously unsuspected level of perspicacity on my part.

"Protecting would-be rapists wasn't part of the job description," she said.

"In my experience," I said, "companies prefer to leave that bit out. It discourages the better candidates, though it also helps winnow out the ones with a conscience."

"You're representing a woman accused of killing her child. How do you square that with your conscience?"

"Mine is very evolved," I said. "Also, she didn't do it."

"You would say that."

"Not if I didn't believe it."

"And do you suspect Mara Teller may be connected to the disappearance of the Clark boy?"

"Her consultancy could have hit the rocks before it even got started," I said. "She might have decided to pursue an alternative vocation. She might even have found Jesus, or got sick and died. But none of those would explain why Mara Teller, to my eyes, may never have existed."

Delaney Duhamel took in her office. Through the glass partition wall, she regarded the staff at their desks and the pictures of unsullied rivers, mountains, and valleys on the walls. Two older men in shirtsleeves passed through the lobby. Their shirts were pink and light blue respectively, but each had a white collar. Depending on one's perspective, this was what passed for individuality in the corporate world, was nature's way of marking the wearer as a complete jackass, or both.

"If the details she gave were false," she said, "then what we have won't be of much use to you."

"Perhaps so, but what about her attendance fee? She must have paid it somehow, unless she just turned up with cash on the day."

"Preregistration was obligatory. We were oversubscribed."

"So there's either an electronic or a paper trail for the payment," I said. "What about confirmation of identity?"

"We asked for proof, but a company ID, even self-produced, would have been enough. We didn't make photocopies, or take cell phone pictures, because that's a whole other can of privacy worms. Proof of payment was sufficient to gain access, and each participant received a welcome pack and badge on arrival. It wasn't as though we had anything to hide. We're not the Bilderberg Group."

"Did the badges have to be worn at all times?"

"Yes, on a lanyard. The hotel insisted, for security reasons."

"Did attendees have to sign up for particular sessions?"

"Not for the main events, but they did have to register for round table discussions, workshops, and special presentations."

"Is there a record of those registrations?"

"Only of the ones who put their names down in advance. If there was room, people could just show up and grab a seat. Theoretically, they were supposed to add their names to a list. In practice, that fell by the wayside after the first hour."

"It's still worth checking, in case anyone can recall her."

Delaney Duhamel folded her arms and legs simultaneously.

"I'm sorry, but I'm very uncomfortable with giving you access to other attendees, beyond what may be publicly available, and I'm not going to reach out to them on your behalf. In fact, I'd much prefer it if you didn't go contacting registrants. We partly rely on membership subscriptions and forum registration to fund our endeavors. If we're perceived, however wrongly, to have sent a private investigator to participants' doors, we're going to suffer financially and reputationally."

"And that's before the sexual assault case goes to trial. It only goes to prove that a bad situation can always be made worse."

Sometimes, it's advisable to beat a strategic retreat. I still had the option of knocking on doors, with or without Delaney Duhamel's cooperation.

"Look, I understand your position," I said. "All I ask is that, if you do find a record of Teller's attendance as part of a smaller group, you set it aside. If there's anyone on the list of other participants whom you feel could be amenable to talking to me without compromising you or your employer, you might consider sharing that name."

"I guess I can do that."

"Lastly, did you have a photographer present?"

"We use a woman named Courtney Wasser. She's a local freelancer."

"Did she send you all the pictures she took?"

"She cherry-picked the best ones."

"Maybe you could ask her to forward the entire file, and pass it on to me."

Delaney Duhamel was taking notes.

"I'll need time to do all that. I can call you, or email whatever I think might be helpful."

Experience had taught me that distance impacted negatively on commitment, and absence didn't necessarily make the heart grow fonder. I didn't want to leave Lynn without the information I'd come for.

"I can wait," I said, "unless you'd prefer that I didn't."

"I think not waiting might be preferable, or not here. If you have an hour or two to spare, there's a place called the Walnut Street Café about a mile and a half away. I'll come by with whatever I pull together."

There were probably coffee shops closer to the office than Walnut Street, but I couldn't blame her for being cautious. Delaney Duhamel might have been entertaining doubts about her vocation, but if she was going to leave, she wanted it to be of her own volition, preferably with references that didn't denounce her as a snitch.

I thanked her for her help and went to find the Walnut Street Café. I thought about leaving my car behind and walking, just to spite the oil and gas guys in the white-collared shirts, but the three-mile round trip on foot didn't appeal, so I drove. Which was the world's climate problem in a nutshell.