Chapter 11: The Photograph

Landis Marine kept its offices on the top floor of an old cotton exchange on East Bay Street.

At nine-forty on Friday night, the glass conference room was lit.

Carlisle sat at the head of the long table with his sleeves rolled.

His chief counsel, a gray-haired woman in a cardigan, sat at his right.

His head of security stood against the wall, arms folded.

I stood in the dark corridor outside the glass, with my back against the wall and my shoes in my hand.

Carlisle had told me to wait downstairs.

I had come up the stairs instead.

Marcelline Pinckney sat at the foot of the table in her pearls with her cane across her knees.

Beside her sat a stooped man in a charcoal suit, holding a leather folder.

"Carlisle," said Marcelline warmly. "How good of you to see us."

"You said you'd wait till morning."

"I find a thing is kinder done at night."

She nodded to the man beside her.

He opened the folder with unhurried fingers, took out a large glossy photograph, and slid it down the table.

It stopped in front of Carlisle.

From the corridor I could see it clearly.

A platinum wig, a black lace mask, a bare shoulder, and the red velvet of the VIP couch at the Night Heron.

It had been taken at night, through a gap in a door.

I knew the angle.

I knew exactly which night.

My heart went down through the floor.

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