Page 65 of Keller

What are you doing tonight?

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. The cursor blinks.

Just finished work. Nothing planned.

I could bring take-out. Thai? That place you mentioned?

The line I have been holding wavers. Professional distance. Compartmentalization. The careful boundary between what I know and what I feel.

That’s perfect. 7 work for you?

I send the message before I can talk myself out of it.

His response comes fast.

See you then.

I power down my computer and gather my things, sliding my badge from its clip and tucking it into my pocket. The office feels smaller now, less suffocating than it did this morning.

The flagged file remains open on my desk, David Parsale’s name visible at the top of the page.

I close it, slide it into the drawer, and turn off the desk lamp.

SIXTEEN

Keller

The Role of the Captain:The captain serves as the chief executive of a krewe, overseeing membership decisions, parade themes, float design, and the execution of the annual ball. Often operating with broad discretion, the captain’s authority shapes both the public spectacle and the private culture of the organization.

I'm pullingoff my jacket when Marcus pulls the hotel records up on the center monitor. I'm suddenly hot under the collar knowing he is about to show me where he connected the dots and the man in the middle of the shit storm that led to my mother's death might have a name.

The room smells faintly of burnt coffee and warm electronics, the hum of processors filling the space between us.

“What you asked for wasn’t simple,” he says without looking away from the screen. “The Asbury doesn’t make backend access easy. I had to pull the logs in controlled batches so it wouldn’t trigger a security audit.”

“I figured it wouldn't be easy. That's why I called you. What did you get?” I ask.

He zooms in on a date range. “Guest registry for that week. I narrowed it down to male guests between thirty-five and forty-five at the time. That’s the age band your photo suggests.”

I lean in slightly. A column of names scrolls past. Some familiar, most not. Check-in dates. Check-out times. Payment types. Besides a bunch of information that doesn't mean much to me to look at, but I stare anyway.

Marcus continues, “Then I filtered for solo reservations, multi-night stays, and anyone with ties to New Orleans.”

He clicks again and isolates one name.

“I cross-referenced alumni databases based on the crest on the signet ring you showed me,” he says. “It isn’t a family seal. It belongs to Hawthorne Academy.”

"Hawthorne Academy?"

"It's an elite boys boarding school in North Georgia.

"So you think since he's wearing that ring, then he went there?"

"Bingo. That ring isn't just a ring. It's a badge of honor. Most of the men who went there wear that until it's pried off of their cold, dead fingers. He definitely went there, which significantly reduces the names we have to choose from."

"Damn. You're good."

He smiles at me, and looks back at the screen. "I know."