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The joke's on him. I'm not easily impressed. And I'm past ready to get to the point of this meeting.
“Why are you here, Mr. Wylder?”
“The name's Laroche. Wylder is Drew's mother's name. I used his name so you would know the connection.”
I’m sure he’s used it for that purpose more than once. “How can I help you, Mr. Laroche?”
Drew's father is at least smart enough to realize that I'm done with the pleasantries. His eyes narrow. “I understand that you have some photographs of my son, and his team,” he says, his voice firm and business-like, though the last couple were a rushed add on.
I hesitate for a moment before responding. “I've been to many games, Sir. It's my job.”
“I'm particularly interested in the photos you took on September seventeenth.”
Pretending to think, I cock my head. “I'm not sure if I was at that game.”
“You were.”
“And how would you know that?”
He shifts in his seat, avoiding eye contact, pretending to pick a piece of lint off his pants. “I saw you.”
Was he there? He saw the hit?
“I wasn't the only photographer at the game, Mr. Laroche. And even if I was, I take lots of photos, but I can’t say for certain I have any of Drew Wylder specifically.”
“You do.”
How would he know that? “Have you, or are you, speaking to the others. They probably have some images you can purchase.” Several photos of Drew were in the paper and on social media after that game. All differed from my exact shots, though. And nobody captured him lying on the ground afterward while the play continued, unaware of their fallen teammate. I'm still amazed I was the only one who caught that image. It could be because I was so focused on him that a mariachi band could have jumped from a plane and landed on the fifty-yard line, and I wouldn't have noticed. By the time the reports and news crews caught on, the players had already surrounded their injured teammate.
“They don't have the ones I want.”
“And how would you know?”
He squirms, but he's looking at me, and there's nothing friendly or fatherly in his expression. “Look. I saw you taking photos. I know you're a freelancer. I want to purchase those photos from you. How much are you asking for them?”
I keep my voice steady. “I'm not sure. It depends on how you plan to use them.”
Drew's father leans forward, his eyes squinting, his jaw clenching. “It’s for personal use.” He forces his body to relax and reclines back in the chair. “I want to have some photos of my son to put in a family album I’m making for his mother.”
Bullshit. His mother is dead. “I see. Well, I'll have to check my files, confirm I have photos of your son, and get back to you on the pricing.”
Drew's father stares at me, the look icy, penetrating, like he’s trying to figure me out.
I don’t like this man.
“Should I call you? Or email you?” I ask.
“I'll be in touch.” With that, he stands, spins on his heel, and leaves the coffee shop, the bell above the door signaling his departure.
I mentally note to research the man and learn more about him. But I need to tell Drew. Also, I'm anxious to find out how things went this morning. Flagging a server for a top-up of my cold coffee, I speed dial Drew.
“Hello?”
“Drew, it's me.”
“Hey, Roni. Listen, I'm sorry about yesterday. I just didn't think I'd be great company after the game.”
“I'm afraid to ask, but how did it go?” I’m biting one of my nails while I wait for his response, my fingers crossed.
