The Delphi Effect (The Delphi Trilogy #1)
Rysa Walker
CHAPTER ONE
“Are you Jerome Porter?”
The man arches one bushy black brow and expels a cloud of cigarette smoke in the other direction before turning back to respond. “That’s me. Do I know you?”
“No. But I have a message for you.” I pull my phone from my pocket and extend it toward him, trying but failing to keep my hands from shaking as I turn the screen in his direction.
“A message? From who?”
I hesitate, pushing the phone forward again. “It’s a text,” I say. “From your granddaughter. From Molly.”
His dark face tightens, eyes narrowed to tiny slits as he glares down at me. “My granddaughter is dead.”
“I know.”
Porter drops the half-smoked cigarette and crushes it under his foot, his jaw clenched and angry as he disappears into the building.
I sit with my back against the gray cement wall, close enough to give me a clear view of the revolving glass door but far enough away to avoid inhaling the fog of smoke that surrounds the entrance. The door spits out a new body every minute or so. About half of them huddle near the building, zipping up their jackets or wrapping scarves around their necks to ward off the chill, settling in for a short cigarette break before heading back up to their cubicles for a few more hours of work.
The afternoon is windier and colder than it was when I left the house. Colder than it has any right to be in late October. I glance longingly at the café at the end of the block. It would have been nice to watch for Porter from one of the small tables near the windows, but they were all taken. So I’m stuck here, waiting, as the wind whips hair into my eyes and assaults my already chapped lips.
Should we check the back entrance again?
I flex my feet in an attempt to get the blood flowing, hoping her answer will be yes. Anything would be better than just sitting and waiting.
There’s a pause, and then I hear Molly’s voice.
No. He’ll be here.
I stand up anyway and chuck my half-full coffee cup into the trash. Even doctored liberally with sugar, a practice I usually scorn, it’s still too burnt to drink and now much too cold to serve its secondary purpose as a hand warmer.
I think Molly is a bit too optimistic. It’s entirely possible the old guy decided to give up smoking cold turkey rather than risk seeing me again.
I’ve been hounding him on and off for over a week. I’ve mixed things up a bit, depending on my work and school schedule, once approaching Porter in the morning as he left the Metro station, twice in the evening as he left work. Usually, though, I’ve cornered him during his late-afternoon smoke break, since that allows me to still make my usual shift at the deli if I hurry. Each time, Porter has either avoided me completely or, after calling me a few choice names, walked away.
Until yesterday, that is. The music clearly hit a nerve, just as Molly said it would, because Porter didn’t even speak. He just stormed over to where I was standing, snatched the phone from my hand, and went back inside. With my phone.
Several times this week, I dragged Deo with me, but today he had an appointment with Kelsey. He missed the last one, so I told him he needed to go. It would have been nice to have him along, though, both for moral support and as a witness. Despite Molly’s assurances that her grandfather isn’t the type to resort to violence, I got an up-close-and-personal look at his expression yesterday. I’ve seen enough anger to know when someone is one short step from swinging his fist.
Pa won’t hurt you. He’s a good man. He was a cop.
He took my phone. That phone cost me two weeks’ salary.
He’ll give it back.
Molly’s voice is confident, without even a shadow of doubt, and I feel a twinge of jealousy. Her life may have been short, but she’d had someone she could count on. Someone she believed in completely. Even the fact that he wasn’t able to save her didn’t shake that faith.
A delivery drone skims the downtown skyline and drops its package on a roof two blocks down. The drone is probably several yards above the building, but from down here it appears to be a precision operation with mere inches to spare. Once it whizzes away, I look back toward the entrance and see Porter standing a few feet behind the glass, watching me.
He just stands there, a heavyset black man with a moustache and close-trimmed beard sprinkled with gray. He’s wearing a tweed coat over his usual suit, and the buttons gape a bit over his belly. My phone is clutched in his right hand. A pack of Marlboro Golds is in his left.