Devil's Run

By Frank Hughes

A "routine" missing persons case leads private investigator Nick Craig on a bloody trail that leads from the Vermont countryside through the violent streets of Juarez to an exclusive resort high in the Colorado Rockies. There he must confront a murderous conspiracy and an enemy from his own dark past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Hughes
• Release date: Sep 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301700363

Frank Hughes

Frank Hughes is a New York native. He attended Fordham University in the Bronx and served in the United States Navy. He has traveled extensively in North America, Europe, and the Far East. Along the way he also found time to become a five time undefeated champion on the American quiz show Jeopardy! with Alex Trebek.

Book preview

Chapter 1.

Sunday was the hardest day, the day the dead came to visit.

For years I’d kept busy working long hours in the hot sun, usually seven days a week. As a result, the past remained the past and I had no trouble sleeping. Now, with normal working hours and weekends free, the roll call of my victims began early Saturday morning and by Sunday their cries could no longer be ignored. To deal with it, I spent Sundays working myself to exhaustion in the Chelsea Piers gym and then walking the streets of Manhattan until I was able to sleep.

This particular Sunday I was vamping on the walking part. An icy December rain was pelting New York and I wasn’t quite ready to face the slick sidewalks and half-frozen dog shit. Instead, when I finished in the gym, I got my clubs out of storage and went to the driving range, a four-story structure that faces the Hudson River, offering the unique opportunity to aim golf shots at passing vessels and even the occasional ditching airliner. Not that I could hit anything. The only real danger zone was to my immediate right.

I was halfway through a thirty dollar ball card and seeing if I could do any better with the woods. When the next ball popped through the Astroturf – we don’t need no stinking buckets at Chelsea Piers - I aimed for Hoboken, but the ball went towards Weehawken.

You have a terrible slice, said Raviv Peled. Despite three decades in Brooklyn he still had a thick Israeli accent.

Hello, Raviv, I said without looking back. Good-bye, Raviv.

Though I would have welcomed the distraction of work, the fact that my employer knew where to find me on my day off annoyed me, so I ignored him.

I don’t believe I have ever seen you play, he said, clearly not taking the hint. I wonder now why I have taken your advice.

Because I improved your game.

Yes, you did. To which I say, physician heal thyself.

Those who can do, those who can’t teach, and those who can’t teach, teach gym. Now, if you don’t mind, as Garbo said, ‘I vant to be alone’. See you Monday.

My next drive was longer, but just as errant.

Raviv whistled. You really are terrible. It is fortunate that there are nets, else the river would be strewn with injured boaters and dead fish. What is your handicap?

Right now it’s you.

I begin to see what my clients complain about.

Yes, I am a miserable prick, I said. I am also off the clock.

You are on salary, there is no clock.

Thank you, Yoda.

He had the good grace not to speak until I hit the next ball.

That one was straighter.

I was distracted. Go away.

If you want to be alone, why not just stay in that miserable apartment of yours. Even there it must be warmer than here.

That's my home you're denigrating. I set my feet and addressed the next ball.

It is a hovel.

That building has a great view of the High Line and is home to a dozen teenage fashion models.

Male models, if I recall.

I'm a complicated man. The next ball was a pop fly. Besides, I obviously need my practice time.

I have a job for you.

It's Sunday. I may as well go back to taking loops.

I thought you had moved on from that phase of your life.

It's looking better and better. Nice and warm in Florida right now. And nobody bothers me there.

You may have no choice, if you keep treating clients the way you did Meyer.

I stepped back from the new ball and turned. Meyer is an idiot.

A rich idiot. For such idiots, we make allowances.

Raviv was one of the most respected security consultants in the country, but he looked like an Olympic weightlifter gone to seed. Well into his sixties and running to fat, he still had the chest of a bull and a respectable pair of guns, but his belly was an almost perfect sphere. Vanity and women were his only weaknesses. Divorced for the third time, he battled to look young, wearing clothing inappropriate to his age and physique, while adhering to a regimen of facials and steam baths. His weekly massage was more rigorously observed than temple, as was the bi-weekly styling of his remaining hair into something resembling a rusted Brillo pad. He thought he looked smashing, and no one, including me, had the onions to tell him otherwise.

He took a swing at me, I said. What was I supposed to do?

Not wrestling him to the carpet in front of his entire board would have been an acceptable reaction.

Easy for you to say, you weren’t there. Blame it on the training. It was 'a programmed reaction to a stressful stimulus' as the saying goes.

Bullshit, he said, but without much heat. You deliberately embarrassed him.

He had it coming. I turned and stepped up to the ball. Good night.

He said nothing until I was in the middle of my swing.

Consider this a favor.

I lost my concentration and sent the ball soaring straight towards New Jersey, a perfect drive of over two hundred yards.

A favor. The son of a bitch.

Ten minutes later we were in the rear seat of his Cadillac Escalade, navigating the crowded streets of Manhattan. The SUV was one of the few places outside his office where Raviv felt comfortable discussing business. It was swept twice a day for listening and tracking devices and kept under constant guard at his corporate headquarters in Brooklyn. I felt that anyone who needed that much car should drive a tank, but Raviv liked expensive things, especially when they were armored and bristling with weapons. This love of size and firepower applied to his hulking bodyguards as well, one of whom was doubling as our driver. A set of Bose headphones was clamped to his massive skull so he would not be privy to our conversation. It wasn’t that Raviv didn’t trust him, but, as the old saying goes, what you don’t know can’t be tortured out of you.

Why me? I said. I’m not a private investigator.

I beg to differ, said Raviv. Your license, which I must reluctantly remind you I paid for, says you are precisely that.

You made me get that license, I said. I’m not trained to look for missing people. I find security holes.

Nonsense, you are a natural. All the skills you bring to the Red Team: inquisitiveness, instinct, intuition, and-

Sparkling personality.

-independence will serve you well.

I’m flattered.

Besides, the case is routine and I need to be seen as disciplining you.

I gave him a look. Are you?

No, he said, but your reassignment serves that purpose for Meyer, not to mention my staff. I do not want your attitude to become contagious.

Am I really that bad?

Yes. Now, to this assignment. He produced a buff-colored folder. Your client is Jeffrey Boyd, Esquire.

Lawyer, I said, pouring myself a glass of single malt from the vehicle’s bar. I don't like him already.

You are like a child, he said, handing me the folder.

Part of my charm. A name was printed on the tab. Kenneth Boyd. I take it that's the missing person?

His son.

You're right, this is easy.

The file contained some photographs, a credit report, college records, bank statements; the sort of spoor with which modern man marks his trail.

Tell me about papa, I said.

Jeffrey Boyd is a partner at Tarantino, Rosen, and Parisi.

Gee, I guess they're not mobbed up.

Yes, please mention that early in your conversation, just to make your usual good impression.

What is Mr. Boyd's specialty?

Corporate law.

Rather broad.

It is irrelevant to the subject at hand.

What else do we know about him?

"Mr. Boyd is very active in charitable circles. He has for many years personally headed an anti-malaria group providing mosquito nets to impoverished countries in Africa. He is also a board member of an international organization called Lutte La Faim. That is French, by the way, for fight hunger."

Bon for him.

Yes, quite the philanthropist. He didn't sound that impressed.

Why is he coming to you? They must have their own people on retainer.

His reasons are not my concern.

Yeah, money talks. How does he know you?

I met him on the golf course. We played in the same foursome at a charity tournament.

You meet the most interesting people on the golf course.

That is where I found you.

I rest my case. Is there a Mrs. Boyd?

Not at the moment. She died several years ago.

Let me guess. Malaria.

He shook his head. She was attending a seminar at Windows on the World.

I tossed the file back in his lap. You're kind of a bastard, aren't you?

That had nothing to do with it, Nicolas.

I'll bet. I drained my drink.

Would you care for another? said Raviv.

No. One's my limit on this stuff.

I must tell you, it continues to surprise me that you did not choose to lose yourself in drink as well.

I put the dirty glass back in the rack. I considered it, but it seemed so cliché.

And she would not have approved, eh?

Leave her out of it. I snatched the file off his lap and studied it for a few minutes. Any other children? I said.

No, just Kenneth.

How is their relationship?

He shrugged. You will have to ask him.

I thumbed through some of the stuff in the file. He goes to school in Seattle?

That is what it says.

I'm not sure you pick a college a continent away if you like hanging with dad.

All I know is the boy is missing.

But, we don't know if it's voluntary or involuntary.

Correct, again. There has been no ransom demand or any other indication he’s been kidnapped.

How long has he been gone?

Raviv shook his head. Not clear. Possibly two months.

I sifted through the bank and credit card statements. There were no purchases, deposits, or withdrawals since early October. His checking account statement showed Ken, or someone, made the maximum withdrawal of five hundred dollars from the same ATM in Seattle for five straight days in early October.

Did you see these withdrawals? I said.

Yes.

Twenty-five hundred dollars total over five straight days.

What does that tell you?

Nothing, I said. There's still three thousand in the account. If someone was forcing him to take the money out, why not take it all? And why not ask Poppa Boyd for more money? On the other hand, if he was financing his own little getaway...

Why not take it all?

Exactly. I looked at the bank statements again. There's another possibility.

I knew you would be good at this.

Drugs. Pacific Northwest is a good place to grow pot. Perhaps he decided to go into business.

Possible, except? He paused, Socratic-ally, allowing me time to puncture my own argument.

Except he took the money out in October, at the end of the growing season. Why start a pot farm then? I closed the file. Maybe he was buying finished product and was careless about security. Those Mexican cartels are pretty entrenched up there. He could be rotting in a ditch.

Lots of possibilities.

I turned to look at him. You seem awfully sanguine about the whole thing.

He shrugged. I have complete faith in you.

You know, I said, the cops say that after twenty-four hours the trail is cold. This kid has been gone nearly two months.

I have complete faith in you.

You keep saying that. It doesn't make me believe it more.

That is your problem. You lack the faith we have in you.

I closed the file. I've told you more than once, Raviv, I don't need rescuing.

Then why did you agree to work for me?

Maybe I was bored. It's beginning to look like a poor decision. I caught up with the conversation. What do you mean, 'we'?

Just a figure of speech. Although, I am sure there are others who wish you would employ your talents in a more constructive way.

Like I did a few years ago? Like you did, before that?

Someone needs to slay the dragons.

Yeah, and if there's a little collateral damage, what the hell. I opened the file again. We're all dragons, Raviv, that's the problem. When do I meet Mr. Boyd?

Ten tomorrow morning at his office on Maiden Lane. The address is in the file. Wear a suit. You are on the early plane to Seattle, out of Newark, the next day.

I hear it’s lovely there this time of year.

It is miserable. You and Seattle were made for each other.

The driver stopped in front of my building at the corner of 28th and 10th.

Keep me informed, said Raviv.

Yes, mother. I stepped out into the cold.

My sister was researching first names, he said.

Why, I said, pointing at his stomach, you having a baby?

Your humor escapes me. She is having the baby. As I was saying, your name, Nicolas, do you know what it means?

My name is Nick.

Victory to the people is what it means.

I didn't pick it, I said, and slammed the door shut.

Chapter 2.

Jeffrey Boyd’s office was on the twentieth floor of a glass tower. I arrived early to deal with the inevitable security obstacle course. A friendly intern from the law firm escorted me upstairs and suggested I wait in the lunchroom across the hall, where I could avoid the crowded waiting room and enjoy a spectacular view of the East River. The Brooklyn Bridge seemed much closer than it should, oddly intimate. Then I realized I was comparing it with the views from a much higher building and the room suddenly felt colder.

Mr. Nicolas Craig? said a female voice.

A tall young woman in a black pantsuit had come up quietly behind me. She was late twenties or early thirties with thick, highlighted blonde hair cut stylishly short. Bright blue eyes appraised me coolly. She wore little makeup other than some eyeliner and a pale lip-gloss. Her only jewelry was a simple necklace of thick gold links that disappeared beneath her starched white blouse. The gold looked very nice against her tan skin and she smelled faintly of White Satin.

That’s me, I said.

I am Isabella Ricasso, Mr. Boyd’s executive assistant. Her voice was lightly accented.

Hello, I said, please call me Nick.

Please call me Ms. Ricasso. Reception told me I’d find you here, she added, in a faintly scolding tone.

I was admiring the view.

Of course you were, she said, leaving little doubt that such activities were a waste of time.

The more I examined her, the less I liked her looks. The face was a trifle too narrow, the ears a little small, and the pointed nose and close set eyes gave her a feral look.

She glanced at the simple gold Rolex on her left wrist. It is your appointment time. Tick-tock. Mr. Boyd is a busy man.

She turned and strode briskly towards the door. I followed in her wake, crossing the hallway into the reception area, which was brightly lit by a slanted skylight three stories above. We crossed to a curved staircase with filigreed banisters that swept up to a balcony. Ms. Ricasso took the steps two at a time, despite the spiky heels of her Christian Louboutons. At the top of the stairs was a double door of solid oak. She swung it open and went in without looking back. I darted through just in time. The thick door instantly silenced the noise of the reception area.

The walls of the carpeted hallway were lined with portraits of partners past and present, all white and nearly all male. This rogue’s gallery was broken every few yards by paneled doors with discreet brass nameplates. Ms. Ricasso opened the door labeled ‘J. Boyd’ and went in.

Her office was larger than my whole apartment, and the furnishings screamed old money. Only her desk was out of place, a contemporary piece designed to support modern electronics, of which Ms. Ricasso had plenty. I suspected it was the only part of the room that reflected her personality.

She stabbed a finger at a phone with more buttons than the control room of a nuclear power plant.

Yes? said a male voice.

Mr. Craig to see you. No "sir’ from her.

Good. Send him in.

She strode to the other door and opened it. Boyd’s office was not much larger than hers, but he rated a view of lower Manhattan and a wet bar. Behind the bar was Boyd’s I love me wall of diplomas, plaques, and photographs of him with celebrities and politicians.

Mr. Craig, she announced.

Thank you, Ms. Ricasso, said Jeffrey Boyd.

She spun sharply and exited, closing the door behind her. Boyd came towards me, buttoning his suit coat. I pegged him as late forties, a little taller than my six feet, but with broader shoulders and a stockier build. The full head of hair, expensively styled and artfully streaked with grey, framed a rugged, square-jawed face with large, prominent features. His complexion was dark and even at this early hour he had the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. I suspected there was some Mediterranean ancestor in the woodpile, despite the WASP-ish name. He wore a charcoal grey suit with discreet chalk pinstripes, and a starched white cotton shirt whose French cuffs were bound with diamond-studded gold cufflinks.

Thank you for coming. Clear brown eyes looked directly into mine. I’m Jeffrey Boyd.

Nick Craig. He had a strong grip, but his palm was slightly damp.

Please take a seat, he said, waving at the two oxblood Queen Anne chairs in front of his desk.

I went to the nearest one and sat down, feeling very clubby. Boyd journeyed back around his desk, which I realized was a replica of the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. Well, no ego problem here. God only knows what something like that cost.

Ten thousand dollars, he said.

Excuse me?

You were wondering what it cost. The desk, I mean.

As a matter of fact I was.

All the partners have one, he said, picking up a gold letter opener before settling back in his chair. He toyed with the opener while we examined each other across the vast prairie of oak.

You come highly recommended, he said.

His tone suggested he was wondering why. Perhaps it was the off the rack suit from Macy's that urgently needed a good pressing.

Raviv tends to exaggerate.

Boyd grimaced. He continued playing with the letter opener. I understand you used to be a federal agent.

Customs. Long time ago.

Boyd cocked his head to one side. Why did you leave?

Let’s just say, I don’t play well with others.

He looked at the desktop for a while, still fiddling.

I understand, he said, tentatively, that you and I have something in common.

It's not exactly a small fraternity around here.

No. No, I suppose not. He looked at the letter opener and abruptly tossed it back onto the desktop. Folding his hands he said, What has he told you?

Not much. Your son is missing. No evidence of foul play, no ransom demands. Seattle police and campus cops have nothing. Did you contact the FBI?

Yes, but they tell me that absent evidence of abduction they don’t get involved in such things. He grimaced. They offered to put him in their missing persons DNA database, if I could provide a sample.

And did you?

Boyd looked down at his hands. I'm not ready to contemplate what that step implies.

I nodded. DNA would be useful mainly to identify remains.

What did the campus police tell you? They’d be closest to the case.

Not much. Apparently, it is not uncommon for college students to just disappear. Not just there, of course. They drop out from the stress, wander off to Mexico, Vancouver, or some such place. Start taking drugs or surfing.

Any chance Ken might choose one of those alternatives?

No, said Boyd, shaking his head. Drugs are out of the question and surfing would require a set of balls.

What is your relationship with Ken?

Boyd looked as if he intended to resist the question, then he relaxed. "We get along as well as any teenager gets along with a father like me I suppose. We’re very different people.’

How so?

He sighed. For want of a better term, Ken’s a wimp. He’s also easily led, eager to please. He reached over and picked a framed photograph off his desk. A lot like his mother, in many ways, he said, his tone wistful.

Is that a picture of Ken? Boyd didn’t hear me and continued to look at the photo. Mr. Boyd.

He glanced over at me. Yes?

Is that a picture of Ken?

No. It's his mother. He briefly showed me a portrait of a pretty blonde woman before placing it reverently back in its spot. I've got one over there, he said, rising from his seat.

He came around the desk and went behind the wet bar. I followed him over and leaned against it while he took a photograph off the wall and handed it to me. It was Boyd with a blonde teenager and an attractive woman in her late thirties, all wearing ski clothes.

That’s Ken?

Yes.

There wasn’t much of Boyd in his son. Ken was willowy and pale, with delicate features.

Where was this taken?

Colorado.

"Vacation?

Yes, I have a place at Spanish Mountain.

Must be nice. Who is the woman?

Cynthia Simmons. My administrative assistant at the time.

Looks a little closer than that.

A flash of anger, quickly gone. We were seeing each other.

Out of the picture now?

Yes. He shook his head, looked away, out the window. She died.

Guy wasn't having much luck with women.

Was Ken close to her? It looked like it from the body language in the photo.

Actually, yes. I was surprised. Ken was very close to his mother. I didn't expect him to be so accepting.

He take it hard when Ms. Simmons died?

We both did. It was horrible, senseless.

How so?

He suddenly looked years older. She was murdered. Strangled. She surprised a burglar in her apartment. After what happened to my wife, I was-. He stopped and literally shook off the emotion. Anyway, I got back on track. He pointed towards the closed door. Ms. Ricasso was a great help. I was lucky to find her.

Yes, she seems very efficient. Like the robots in a Toyota factory. How long ago was this taken?

Boyd shrugged. Two years, I think.

Nothing more recent?

I was never much of a one for snapshots, Boyd said, looking as close to sheepish as he probably ever got. Besides, Ken and I don't spend much time together anymore. After Cynthia passed, well, I’m afraid I neglected him. Two deaths like that, so close together. I’m afraid I spent most of my time at work. My primary client is based in Florida, so I was gone much of the time.

I looked at the photo again. Behind and to the left of Boyd’s group were three other people.

These people look familiar, I said, pointing at a couple in ski clothes.

Senator Canfield and his wife Cory. We’re friends.

Who is this? The guy who thinks he’s Hamid Karzai. The man, his back to the camera, seemed out of place in a camel hair coat and a Cossack hat. He appeared to be talking to the Canfields.

Why is that even important?

I knew a guy who wore a Cossack hat. He was an asshole.

What does this have to do with anything?

Not a thing. I handed the photo back to him. Any chance he might be hiding there?

Ken? In Colorado, you mean? No. It’s very exclusive, high security. They’d have called me the moment he showed up.

No way he could get in?

No.

Any friends or neighbors who might be putting him up?

No. He has no friends there.

Sounds like a fun vacation spot. Still, it might be worth checking out.

Colorado is not relevant to your investigation. You will not bother anyone there. There was finality in his tone.

You’re the boss, I said. When did you first realize Ken was missing?

Early November.

November? My understanding is no one has seen him since October. You didn’t realize he was gone until November?

He was three thousand miles away. I was in Florida, on business. As I told you, we have very separate lives since Cynthia. Ken went back to school during the summer for what they call the B-Term session, trying to catch up on some credits. And to, well, I think he had a girlfriend.

Think?

He never said anything, but the signs were there when I saw him over the summer. Long phone calls, that sort of thing.

Did you try to find her when he went missing?

I wasn’t even sure she existed. How do you find someone without a name?

Did he make any of those calls on your home phone? Did you examine the bill?

Boyd nodded. First thing I thought of when I couldn’t reach him. In fact, that’s how Raviv got involved. I asked him to run the numbers from some of those calls.

What did he find?

Nothing.

What do you mean ‘nothing’?

Raviv said they were untraceable. Throwaway phones. Burners, he called them. Said you can buy them at any drugstore.

Raviv hadn’t mentioned that little tidbit. Didn’t that strike you as odd?

It did, at first, but Raviv told me they are fairly popular with kids now as a second line.

Not to mention terrorists and drug dealers. Any chance Ken was doing drugs? Dealers use burner phones.

No. I can say that with certainty. Besides, what good would it do to call a drug dealer three thousand miles away?

You have a point.

Boyd looked at his watch again. Anything else?

Yes. Why Raviv?

The question surprised him. What do you mean?

Why have us look into this? I waved my hand. This firm must use investigators all the time. You must have security people on retainer. I'm a little curious why you're going outside.

That's hardly your concern.

I'm making it my concern. I like to know where I stand.

He pursed his lips and stared at me. I stared right back.

Finally, he said: This is a private matter. I'm involved in some very delicate negotiations right now and I prefer not to involve anyone connected to the firm. Raviv and I have become friends, and he has been very generous to my charities. I know what he does, so I discussed it with him. He agreed to handle it and assured me of your complete discretion, that you would not discuss this with anyone.

I have no one to discuss it with, which is probably what he meant. However, who my client is will be fairly easy to deduce, since I’m looking for your son.

Do what you can to be discreet. As far as this firm is concerned, you are my client.

Okay. Raviv said you have some authorizations for me.

Boyd came out from behind the bar and went back to his desk. I stood in front of it while he pulled a manila envelope out of the top drawer and handed it across to me.

That's a notarized authorization to examine his personal belongings. Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to. There's also a spare key to the van. I'm sorry, but I don't have the key to his dorm room.

If it's a typical dorm room that won't be a problem. I examined the authorization. Ken is no longer a minor. This may not fly.

If you run into any insurmountable problems, the campus police will get a phone call from a prominent local politician.

I glanced up at him. His expression was carefully neutral.

Alrighty, then. I pulled out a business card and tossed it on the desk. That's a cell number. I’m leaving for Seattle in the morning.

If you contact me, said Boyd, rising and coming around the desk, use the cell number I gave Raviv. And only that number. He walked me to the door. You haven’t mentioned price.

Talk to Raviv. I'm just a cog.

Boyd opened the door and stood aside. Thank you for coming.

I’ll be in touch, I said, shaking his hand.

Ms. Ricasso, would you please see Mr. Craig out?

That won’t be necessary, I said.

It will be my pleasure, she said, in a way that left me unconvinced. I followed her elegant and well-tailored behind back into the hushed hallway. She walked me all the way through reception and out to the elevator bank. She even pressed the call button.

Thank you. I believe I can take it from here. I dress myself and everything.

I wish to see you out, she said. We stood looking at each other until the elevator bell sounded and the doors slid open behind me. I stepped backwards into the car and pressed the lobby button. Ms. Ricasso continued to watch, unblinking.

When I was five years old I was confronted in the basement of our apartment building by a large rat. It stared me down without fear. In the unforgiving fluorescents of the corridor, Ms. Ricasso’s thin features wore that same patient, malevolent expression. The unsettling image stayed with me on the ride down, accompanied by the faint scent of White Satin.

Chapter 3.

I was scheduled on an early Continental flight out of Newark Liberty. Despite the hour, the terminal swarmed with holiday travelers, along with their screaming children and excess baggage, forcing me to spend an inordinate amount of time in the security line. I hate spending time at the airport and my theory is if you've never missed a flight you are getting there way too early, so I cut it close. My theory was put to the test as mirthless TSA inspectors recycled the same passengers through the metal detector, finding another cell phone or wristwatch these pinheads forgot to stick in the bin. Those who protested were pulled aside for more thorough searches or a turn in the box. Then there were the idiots who carried wrapped Christmas gifts. How many years had this shit been going on? And still people show up at the airport acting as if they’d never flown before.

I noticed a fellow professional flyer in the next queue, shoes and carryon in hand. He reminded me of professional soldiers I’d known, men who knew how to wait calmly in the midst of frantic activity. I tried to engage this kindred spirit in a little therapeutic eye rolling, but he studiously ignored me and everyone else.

When my turn arrived, I breezed through and went straight to the gate. The plane was already boarding, and soon I was ensconced in the first class cabin, which in this case was not as ritzy as it sounds. On domestic flights first class is hardly worthy of the name. The seats are just wider versions of coach, nothing like the international routes, but they do offer you a drink right away. I gratefully accepted a screwdriver from the middle-aged flight attendant. While I sipped, I noticed the guy from the security line pass through on his way to the coach section. I guessed he didn't like getting to the airport early, either.

The flight was uneventful and we landed at Sea-Tac around eleven in the morning. I was on the freeway less than half an hour after the wheels hit the tarmac, which was the moment everything ground to a halt. Seattle is famous for bad traffic and this day was no exception.

It was early afternoon before I reached the University. Ken’s dormitory was easy to find, a building so unrelentingly ugly it must have won a design award. As I expected, a student simply held the door open for me as he exited. I breezed in and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

His room was part of a suite of small bedrooms clustered around a central lounge and common bathroom. I didn't have to pick the lock to get in, the door was wide open. A scruffy-looking kid sprawled on one of the couches looked up from his chemistry textbook with mild curiosity.

Ken Boyd’s room? I said, flashing my NY driver's license at him in the hopes he'd take me for a cop. The effort was wasted. He barely gave it a glance and jerked his thumb at one of the doors.

He hasn't been around, he said, before returning to his reading.

So I hear.

The room was a small and narrow double with little wasted space. Immediately inside the entrance, on the right, were two small closets. Both twin beds were raised off the floor on cinderblocks to add storage space underneath. The bed on the closet side was covered with laundry and boxes. There was an L-shaped desk, divided into two workstations. The bookshelf above one desk held only three pristine looking textbooks and a beer mug from Doc Maynards. The other was a jumble of textbooks, knickknacks, and an iPod dock with speakers. The corkboard back of that workstation was covered with snapshots of poorly dressed young men in various stages of inebriation. None of them was Ken. The corkboard of Ken’s desk was bare and the work surface empty, except for a computer and an LCD monitor.

I sat down in the desk chair and switched the computer on. While it warmed up, I slid open the top drawer, revealing only some pens, a ruler, and a four-month-old Time magazine. The other drawers were similarly Spartan. In the bottom drawer I found the OEM box of software for the computer. Most of the disks were still in shrink-wrap, but the restore disks were loose in the box.

The inside of the closet contained an area for hanging clothes and two sets of drawers. One side was packed with clothing that looked a little big for Ken. On Ken’s side half the hangers were empty and the drawers contained just a few pairs of socks and some boxers. I looked through the hanging clothes. No winter coat.

Hey, what are you doing in here? The voice was irate and young.

I turned to see a boy of about nineteen standing in the doorway wearing loose fitting cargo pants and an oversized sweatshirt. He was big, but not in a threatening way, the sort of kid who knows his way around a pot roast. He proudly proclaimed his heterosexual status by way of a ring in his left ear lobe. I could also guarantee he would cringe every time he saw a picture of himself twenty years from now.

I'm investigating Ken’s disappearance.

He came into the room and tossed a couple of textbooks on his bed.

That doesn’t mean you can search my room. I’ve got rights.

No one is searching your stuff, Tom.

How do you know my name?

Same way I got in here, same way I got this.