by Frank Hughes
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?”
&
nbsp; 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 a 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.
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 w
ait 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.
