Devil's Run (2 page)

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’?”