by Frank Hughes
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.” I fished Ken's car key out of my pocket and showed him. Pointing at the boxes on the bed I said, “How much of this is Ken’s?”
“None of it. That’s all mine. He’s been gone a couple of months. Why let the space go to waste?”
“So the only things that belong to Ken in this room are in the desk and his closet?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t seem like much. Was this all he brought when he came?”
“No. He had lots of stuff. Pictures and CDs and all sorts of crap stuffed in his drawers. Videos, too.”
“Porn?”
He snorted out something I assumed was a laugh. “Nah. Stuff he got from her.”
“Her? He had a girlfriend?”
“Tah-yeah.” Now he was animated. “I came in here once when my class got cancelled and they were going at it. She was on top and everything. She was hot.”
His eyes glazed over at the memory, probably the closest thing to a sexual experience he’d ever had.
“She a student here?”
He snapped back to the present and shook his head. “Don’t think so. I think he met her at a Starbucks or a rally or something.”
Starbucks or a rally. It was easy to get them confused. “What was her name?”
“Julie.”
“Julie what?”
“I don’t know. Julie. Like I could care what her last name is.” Tom seemed to have a problem with authority figures. That was okay with me. I did too.
“Have you seen her around since Ken left?”
“Nope. None of her flyers, either.”
“Flyers?”
“She used to pass out flyers on campus asking people to come to demonstrations and stuff.”
“You used to see her? Passing out the flyers, I mean.”
“Yeah, at the student center. And Starbucks.”
“What were these flyers about?”
“Global warming and shit like that. I didn’t really listen, but I noticed it was about forests and stuff.” He looked over at Ken’s desk. “They're not there anymore. He used to have a stack of her flyers, too.”
“What about pictures of Julie? He have any?”
“Yeah, he used to have a bunch of them pinned up.” He pointed to the corkboard. “Guess he took them with him.”
I went over to the desk and examined the corkboard behind the monitor. It was well used by years of college students and full of tack holes. “So you didn’t see him move out?”
“No, man. I just came back from class one day and everything was gone.”
“When was the last time you saw him before that?”
“Week and a half, maybe two weeks. I don’t really remember.”
Something at the bottom of the corkboard caught my eye. A tiny triangle of paper was protruding from where the board met the desktop. I pushed firmly against the corkboard, opening a gap. The triangle of paper disappeared. I knelt in time to see a four by six snapshot flutter to a landing in the tangle of wires above the surge protector.
“What is it?”
“A picture,” I said. It was a smiling Ken Boyd with his arm around a very cute girl, whose long, straight blonde hair was parted in the middle. They were in a park, along with a crowd of other kids, some carrying signs I could not read.
“Is this Julie?” I said, holding the photo out to Tom.
He took the photo and nodded. “Yeah, that’s her.”
I took the photo back and put it in my pocket. The computer was warmed up now. I went over and sat down.
“Did Ken use his computer for addresses and phone numbers?”
“I think so. He had an iPhone. Hey, don’t you need a warrant or something to look at that?”
“Warrants are for real cops, Tom.”
There were no accounts other than Administrator on the computer, and no password protection set. I clicked in. The desktop opened to a default Windows interface. I clicked my way to the Programs folder.
“You say he had an iPhone?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s no iTunes installed on this computer,” I said.
I looked in My Music, My Pictures, My Documents and all held just the sample files. I opened System Restore. There was only one restore point from back in October.
“Is this a new computer?”
“Nah,” said Tom. “It’s the same one he had when I got here.”
“Did it ever crash? Have problems?”
“Not that I noticed, but I wasn't his fucking chaperone, ya know.”
I restrained the urge to smack him. “Did Ken use it a lot?”
“Use what?”
“The computer,” I said, reminding myself that patience was a virtue.
“Yeah. She did, too. They were always on there, looking at stuff.”
“Always about ecology and global warming?”
“Mostly. Movies and shit, too.” He had a sudden recollection. “I think he was planning some sort of trip.”
I turned to him. “To where?”
“I don’t know. I don’t pry, dude.”
“Good man, but Ken is missing and might be in trouble, so why don’t you try to remember?”
He looked at me resentfully. “I really don’t know,” he said. “One time, I came in and he was on MapQuest and saying something about how much money they would need for gas.”
“That it?”
“They stopped when they saw me. Are you done yet?”
“Indulge me a few more minutes.”
I reached behind the computer and pulled the plug. The monitor went black. I laid the computer down on the desk and popped open the case.
What are you doing?”
“Taking the hard drive. You got a screwdriver?”
“Can you do that?”
When I simply held out my hand, he absently pulled a Leatherman tool from his pocket and held it out to me. I opened the Phillips head screwdriver blade.
“That day,” I said, “the day you said Ken’s stuff disappeared, was it around October twenty-seventh?”
He thought for a moment. “Could be. I can't remember the exact date, but that seems right. Why?”
“Just wondering. How long before that did you notice Ken was not around?”
“A week or two.”
I finished with the screws, pulled the connections, and removed the drive.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Take it to Daddy.” I got up and handed the Leatherman back to him. “Tom, I'm a PI, not a cop, and
anything you tell me is strictly confidential. I am trying to find Ken and that is all I am trying to do. Once I locate him I'm done.”
“So?”
“So I need to know if Ken was involved in drugs. Either buying or selling.”
“No way, man.”
“Look, he took a great deal of cash out of the bank just before he disappeared.”
“I don't care, it wasn't for that.”
“Why so sure? You said you weren't that close.”
He stepped towards me and lowered his voice. “I deal a little weed, man. He wasn't into that. That kid was Mr. Clean when it came to drugs. Said his dead Mom wouldn't approve.”
“Would he deal, though? To make some money?”
Tom laughed shortly. “Mr. Right and Wrong? No way, he has a stick shoved way up his ass. Besides, he was rich. He didn't need the money.”
“Money's not always the motive, Tom.” I took a business card from my wallet and handed it to him. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, anything at all. Call or text me.”
As I left the building I was processing. No snapshots, other than the one I'd found, no address book, no personal letters, not even a binder of class work; nothing that might contain notes or doodles. No personal photos, music, email, or schoolwork on the computer, either. Ken, or someone, had gone to a great deal of trouble to cover his tracks, removing all personal items and erasing the hard disk of his computer.
The question was why?
4.
Ken's van was located on the second level of a three story parking garage, sporting a light coating of dust, but otherwise very clean. The interior gleamed like it just came off the showroom floor and the scent of Armor-All hit me like a brick. There wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere. The carpets and seats were pristine, and even the glass of the dashboard was polished. I wished my bathroom was as clean.
I climbed in and turned the key. The trip meter read zero. The odometer registered thirty-three thousand five hundred and four miles. There was only an empty spot in the dash where the GPS would have been. From the marks on the driver’s side visor, something had been strapped there, probably a CD case, but the player was empty. A search of the glove compartment produced the registration and the owner’s manual, still sealed in plastic. There were no repair receipts and no personal items of any kind.
For the next ten minutes I went over the vehicle, looking in crevices, under the floor mats, between the seats. There was nothing, not even a tiny speck of dirt. I got down on my back and slid underneath the van only to find the underbelly had been steam cleaned. The engine was devoid of grease and grime and the air filter was brand new or close to it. The oil was clear and amber.
This was all very curious. Would a normal person have a $300 detail job done on their van just before they abandoned it? I wouldn't, but then I wasn't some whacked out rich kid. I locked the van and pocketed the key.
At the student union I looked at the flyers on the bulletin boards. Four ecology themed notices looked as if they’d been there a while. I took them down and went over to a fat campus cop who was lounging by the main door, staring carefully at nothing.
“Hey, good morning,” I said. “Can you direct me to the Starbucks?”
“You're in Seattle, walk twenty feet.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that, but I was referring to the closest one to the campus.” I pulled the photo of Julie from my pocket. “Actually, I am looking for this girl. She probably posted these flyers.”
He glanced at the photo. “Seems a little young for you.”
“I like to think I appeal to a broad demographic.”
“Everyone needs a dream,” he said, returning to his contemplation of infinity.
“So?” I said, reminding him of my existence.
His eyes shifted back to me. “So what?”
“Starbucks.”
“Across campus, 26th Avenue, in University Village.” His eyes flicked away from me. He had not moved during the whole conversation.
I turned and started for the door, but he suddenly said. “Hang on a sec. Let me see that picture again.”
I handed him the photo. He studied it for a long moment, looking like a cop at last.
“Yeah, I think that's her.” He looked a while longer. “I'm sure of it.”
“Sure of what?”
“Bellevue PD was around here a month or two ago, flashing another picture. Same girl, though.” He shook the photo. “Judy something.”
“Julie, perhaps?”
He nodded. “Yeah, Julie, that's it.”
“Last name?”
He shook his head slowly, still looking at the picture. “I got it in here somewhere,” he said, absently tapping the side of his head. After some deep thought he came up dry. “Nah. Sorry. It's not coming to me.”
“Appreciate the effort,” I said, gently plucking the photo from his sausage-like fingers.
His eyes narrowed. “Why you lookin' for her?”
“She owes me for printing these flyers.”
“Yeah?” His eyes glazed over. “Well, good luck.” He walked back to his spot and resumed his previous pose. I had ceased to exist.
Starbucks was a dry hole. None of the staff on duty recognized her photo, and I got nothing but shaking heads from the young people sitting at the tables.
I had reservations at a hotel about a mile from the campus, so I drove over to see if my room was ready. I tossed my bag on the bed and washed up before heading downstairs to the business center.
I used one of their computers to look at the websites mentioned on the flyers. Four of them were near carbon copies of each other, with only slight differences in name, color scheme, and the particular focus of their eco-concern. All exhorted the viewer to get more involved in the particular cause by volunteering or sending contributions. What really caught my attention was that those four flyers listed the same mailing address and apartment number in Bellevue. The mysterious Julie was from Bellevue. A search on MapQuest showed the address on the flyer was not residential, but right in the middle of Bellevue's business district.
I called the Bellevue PD and identified myself. After several holds and way too much Muzak I connected with the detective in charge of missing persons. I identified myself and explained why I was in town.
“I’m not sure how I can help you,” he said, when I finished my story. “It’s not in my jurisdiction.”
“Well, the young man in question had a girlfriend who may have lived in Bellevue. No one has seen her lately. She disappeared at about the same time as my guy.”
“Again,” he said, in a bored tone, “I'm not sure how I can help you.”
“A campus cop told me you guys were canvassing the University for her not long ago,
“Got a name?”
“Only a first name. Julie.”
There was a pause. “Description?”
“Very pretty, seventeen or eighteen. Five-foot-five, one hundred ten pounds. Blonde hair, long and straight, parted in the middle.”
“Maybe you better come in.”
He wasn’t bored anymore.
5.
The next morning I was on a quiet street in an upscale Bellevue neighborhood. Mark and Evelyn Nesbitt lived in a two story house with an attractive front porch and an elaborately landscaped yard. I parked at the curb and walked up the flagstone path. As I mounted the steps, the front door opened. A stern-looking man in his fifties gave me a hard stare through the glass of the storm door. He wore a flannel shirt and a pair of khaki pants. His brown leather belt was a bit too narrow, emphasizing the way his thick middle rolled out over the waist of his trousers. He looked tough enough, though.
“Craig?”
I nodded.
“Tell me why I should talk to you. Why are you interested in my daughter’s disappearance?”
“I’ll be happy to explain, but do you really want this conversation to take place on your front porch?”
I glanced up and down the street f
or emphasis. Every neighborhood has a busybody. He looked left at a house across the street and then motioned me inside. I wiped my feet and went inside.
The foyer had a hardwood floor, protected near the door by a heavy throw rug. The stairs were directly ahead, the living room off to the right, through a broad arch. To the right of the stairs a narrow hallway led towards the back of the house.
He pointed at a coat rack with brass hooks. “You can hang your coat there.”
I shrugged out of my jacket and placed it on the empty hook next to a tan barn coat.
“Thank you.”
He grunted, motioning towards the living room. “This way.”
Photos of Julie at different ages covered the mantle above the fireplace, each in a unique frame. The rest of the room had the same feminine touch. Two plush easy chairs and the sofa sported the same floral design.
His wife stood next to the sofa. Tiny and birdlike, she was his exact opposite. I could see where the girl got her looks. In better circumstances she was probably still a very handsome woman, but now her face was worn with strain. The simple housedress and frilly apron showed a light dusting of flour. She started towards me, the twin emotions of dread and hope fighting for space in her eyes. Her husband made a slight movement into her path. She caught the cue and stopped, looking to him for guidance. He was watching me.
“Now, talk to me. Why are you looking for my daughter?”
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Nesbitt. I’m not looking for your daughter, per se. Her name came up in the missing persons case I’m working on. I believe Detective Pierson told you I’m a private investigator from New York.”
“Yes, yes I know that. He said you provided him with some useful information. That's why we agreed to speak with you.”
“And I thank you for that.” I fished the photograph of Ken and Julie from the breast pocket of my shirt.
“Is that your daughter?” I held it out to him. He took it, looked briefly, and handed it back.