“I need to speak with the head of security.”
“Is it a security matter?”
“Yes.”
It was, after all, a matter of how they conducted their security operations.
“You’re not a student.”
“No.”
“You’ll have to speak to the public affairs director. I can’t help you.”
Max wanted to push, but she assessed the receptionist as well as the security officers who were giving her the eye. The eye that told her they were suspicious of outsiders.
“What is the public affairs director’s name?” Max asked. She had the information in her notes, but she hadn’t planned on speaking to public affairs unless as a last resort.
This was a last resort.
The receptionist typed rapidly. “Stephanie Adair,” she said. She wrote the name and phone number on a notepad. “If you go to the administration building, the front desk will be able to help you.”
All polite, now that she knew Max was leaving.
Max would return. She had questions, and if they didn’t answer them, the no comment she recorded would speak volumes.
Max left for the administration building next door, wondering if they were that rigid with all reporters, or just the reporter who said she was looking into Scott Sheldon’s disappearance. Was the receptionist the person she’d first spoken with? Why hadn’t she given her Adair’s name on the phone? Had she been briefed on the case and told to divert any future calls—or visits—to the media rep?
She went inside and asked for Stephanie Adair. She was directed to an office on the second floor. The girl at the desk was young, likely a college student, and immediately called Ms. Adair when Max asked for her.
“Ms. Adair said she’ll be a couple minutes, if you’d like to wait.”
Like most everything at Cheyenne College, the administration building was modern, more like an office building than a college. Two empty cubicles filled the room behind the student receptionist, stacks of paper and a computer on each. Lots of plants and a picture window looking out onto the quad made the office appear bigger and brighter.
A couple minutes turned into ten before Ms. Adair stepped out of the door behind the receptionist. She, too, looked young enough to be a college student, but she was dressed better and wore quite a bit of makeup.
She smiled and extended her hand. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Revere. You caught me on a phone call, and I have a lunch meeting. But if you’d like to walk with me, I’ll see what I can help with.”
“Thank you,” Max said automatically, though she had the feeling Adair was trying to get rid of her.
Adair walked briskly down the hall toward the main staircase. “What can I help you with?” she asked.
“I’m investigating the Scott Sheldon disappearance.”
Adair sounded perplexed. “Scott Sheldon? I don’t know who that is. Should I?”
“He was a student who disappeared last October while camping with three other students.”
“Oh, yes, I heard about that. I only started in this position in January.”
Great. She was new. But that might actually help Max. “I’d like to speak to the security chief about the matter. According to the police files, that would be Frank Hansen, and he’s still on staff.”
“Yes, Chief Hansen is still here. Policy is that any press inquiries about the college, faculty or students go through my office.”
“I have questions, you shouldn’t have to play the delivery girl. If you could simply grant permission—”
Adair stopped at the bottom of the staircase which opened into the wide lobby. “If you e-mail me your questions, I’ll talk to Chief Hansen and get them answered.”
“It would be better if we talked face-to-face. You’re welcome to be there.”
Adair smiled. She looked pleasant, but she was being hard-nosed. “No, that’s not possible. But I promise, I’ll get your questions answered quickly.” She handed Max her business card. “My email and phone number are on the card.”
Max didn’t like the answer, but she wasn’t going to get a concession out of Adair. Max slipped the card into her purse and forced out, “Thank you.”
“I’ll walk you to the parking lot.”
“I have other things to do.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but since you’re not a student or faculty or guest of either, you need to be cleared by the administration building and given a pass before you’re permitted to be on campus. Security reasons. I’m sure you understand.” Adair smiled, too brightly, and led the way to the parking lot.
“And how do I do that?” Max asked.
“The front desk can direct you to the visitors’ office.”
Max turned and went back into the building, leaving Adair staring after her, confused.
Let her be confused. Max had more questions, and she wasn’t leaving until she had answers.
CHAPTER FOUR
By the time Max was done jumping through the hoops necessary to get a one-day visitor’s pass, it was close to two thirty. Max returned to the bookstore and waited under a dripping tree for Jess to get off work. As soon as the petite girl walked out, she rolled her eyes.
“I have a three-o’clock class.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“What do you want?” she said. Her voice was almost a whine.
“I’d like your Facebook password.”
“What?” She shot her a slanted gaze. “You’re insane.”
“I went through Tom Keller’s profile because it was public, but Arthur and Carlos have private pages. I noted that you were on their friends lists. Therefore, if I can use your account, I can see what they’ve posted.”
“Why?”
“Because they lied. I don’t know why or what about, but they weren’t being completely honest about what happened on the mountain when Scott disappeared.”
“They wouldn’t hurt him,” Jess said, defiant.
Max hesitated. “That’s a bit of a leap. Did they have a reason to hurt Scott?”
“No,” she mumbled.
“Mrs. Sheldon needs to know what happened to her son. I think search and rescue has been looking in the wrong place. They would have found him by now.”
“Not if he got lost. Maybe they are looking in the wrong place, but only because Scott got lost,” she repeated.
“I won’t tell anyone you let me use your account.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know yet. Just snooping right now.” She was trying to lighten the mood, but Jess didn’t smile.
“All right. Whatever.” She stopped walking and tore a piece of paper out of one of her notebooks. She scribbled down an e-mail address and password. “I’m changing my password when I get out of my class,” she said. She was going for an angry tone, but it came out sad. “Just—if you find out what happened, what really happened, would you let me know?”
“I promise.”
Max watched Jess walk off, then turned and followed the signs to the library. The building was too warm, but right now Max needed the heat—her hair was wet, and while her coat kept her torso dry, her jeans were uncomfortably damp. She went to the restroom and brushed her hair, then pinned it up to keep the strands out of her face. Then she went out to the main room and planted herself at a table near windows that looked out at the Rocky Mountains towering high above the campus. While she loved Columbia and thrived in a city, Max also appreciated the peace that this small college enjoyed. It reminded her that maybe she needed a vacation.
Right. Because you relax so well.
Most of her vacations became working vacations.
Max pulled out her iPad and logged in to Jess’s Facebook account. Jess seemed to be pretty typical in her usage—she logged in nearly every day, posted funny pictures, photos of her friends, a lot of posts about events at the bookstore and rallies on campus. Most of the pages she followed were indie music bands, heavy on alternative mus
ic.
She clicked through to Arthur Cowan’s page. He wasn’t a social media nut like his friend Tom Keller, but he posted consistently. His interests were rather eclectic—but it was clear he spent a lot of time in the outdoors. He had pictures posted of him and friends skiing, and based on the level of difficulty of the slopes, he had experience.
She scrolled through his pictures, many of them outdoors with small groups of friends, mostly including Carlos. Few, if any, with Tom. He had a lot of people he was friends with on Facebook, but few comments on his posts—almost all from Carlos, his younger brother who was in junior high, and someone from his English class who posted odd snippets of apparent humor that Max didn’t quite understand. From the few comments over the past year along with the photos, Max put together a clear portrait of Arthur Cowan: he was a prankster, and while some people found him hilarious, most thought his jokes were in poor taste. At least a dozen posts were people telling him he did something “not cool” and Arthur would tell them to lighten up or that it was just a joke.
He was athletic, but seemed to participate only in individual sports like skiing. Carlos and Arthur had gone to high school together, and seemed to be inseparable. Three months ago, several people ragged on him for writing profanity on a kid’s face with permanent marker, because the kid was the first to pass out drinking at a party.
Max flipped over to Carlos Ibarra’s page. He hadn’t posted anything for three weeks, and his last post was a photo of him and Arthur during spring break in Los Angeles. They were on the beach. That photo had become his avatar. Carlos had even fewer friends than Arthur, and as Max looked at the history between them, it became clear that Carlos and Arthur were joined at the hip. They did everything together, they both majored in business, they shared a dorm room. Arthur was clearly the dominant personality.
She frowned. What did all this tell her? Absolutely nothing.
Not nothing, Max. There’s a pattern here. One of these things is not like the other.
Tom. He wasn’t part of Arthur and Carlos’s two-man clique. He was a year younger—Scott’s age. He tried too hard to make friends, as evidenced by his constant parties and incessant posting and poor attempts at humor. No one consistently popped up on his page. He was awkward and a bit nerdy, drank because it was social and he thought he could make friends. Max had known kids like him in college—the ones who were the life of the party, but mostly because people laughed at them.
How had Tom Keller hooked up with Arthur and Carlos? Why had the four of them gone camping?
Tom was the weak link. Carlos and Arthur were longtime friends; Tom wasn’t part of their clique. If Max could get him to talk to her about that weekend, then maybe the truth would come out.
Max was about to log out of Jess’s account when another thought occurred to her. Jess hadn’t been social with these boys since Scott disappeared, at least publicly, but it was clear she’d known them. Max clicked over to Jess’s private messages. She didn’t want to invade her privacy more than necessary, so she skimmed the names until she found one familiar.
Scott Sheldon.
Even though his account was deleted, the messages he’d sent to Jess were archived on her page. Reading them, it was clear that they were friends and might have liked each other more, but both talked around it. That would fit with Scott’s shy reputation.
Thursday night, before he left on the camping trip, Scott had sent Jess a message.
S: Why are you mad that I’m going camping with the guys?
J: Since when did Art and Carlos become “the guys”? Art’s a jackass. I told you that last week.
S: It’s not easy for me to make friends. Ian thinks I’m a nerd, and all he talks about is baseball. I played baseball one year, when I was 9. I was the worst player on the team and once, when I tried to catch a fly ball, it hit my forehead and I passed out. I don’t fit in anywhere, and Art is nice to me.
J: Scott, you’ll find your niche. We’re friends, right? Art is only nice because he wants something.
S: It’s just for the weekend. I’ll call you when I get back, okay?
J: Whatever.
Jess was irritated with Scott. She’d followed up that conversation with a message Sunday morning.
Are you around? The weather sucks, call me, I want to make sure you got back okay.
Max scrolled further and found a thread between Art and Jess more than a year ago. She immediately realized that Jess and Art had dated a few times, and Jess called it off.
A: Why are you so mad at me?
J: You’re an asshole, and if you don’t know why I’m mad, go fuck yourself.
A: Come on, it was a joke. Can’t you take a joke?
J: It wasn’t a joke to anyone but you and Carlos. I’m done.
A: Well screw you, you have no sense of humor.
Max copied and pasted both threads of messages. She wanted to ask Jess about this, but the girl was still in class. Max checked Tom’s social media hive, and he hadn’t posted anything since she confronted him outside his English class. Mr. Social Animal had gone silent.
More than a little interesting.
She went back to Art’s page and looked through the photos that were posted immediately prior to the camping trip. Scott was in a few, mostly from a party the weekend before. Jess was in a few of the group shots with Scott, and so was Tom.
On the day they left, there were some photos posted to Art’s page via his phone from the interior of Carlos’s four-wheel drive. Another photo of Art, Tom, and Scott at the campsite holding beers. Then nothing else from the trip.
That seemed … odd for someone who documented his life on social media. She went back to Tom’s page, and he hadn’t posted anything after 4 P.M. that day. His last tweet was:
Going camping! Haha. #nointernet #techwithdrawal
If there was no Internet, when had they posted the picture from the campsite?
She looked at the information. It was posted Saturday morning, at 8:35 A.M.
Sometimes, there was a weak cellular connection and it could take an unusually long time to upload a picture, but that should drain the phone battery. They could have brought extra phone batteries or a portable charger. Anything was possible. Still, something seemed … weird. Not that they were drinking at 8:35 A.M., but because that picture, based on the sun and quality of light was obviously taken in the late afternoon. That was confirmed by the tag Art had added:
Me and buds, last camping trip of the season. We have plenty of beer and food! Haha.
She downloaded the picture. There was information embedded in most photos uploaded from a mobile device. She didn’t remember how to access it, but when she got back to the Broadmoor she’d call a friend who would do it for her.
Max packed up, slipped on her coat, which had nearly dried, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and walked outside. The light, steady rain continued. Great. She should have retrieved her umbrella earlier.
She headed straight for Canyon Hall and up to the fourth floor. She listened outside room 412. People were talking inside, though she couldn’t make out specific words. She knocked loudly. A few seconds later, the door opened.
Arthur Cowan was a lot shorter than she’d thought—about her height of five foot ten. He stared at her—first her face, then his eyes dipped down to her breasts, which were covered by her coat, then back to her face. “Hell-o,” he said.
“That’s the reporter,” a voice came from the room. Max couldn’t see Tom Keller, but it sounded like his whine.
“Maxine Revere,” she said, and held out her card.
Art frowned. “We have nothing to say to you.” He started to close the door.
Max put her boot in the opening. “You don’t know my questions.”
“Tom says you’re writing an article about Scott. That you think we lied.”
“Tom,” Max said, pushing open the door and stepping into the dorm room. “That’s not what I said.”
The room was a mess, and she thought
about Ian’s comment about not wanting to live with a slob. The main room had two small couches and reeked of stale food and beer. Two open doors led to bedrooms, which were equally messy. There was so much clothing and paper scattered in one room, she couldn’t see the floor.
“Hey,” Art said when she brushed past him. “We didn’t invite you in.”
She said, “What really happened on that camping trip? Don’t you think that Scott’s family deserves the truth?”
“I’m calling campus security,” Art said. But it was Carlos who pulled his phone from his pocket.
She had to talk fast. The papers she signed to get the visitor’s pass included a whole slew of rules, including an admonition not to harass students. Some people might think that questions were a form of harassment, and since she’d already tipped her hand to Stephanie Adair, she didn’t want to be removed from campus now.
“To confirm the time line, based on your statements to the police, you three, with Scott Sheldon, went to a known campground approximately an hour’s drive from here. When you arrived, you decided to hike two miles to another campground, less popular but still on the map. Friday night, even though it was forty degrees and dipped down to subzero temperatures before sunrise, Scott walked off, angry, because of an argument. To quote Art, ‘It was just a stupid disagreement.’”
She looked at the boys in turn. Tom stared at his feet, Carlos stared at Art, and Art stared at her.
She continued. “When Scott didn’t return Saturday morning, you went back to the truck and didn’t find him there. But instead of looking for him, or notifying the rangers’ station, you left. In fact, you didn’t notify anyone that Scott was missing until Sunday.”
“There was a storm,” Tom began. “We—”
“Shut up,” Art said, sneering at Tom. “Don’t talk to her.” He stepped toward Max. “Get out.”
If he thought he was intimidating, he was wrong. Max had gone up against far more intimidating men—and women—than Arthur Cowan.
“The storm didn’t really turn bad until Saturday afternoon. You could have called the rangers’ station, told them Scott was missing. They would have gone up there and looked for him until dark. Yet you waited until Sunday morning to inform campus security.” She eyed the boys carefully: Art, red with anger; Carlos, still focused on Art, concerned; Tom, pale and twitchy. “After that, it’s campus security who’s at fault for not contacting the rangers until late on Sunday.”
Best Laid Plans Page 42