Best Laid Plans (57 page)

“Tom,” she called out when they were at the base of the stairs.

He turned and spotted her, gave her an obvious look up and down. “You’re not in my class,” he said with a flirty grin. “Unless you’re the new teaching assistant.”

“Maxine Revere, reporter.” She handed him her card. “Let’s talk.”

He stared at her card, his brows pulled together. “Reporter?”

“Scott Sheldon.”

He handed back her card. “I need to go.”

“I have a few questions.”

He brushed past her. “I have nothing to say.”

“Why? If what you said happened is true, why don’t you want to talk about it?”

He turned and stared, his eyes narrow. “
If?
What’s your deal? What do you mean, ‘if’? I told everyone what happened. Why do you care?”

“Scott is classified as a missing person. Were you aware that the rangers are still looking for his body? When they find him, they’ll know what happened.”

The kid, already white, paled even more. “They know what happened because we told them what happened. You have no right to harass me.”

Keller’s voice rose, squeaky and worried. Others in the hall looked over, overtly curious. Max didn’t care. She wasn’t the one with something to hide.

“I’m not harassing you, Tom.”

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

He bumped into a group of students in his haste to get away from her. He scowled at them, then pushed open the double doors and hurried outside into the steadily falling drizzle.

Something was definitely up.

*   *   *

Max went back to the bookstore to talk to Jess about her social media password, and Jess told her she couldn’t talk.

“When do you get off?” Max asked.

“Two thirty. I really don’t want to get involved.”

“You already are, and I think you know that.” But Max could wait if it would encourage Jess to cooperate. She said, “I’ll be back in two hours. Just to talk, okay?”

“Whatev,” Jess said, and went to ring up a student.

Max went outside and frowned at the wet sky. If she was here on campus until three or later, she wouldn’t have time to visit the campsite. Tomorrow, she’d do it first thing.

She located the campus security office on the map and walked briskly to the small building west of the main administration wing. By the time she arrived, her coat and hair were more than a little damp.

The office was dry, warm, and set up like a police bull pen with a front desk separated by a low partition and ten or twelve desks, each backing to another. Four of the desks were currently occupied. The receptionist smiled. “May I help you?”

She handed the woman her card. “I called two days ago, but no one returned my call.”

The receptionist returned Max’s card. “You can go to the administration building and talk to the public affairs director.”

“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 music.

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.