Devil's Run Read Free

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