Devil's Run Read Free Page A

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