Devil's Run (4 page)

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.

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 for 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.

“That’s
Julie.”

His
wife came forward and peered at the photo. “Who’s the young man?” she asked.

“You
don’t know him?”

“Why
would she ask you if she knew who he was?”

I
opened my mouth to reply, but his wife intervened.

“Mark,”
she said, taking his arm gently in both hands, “why don’t we all sit down.”
Surprisingly docile, he allowed her to sit him down. Then she turned to me. “I
just made some coffee, Mr. Craig. Would you like some?”

Like
a hole in the head, but I smiled and said, “Thank you, that would be nice.”

Nesbitt
gave his wife an annoyed look, which she ignored and bustled off to the
kitchen.

“Have
a seat, Mr. Craig,” he said.

I
thanked him and sat down.

“That
young man, in the picture, he’s the one that’s missing?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“According
to the police, about the same time your daughter disappeared.”

He
nodded, because he’d guessed that already. “How do you think it ties in?”

“I’m
not sure. That’s why I’m here.” I leaned forward. “I understand your daughter
is involved in the ecology movement,” I said, making a point of using the
present tense.

“You
could say that,” he said drily.

His
wife chose that moment to enter, carrying a wooden tray. “Julie is very
concerned about the Earth,” she said. She set it down on the coffee table and
began to pour. “Cream and sugar, Mr. Craig?”

“Black
is fine, ma’am.”

She
handed me a cup. I took a sip while she poured one for the Mister. He took a
dollop of cream and a teaspoon of sugar.

“Was
it a local group she was involved with?”

She
started to speak, but he answered first.

“I
think so. We never met any of them.”

Mrs.
Nesbitt glanced briefly at the carpet, then up at me. I got the message. Nesbitt
wasn’t entirely clued in to what was going on in Julie’s life. I made a note
and moved on.

“According
to his roommate,” I said, “she met Ken through an ecology group that was
recruiting on campus.”

“All
of a sudden, it was a big thing with her,” Nesbitt said, sitting forward with
sudden vehemence. “Never cared a whit about anything except MTV and shoes. Then
one day it was global warming this and vanishing forests that. I don’t know,
maybe it was me. I work for Weyerhaeuser.” He sat back and looked off into the
distance, seemingly spent. “Teenagers rebel, you know.”

Mrs.
Nesbitt glanced at me again. I didn’t know much about raising kids, but I knew
it is usually the boys who do things in rebellion. Girls at that age, for the
most part, do things for another reason: boys.

“Do
you have any names of the activists she worked with?” I said, looking from one
to the other.

“No,”
he said.

“Could
I look at her room?” I asked. “There might be something that would give me a
clue.”

He
shook his head. “I don’t think so. My daughter has privacy rights.”

“Mark,”
said Mrs. Nesbitt, “it wouldn’t hurt for him to look. After all, the police
have been through there. And they said this man helped.”

“I
don’t know,” he said.

I
was thinking of what to say when his wife said, “Why don’t you go up there and
make sure there’s nothing out she wouldn’t want him to see. Then I’ll bring him
up.”

Before
he could argue with her, I stood up and said, “I’ll just help you clear these
things while he does that, Mrs. Nesbitt.” I put my cup on the tray, picked it
up and said, “Kitchen?”

“This
way,” she said.

He
didn’t move for a while. I was already putting cups in the sink before I heard
him clumping up the stairs. I turned to her.

“You
had something you wanted to tell me, Mrs. Nesbitt?”

She
glanced furtively towards the door and stepped closer to me. Speaking in a low
voice she said, “Julie had a boyfriend.”

“You
mean other than Ken?”

“Like
I said, I didn't know this Ken.” She nodded. “This was an older boy.”

“How
old?”

“He
looked to be in his late twenties. That would have upset Mark, Julie being just
seventeen and all.” She searched my face for disapproval and found none.

“What
was his name?”

“Roger.
That was all I knew. I never knew his last name.”

“He
was the cause of her sudden interest in the ecology movement?”

“Yes.”
She smiled wanly. “We can be very silly. Women I mean.”

“Do
you think there was some problem when she started seeing Ken?”

She
looked puzzled and shook her head. “That’s just it. I don’t think she ever was
really seeing this other boy. She was still with Roger. She never mentioned
this Ken person.”

“Ken
seemed to think she was his girlfriend,” I said. “How do you explain the
photo?”

“I
can't, really. Julie is something of a flirt. I- Did this Ken have money?”

I
was surprised by the question. “Yes. His family is well-to-do.”

“I
was coming to her room once and I heard her on the phone, with Roger, and she
was saying ‘He'll pay for the whole trip'.”

“Trip?
When was this?”

She
shook her head. “September, I think. I'm not really sure.”

“What
sort of trip?”

“I
asked what it was all about and she laughed, and said, ‘Oh, mom. It’s just
about Roger's work'.”

“And
what was Roger's work?”

“He
was some sort of organizer for some group.”

“A
protest group?”

“I
guess so. I remember now she told me he had a scar on his neck from a pepper
something.”

“A
pepper ball?”

“Yes,
that's it. She said he got it during those G8 protests a few years ago. She
thought him very heroic. Julie used to help him out, designing flyers and
passing them out on campus and in town.”

I
had the flyers I'd taken from the Student Union in my pocket. I took them out
and showed them to her. “Do any of these look familiar?”

She
took them to the kitchen table and carefully smoothed them out. “I really
couldn't say. She never showed me any of them.” She stopped talking and lifted
one of the flyers slowly.

“Something
wrong, Mrs. Nesbitt?”

She
pointed at the flyer. It was one of the four with the same contact address.
“This little flower. Julie put it on everything she did. School papers,
projects. It started in third grade and she just kept it up.” Her voice broke
slightly, and her hand went to her mouth. Before I could say anything, we were
interrupted.

“Evelyn!”
It was Nesbitt, calling from upstairs.

“We’d
better go,” she said, recovering her composure. She gathered up the flyers and
handed them back to me. I refolded them and put them back in my pocket.

“One
more thing, Mrs. Nesbitt. Do you know how to get in touch with Roger?”

“No.
I'm sorry.”

“That
call Julie made, was it on your house phone?”

She
thought for a moment. “Yes.”

“Do
you keep your bills?”

She
smiled. “My husband is an engineer. Everything is filed alphabetically and by
date.”

“Could
you find the statement for the time when she made that phone call? I need to
track this man down.”

“Of
course. I believe the police copied them all and returned them. I'll check and
then join you upstairs.” She pointed. “Julie’s room is top of the stairs second
door on right.”

“Thank
you.”

I
went into the hall and up the stairs. Nesbitt was waiting in the room for me.

“Where
is my wife?”

“She’s
finishing in the kitchen.”

He
made his grunting noise again.

Pink
was the dominant color in the room and the canopied bed sported frilly
bedclothes and those multiple throw pillows men find so bewildering. On a table
in the corner was the inevitable menagerie of stuffed animals. Along with the
requisite pop star photos, there was a PETA poster of a popular actress,
discreetly naked, protesting the use of fur. In one corner, leaning against the
wall, was a cardboard sign with the international symbol for ‘stop’
superimposed over the word 'logging'. Opposite the bed was a computer desk with
shelves holding several books, a printer, and framed photos of Julie and her
friends. There was no computer, only an empty docking station.

“Computer?”
I said.

“Laptop.
She must have it with her.”

Most
of the books were on ecology and looked fairly new. Some were from mainstream
publishers, including “Earth in the Balance” by Al Gore, but others looked
self-published.

“May
I?” I asked, reaching towards them. He nodded.

I
took one of the books out and flipped through it. It was entitled “Saving Gaia”
by Jack Epstein. Apparently the Earth was on its last legs and only violent
action would save her. The deeper I went, the more radical it got. The final
chapters were all about ‘active defense’ of Mother Earth, which was a synonym
for eco-terrorism. There was detailed information on how to spike trees,
disable vehicles, and start fires remotely.

Nesbitt
must have seen my expression. “What is it?”

“Fairly
radical stuff.”

“My
daughter was not a radical.”

I
smiled. “I was referring to the book.”

I
flipped to the front pages. The book was published by the Nature First Press of
Bedford, Vermont.

“Are
we through here?” said Nesbitt.

I
closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Nesbitt.”