Best Laid Plans (58 page)

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.”

“It’s not our fault he left,” Tom said.

“Shut the fuck up, Tom!”

Art took a step toward her. She wasn’t scared of the kid, but he was certainly hot under the collar. “Get out of my room. Now.”

“Your reaction tells me you’re a liar, Arthur. I will prove it.”

He pushed her. She took a step back, raised an eyebrow. “Touch me again, and I
will
put you down, little man.”

His eyes narrowed and he fisted his hands. Carlos stepped up. “Hey, Art, campus security is on their way.”

“Get out!” Art screamed at her. This time, he kept his hands to himself.

Art was a powder keg. She glanced at Tom before she turned to leave. The kid was pale. She definitely needed to talk to him again, alone.

She opened the door. Art’s eyes filled with hate and fear. A big temper problem. Known as a prankster. Maybe he took out his anger through cruel jokes.

Maybe one of his pranks turned deadly. She mulled that idea over in her head. Something to dig into, and Jess Sanchez was the best resource.

She left the dorm with the intention of hunting down Jess and pushing her about her past relationship with Art and asking her about the types of pranks he played—the ones that went beyond writing on his drunk friends. But as soon as she left the dorm room, she was confronted by two campus security officers.

“Ma’am, visitors need to check in with the administration.”

She showed them her visitor’s pass. “Were either of you on duty the weekend that Scott Sheldon disappeared?”

“You’ll have to speak to the chancellor, ma’am.”

“I should instead speak with your security chief.”

“I’m sorry, we’re not authorized to talk with the press. All press inquiries must go through the communications director.” He paused. “But you know that.”

“I do. I spoke to her earlier and she helped me get this visitor’s pass.” Which was true. Adair did direct her to the appropriate office to obtain it. “Thank you for your help.”

She turned to head to the bookstore, hoping that the staff there would point her to Jess Sanchez’s dorm. The taller officer said, “Ma’am, we’ve had a complaint that you were harassing three of our students. Your visitor’s pass has been canceled, and we need to ask you to leave. If you would like to return, you’ll need to check in with the administration.”

She considered her options. She really wanted to talk to Jess, but she also wanted to investigate the picture she’d downloaded. She didn’t want Art to figure out that she’d spoken to Jess, either. He might scare her into being silent. She seemed like a tough girl, but under the surface had been skittish. And fearful of Art.

“I’m leaving,” she told the security officers. They escorted her to her car. She turned and thanked them. “You can tell your boss I’ll be back with more questions.”

She got into her car and saw the campus cops standing in the rain, watching her drive off.

Her phone rang. She’d forgotten to set up the Bluetooth in the rental, so pulled over to the side, right by the main entrance to the campus. She answered the unfamiliar number.

“Ms. Revere? This is Chuck Pence from the park service. I head up search and rescue. I got your message.”

“I’m in town and would like to talk to you about the search for Scott Sheldon’s body.”

“You’re in Colorado?”

“Yes, just leaving Cheyenne College right now after an enlightening conversation with Scott’s friends. Do you have time to meet? I can come by your office now.”

“I’m still on the road. I can meet you somewhere in two hours.”

That would be close to six. “I’m staying at the Broadmoor. I’ll meet you in the main lobby at six.”

“I’ll be the man with the dog.”

She smiled and hung up. With a final glance at the Cheyenne College sign, Max pulled back onto the road and headed for her hotel. She would most certainly return.

CHAPTER FIVE

Max’s friends had often criticized her that she was prone to judgment. She assessed people quickly, and experience had proved that her initial opinion was generally accurate. Even with her college roommate, Max had been dead-on with her assessment—which included the fact that Karen had a big, fat, trusting heart. Max was drawn to that, maybe because she found it so difficult to trust anyone.

Chuck Pence walked in promptly at six with a beautiful golden retriever. But it wasn’t just the dog that identified Pence to Max; it was also his no-nonsense manner and his no-nonsense voice, which Max remembered from their phone conversations.

Pence had the sharp eyes of a cop, but with a focused calm Max didn’t often see in the police she worked with. His movements were minimal, suggesting both confidence and military or police training. His dog, which wore a service collar, was young, not much more than a puppy—maybe two years. That the dog obeyed the subtle commands of its owner told Max more about Chuck than anything else.