Misdirection, page 8
part #2 of Borealis: Without a Compass Series
“Because they don’t have to do anything if he ran away. That’s the kind of entrenched governmental incompetence that I promised to uproot when I ran for office. The citizens of this great state elected me to—”
“Yes, I understand,” Shaw said, “but do they have any other reasons?”
“He’s seventeen.”
“Lots of kids are seventeen. They don’t all run away from home. Or from boarding school. Usually kids run away from home because there’s trouble at home—trouble they don’t know how to handle, or trouble they can’t handle.”
“He didn’t run away,” Celia asked. The flush was working its way into her face again. “What don’t you understand about that?”
“Has there been something at home that might—”
With a short, shrill scream, Celia swept a hand across her desk. Object went flying: keyboard, mouse, a paperclip holder shaped like a galvanized milk jug, the four-by-six in its cheap frame. The paperclips hissed like metallic rain. The framed photograph cracked when it hit the floor.
North ran his thumb along the edge of the sofa, tracing the stitching, the leather stiff and resistant. After a moment, the hard lines in Celia’s body softened, and she leaned back in her seat.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been under a great deal of pressure.”
“You probably need acupuncture,” Shaw told her.
That one slid right off her; her response was: “There hasn’t been any trouble at home. Philip did not run away.”
“We’re just trying to get a feel for the situation,” North said. “Why don’t you tell us why you believe he was abducted?”
“The door had been forced. The room had been searched. There were signs of a struggle.”
True, true, true, North wanted to say. He had seen them all himself. Instead, he only asked, “Was there anything else? A ransom demand? Contact of any kind?”
“No. Nothing.”
“And his phone?”
“The police found his phone in his bedroom.”
“Any unusual activity? Calls? Texts?”
“No, nothing. Texts to his friends. Texts to his girlfriend.”
“And I assume the police spoke to all of them.”
“Of course. They all claim they have no idea what happened.”
“The head of school,” Shaw said.
“Dr. Latese? What about her?”
“Her behavior was…odd,” North said. “The day we went to the school. Extremely odd.”
“Suspicious,” Shaw said.
“Dr. Latese is an institution,” Celia said after a moment. “She’s the backbone of that school. I don’t understand what you’re suggesting.”
“So the police didn’t talk to her?”
“I’m sure they made contact, of course.”
“All right,” North said. “What about family and friends? Here or in St. Louis?”
“Of course we’ve talked to all of them. I don’t have any siblings. Francis has two brothers and a sister, all of them in Kansas. We’ve called all our friends, all of Philip’s friends from childhood. No one has heard anything.” She shifted forward in the seat. “I don’t understand why we’re still talking about this. Philip didn’t run away. He was kidnapped.”
“But kidnappers are often already known to their victims,” North said. “A stranger abducting Philip would be extremely rare.”
“Why us?” Shaw said.
Celia didn’t blink. “I hired you because a police investigation, no matter how good the officers, no matter how determined they are to help, are limited by their own policies, their own regulations, and the reality of the demands that full-time policing poses. For example, an excess of cases, which means they can’t give my son their full attention. That’s why I hired you. You can give me more hours, you can give me more maneuverability, and you can give me an independent account of what’s happening.”
North recognized the reasons. He ought to; he’d written them himself. Celia was cribbing from the Borealis website.
“I also hired you because you have a reputation for solving difficult cases. Impossible cases. And Philip’s is impossible. His disappearance, I mean. It’s impossible for him to have vanished like this, and yet he has.”
“It might seem that way,” North said, “but you’d be surprised how much we rely on the expectation of being safe rather than—”
“You don’t understand. It’s impossible. The Gouverneur Morris School is very prestigious. It has a healthy endowment. Top-of-the-line security because very important and very famous people send their children there. There are security guards on campus, and they’re not just rent-a-uniform stiffs from a temp agency. These are former law enforcement professionals vetted by the school. The buildings all have secured doors that require an access card. The campus is lousy with cameras. And all of that seems to mean nothing, absolutely nothing, because all the police can tell me is that the cameras and the guards and keycards all tell the same story: Philip walked into his residence Sunday night around seven. The only other people who went into the building between seven that night and the next day, when you and Dr. Dove arrived, were students who lived in that residence. Nobody else went in. And Philip never came out.”
Shaw’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak.
“He never came out?” North said.
Celia shook her head.
“That is…strange.”
“It’s impossible.”
“A laundry cart,” Shaw said.
It took a moment, and then Celia shook her head. “Nothing like that, I’m afraid. There were no mysterious bundles being smuggled out of the building. No interruptions to the security feed. No blind spots.” A dry smile dusted her lips. “No secret tunnels. My son went home the way he always went home, and the next day he was gone. Someone took him. I just don’t know how.”
In the distance, a gun fired, and North straightened in his seat.
“That’ll be Francis blowing off some steam,” Celia said, the smile inching open on her face again. “We’re a hunting family. Competitive shooting as well. Philip is quite good. Francis, not so much, although he enjoys the sport tremendously. And it keeps him out from underfoot, so I let him indulge himself.”
As though on cue, a series of shots followed in rapid succession.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Philip? Recent changes in behavior? Anything, even if it seems small. Had he talked about anyone new in his life?”
“No. Nothing.”
“You’re sure?” When silence came back, North added, “Maybe you could give us an idea of what he’s like, his habits, things like that.”
“Philip is the perfect son.” For the first time since North had met her, Celia Chittenden’s mask slipped, and the woman underneath peeked out. Her eyes were distant, her face softly alight. “I’m sure every mother feels that way, but in this case, it’s true. He’s smart. He’s handsome. He’s athletic. He’s a hard worker. He makes friends easily. He’s done exceptionally well in school; in the fall, he’ll be at Yale.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” Shaw said. “I used to think North was perfect, and then I saw his toenails.”
Celia blinked.
“I think that’s why he wears those ugly boots.”
“Enough,” North muttered.
“I’m helping her understand—”
“Then stop helping.” To Celia, North said, “You’re sure there’s nothing you might want to tell us? We’ll do our own dig into Philip’s life, but you could save us some trouble. What about the drugs?”
Frowning, Celia ran her hand through the spray of paperclips on the milk-paint desk. “I suppose you’ll find out on your own, not that it’s anything serious. Philip was arrested for possession of marijuana. You already knew that he’d made a mistake. A tiny mistake. It wasn’t even his.”
“He was holding it for a friend,” North offered.
“Yes, exactly. How did you know?”
North carefully avoided looking at Shaw. “Lucky guess.”
“That’s why he had to be tested; his father and I insisted on it. He has a wonderful life in front of him, and there’s no reason for him to throw it all away.”
“What about his girlfriend?” Shaw asked.
“Abigail? She seems like a nice girl. She’s come to dinner a few times with Philip. Her family lives in China; they’re tremendously wealthy and very influential.”
“Teenage relationships are often stormy—” Shaw began.
“Shaw would know,” North said, “since he once broke up with the same guy sixteen times in one day.”
“That’s not really—”
“Over text.”
“We’re losing track of—”
“Of course, it didn’t help that Shaw had never really been dating this guy in the first place. This guy just thought they were study buddies.”
“All right,” Shaw said.
“Straight as an arrow,” North said. “The first fourteen times, he thought Shaw had the wrong number, and then—” North cut off, grinding his teeth to keep from yelping, and massaged his leg where Shaw had pinched him.
“What I’m trying to ask is if Philip and Abigail had hit a rough patch?”
“He didn’t run away from home,” Celia said, but she was suddenly busy scooping the spilled paperclips into neat mounds on her desk.
“But something did happen.”
“They broke up,” Celia said. “It’s only temporary. She’s going to Yale in the fall as well. Normally I’d encourage Philip to date around, but he and Abigail are a perfect fit. They’ll work it out.”
“We’ll need access to his bank accounts,” North began.
“Philip doesn’t have any money of his own. After his…mistake, his father and I cut off his allowance. He’ll earn it back, of course, because he has to be able to socialize with his friends. But right now, he’s still being punished.” She offered a cool smile. “Even if he had wanted to run away, he wouldn’t have gotten far.”
Not necessarily, North thought. Not while there were still people who picked up hitchhikers, guys who traded a blowjob for a lift across state, little old hippie ladies who sensed a kindred spirit, that kind of thing. But he just nodded.
“We’d still like access to his accounts, his phone records, social media, email, and some recent photos.”
“Of course; Gavin will get it for you. And you’ll need this, of course.” She opened a drawer in the desk and withdrew a small plastic card. “I arranged for a copy from the school. You’ll be able to access Philip’s room; it’s still a sealed scene, so you’ll probably need to inform the police if you decide to examine it.”
“Have they had someone watching it continuously?” North asked.
“I’m not sure. I can’t imagine they did.”
“Then it’s not a sealed scene, no matter how much tape they put up.” He took the card. “We’ll give it a look anyway.”
As North moved toward the doors, Shaw veered off and bent to recover the fallen photograph. He picked it up and handed it to Celia with a soft smile.
“You have a lovely family. Your daughter?”
Again, the mask slipped, and the woman looking out was sad and, North thought, quite lonely. Celia nodded.
“She’s adorable,” Shaw said.
“Sara Beth was such a happy child.” Clutching the photograph to her chest, Celia stared at the floor, as though unable to meet their gazes. “Please find my son.”
They saw themselves out.
When North and Shaw were halfway to the GTO, a voice called out, “Hold on a minute.”
Francis Chittenden loped toward them across the manicured lawn. He’d traded the tassel loafers for shiny cowboy boots, and now he sported a revolver holstered at his hip. He’d even added a Stetson, white with silver stitching, and North wondered if it was everybody in the whole world who wanted to punch this guy in the face, or just people with good taste.
“Sorry about that,” Francis said when he caught up. “What you had to see in there. She can be a royal cunt. Is, I guess.”
North shifted his weight, face blank.
“She give you the good mommy routine in there? That’s her specialty. Men don’t like a woman who’s smarter than they are, tougher than they are, and can shoot better than they can. You saw her little trophy winner on the desk, right? So she trots Philip out, Mother of the Year, and talks about gun rights and lowering taxes, and they all pat themselves on the back for putting a woman in office, convinced they aren’t a bunch of sexist pigs.”
“Is there something we can do for you, Mr. Chittenden?”
Francis gave them a smile. “You think I’m a bastard for talking about her that way. That’s all right; I am a bastard. And a sexist pig, probably. But I know what I am, and at least I’m honest about it.”
“If there’s nothing—” Shaw began.
“If you find Philip, call me.”
“Sure,” North said. “That’s what you hired us to do.”
Shaking his head, Francis drew out a silver case, from which he drew a business card printed on linen cardstock. He handed it over. A little black tree, his name, a phone number, and the words DE WOLF FORESTRY – A FAMILY TRADITION.
“But not your family, I’m guessing,” North said, as he passed the card to Shaw.
This time, Francis’s smile was a little harder. “I’m telling you don’t call Celia. If you find him—when you find him—if you care about what’s best for Philip, you’ll call me.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Chittenden.”
“You don’t think it’s strange, why she picked you two? She wasn’t drawing names out of a hat, you know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shaw said.
Francis stood hipshot, one hand easy on the revolver like he thought he was the Man from Laramie. “Call me. When you find him, I mean. And I’ll tell you all about it. Philip will tell you too.”
He watched them go, and North didn’t draw a deep breath until a windbreak of hawthorn and black haw hid the house and the man with the gun.
“What was that all about?” Shaw asked, craning to look behind them once more.
“I don’t know, but I’m starting to have an idea why this case has felt messed up from the start.”
Chapter 9
“CAMERA,” SHAW said, “camera, camera, camera, camera.”
“Oh,” North said. “That’s what those black camera-looking things are.”
They finished their circuit of Flip’s residence. It was mid-afternoon, and the May day was perfect: the sky clear, the sun bright, the air warm enough that North had ditched his Carhartt jacket in the car. Shaw was enjoying the admirable display of biceps provided by the red-and-black GameStop tee that was just a little too small for North. At the moment, the quad was quiet; if the schedule was anything like what it had been in Shaw’s day, the students were all probably at phys-ed, participating in what Shaw had once tried to point out was ironically called a mandatory sport of their choosing.
He forced his attention back to the brick colonial. True to Celia’s description, cameras covered every conceivable ingress and egress. Even if Flip had risked the fall from the third-story window, cameras would have caught him—Shaw had seen banks with fewer cameras.
“I still think he left in a laundry cart.”
“My vote is for tunneling out with a spoon,” North said.
“It’s not a prison break.”
“It might have felt like one to Flip; this place is not exactly cheery.”
“Front or back?”
North smirked. “Are we talking your place or mine?”
“This setting is making you even more juvenile than usual. Let’s try the front.”
“Definitely. Back door action is third-date material.”
“It’s all that cheese,” Shaw said as he waved the access card at the sensor. “Your myelin sheaths are probably like cement by now.”
Inside, a familiar strain of odors met Shaw: body spray, furniture polish, teen boy funk that was a combination of too little deodorant and too many dirty socks. They made their way up the stairs, passing portraits of stern-faced old men and high-collared old ladies, landscapes of country fields and cottages, hounds and horses. The house was quiet; aside from the creak of the boards under them, the only noise came from outside, where someone was mowing the lawn.
“Must be a bitch to sneak out of this place,” North said.
“Oh yeah,” Shaw said. “There’s a mom or dad in each residence, of course, and part of their job is to keep you from sneaking out.”
“That sounds creepy as fuck.”
“Oh, you don’t have to call them that. Actually, it’d be kind of weird if you did. They’re just teachers, so you just call them whatever you normally do. Ours was Mr. Huebner, and he was about a million years old and never trimmed his nose hairs. But when the kids talk to each other about that person, they’ll say, ‘he’s my dad,’ or ‘she’s our mom,’ that kind of thing. There’s a whole language here. Phys-ed instead of PE, for some reason. Bouching class instead of skipping class. I think a lot of private schools are like that, like these tiny, compressed worlds all on their own.”
“High school is already like that,” North said. “Add a lot of money, a lot of privilege, and a lot of entitlement, plus a maid and butler, and I bet every adult within five miles wants to put a drill through their eye.”
Shaw laughed quietly. “Anyway, I lived in Jefferson, which is the next residence south, but it’s basically the same as this one. We had to memorize which boards made the most noise—they all make some noise, so you just try to avoid the worst ones—and the best time to try to get out was when the house was settling. That was before all the electronic locks, so it’s probably even harder now.”
“Nobody goes out the windows?”
“Gracie Schwartz did. She had a girlfriend off campus who sold the best—” Shaw cut a look at North. “Um, candy. Anyway, Gracie slipped and fell because she was totally high, and she spent the rest of the semester in a cast, and the soccer team was furious because they probably would have won the championship if she’d been playing.”
