Mya Loverne. The cops were all over her by now. Why had Parker gone uptown and risked capture? There had to be a reason besides the girl. He was resourceful. There had to be another angle.
Parker was born with a pedigree that had been run over by a Mack truck, but still managed to work himself into an Ivy League school, pulled good grades and landed a job at one of the country’s most respected newspapers. He was a pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps archetype. The Ringer hated them, hated chasing them. If forced into self-reliance early on in life, one’s abilities in that regard would only mature with age. Knowing this, it was probable Parker had fled the city and the cops were searching for a needle in an empty haystack. That boded well. At least he was on equal footing with the cops.
He opened his notebook and wrote down every conceivable route out of New York he could think of. He crossed off the airports and bus terminals. It was impossible for Parker to get past security. Subways were a problem, but they could only take him within the five boroughs. From what DiForio and Blanket said, Parker had no reliable contacts in New York other than his employer and girlfriend.
His employer was Wallace Langston, editor in chief of the New York Gazette. The same paper that had, reluctantly, he was sure, run a front-page story about John Fredrickson’s murder that morning. In a letter from the editor, Langston himself referred to Parker as a “young employee who’d met their hiring expectations with flying colors and had exhibited no hostile, let alone homicidal, tendencies,” then adding, “The Gazette will do anything and everything possible to bring all the facts to light, without any bias or prejudice.”
If Langston made any attempt to aid Parker, his paper would be in jeopardy. The Ringer knew these newsmen. Most of them considered themselves noble, even altruistic, but in truth they lusted for fame, the glory of the byline. Hungry writers were no doubt chomping at the bit to write the Henry Parker/John Fredrickson story. Betraying friendships for the sake of notoriety.
Columbia. It didn’t add up.
The Ringer picked up the phone and dialed Information, asking to be connected to the Columbia University directory. A sweet lady, her voice young and slightly timid, answered the phone. The Ringer asked to be connected to whatever office handled student transportation.
This time, a gruff man, sounding like he hadn’t trimmed his beard in several months, answered.
“Hi, my name is Peter Millington,” the Ringer said. “And I’m thinking about coming to Columbia for grad school. I live in California and I was wondering if you could tell me what forms of transportation there are for students on campus.”
“Well,” the operator said, “you got JFK and LaGuardia a cab ride or subway trip away…”
“No good, my family won’t pay for the airline tickets. What are the cheap ways if you need to go a long distance off campus?”
“There’s plenty of buses, trains. You got Port Authority and Penn Station…”
“Anything else?”
“Well, if you’re going cheap, there’re the student shuttles.”
“Student shuttles.” A bell went off in the Ringer’s head. “If I wanted to learn more, maybe talk to a student about these shuttles, how would I do that?”
“One moment, let me transfer you to someone who can help.”
As he waited for the call to go through, the Ringer penciled three schools down on his list: Columbia, which was doubtful. Small chance Parker would hang around uptown, waiting to be snatched by a black-and-white. Hunter and NYU had higher probabilities. And both were right off the 6 train.
Finally he was connected to the Office of Student Services. Under the guise of Lennie Hardwick, sophomore and racked for time, he persuaded a very nice lady named Helen to check the student shuttle postings for him. One match came up, a junior named Wilbur Hewes who was driving home to Ontario at 11:00 a.m. this morning. No other rides were registered for today. Hitching a ride to Canada made sense-assuming Parker didn’t get stopped at the border. The Ringer wrote down Hewes’s name and asked for the phone number on the posting. Lennie figured he’d keep it in case he ever wanted to do some fishing up north.
The Ringer called Wilbur Hewes’s cell phone, got a curt response on the third ring.
“Yeah?”
“Hello, is this Wilbur?”
“Yeah, what?” The Ringer could hear the rush of the highway, Wilbur’s voice full of static. Horns blaring. Heavy metal music loud enough to make his eardrums throb. The Ringer smiled. Wilbur was stuck in traffic.
“Hi, Wilbur, my name is Oliver Parker. I’m calling from Montreal, and I was informed by the helpful operator at Columbia that my son Henry might have gotten a ride from you.”
“No Henry here. Nobody responded to my posting.”
“Really?” the Ringer said, crossing Columbia off the list. “You sure he didn’t tell you to keep it a secret? It’s my birthday today, maybe he wanted to surprise me and show up unannounced?”
“Listen, man,” Wilbur said. The Ringer could hear the agitation of bumper-to-bumper traffic getting to Wilbur. “Nobody called about a ride. Unless your son’s hiding in my trunk, wedged between three big-ass suitcases, he’s not with me. All right?”
“Absolutely. I’m sorry to bother you.” Wilbur hung up.
After a quick call to Hunter, he learned the school did not offer such a service, at least not one that was officially sanctioned. In other words, without a contact at the school, he was out of luck. He crossed Hunter off the list.
He phoned NYU and was connected to the Office of Student Activities.
The OSA receptionist, a bitter-sounding battle-ax of a woman, said she wasn’t allowed to offer the listings over the phone. He asked her for the address and hung up.
Traffic moved like oil through a funnel, slow and thick. He double-parked in front of the OSA and, inside, a helpful custodian directed him to the postings. Halfway down the light blue hallway, the Ringer found what he was looking for.
The portly woman seated behind a pane of glass was clearly the same person who’d refused to read him the listings over the phone. He offered a pleasant smile and picked up the listings. They were separated into two batches: red and blue. He licked his thumb and sifted through them. No dice. No cars were scheduled to leave until later in the week.
He was about to cross NYU off his list when, on a whim, he walked up to the receptionist and pulled out Henry Parker’s photo, cropped from the newspaper. He gently rapped on the glass. The woman, a glamorous mole poking from her left nostril like a burrowing hedgehog, was buried in a celebrity magazine.
“Sorry to bother you,” the Ringer said. “I was supposed to drive my son home this morning, but I’m not sure he got the message and I’m worried he might have left without me. He’s about six feet tall, brown hair. He might have had a backpack of some sort with him.”
The woman squinted, crinkled her nose and leaned closer.
“Yeah, there was one kid in here like that. He was in some kind of big huff, too, not very patient.” The Ringer’s heart quickened. “You ask me, your kid needs some lessons in manners.”
The Ringer nodded. “First thing I’ll tell him. Do you know if he got a ride from a student?”
“He did take a slip from the board. I can’t tell you what he did with it.”
“Would you happen to know whose slip he removed?”
The woman looked less than eager to help.
“Please,” the Ringer added, his eyes imploring. “His aunt is sick, emphysema. I really need to find him.”
“Doesn’t your boy have a cell phone?”
The Ringer offered a sheepish look. “No, his sister at George Washington has the only one in our family.”
The woman sighed heavily, then punched some keys on the computer.
“We log in all registered student rides. I can check the ones that left this morning, if it’s really that urgent. If it’s that urgent.”
“Believe me, it is.”
The woman hit a few more keys, waited a moment, punched a few more, then came up with a name.
“Amanda Davies,” she said. “Left at nine this morning to St. Louis.”
“You know, I’d love to call Ms. Davies up, let my boy know everything’s all right. Did Miss Davies leave a phone number?” The woman nodded, scribbled on a Post-it and handed it through the small slot at the bottom of
