“No manners. Young people,” added Karr’s neighbor — even though he and the person he was criticizing were both about thirty.
Fifteen minutes after they’d taken off, the black man returned again, once more moving slowly and looking at passengers’ faces.
“What are you, the grim reaper?” asked the man sitting next to Karr.
“Just shut up.”
“You’re telling me to shut up?”
“You see any other jerk with a garage door for a mouth?”
“Federal agent, buddy. Sit down,” said the man, rising. “FBI.”
“Air marshal,” said the other man. “You sit down.”
Karr buried his face in his hand, trying to keep his laughter to a level that wouldn’t cause the plane to shake. As he did, he noticed a passenger one row ahead shielding his face and making a very serious effort to count the clouds outside.
“He’s in seat 2B,” Karr told the Art Room from the restroom a few minutes later. “About five-eight, light- skinned black, close-cropped dark brown hair, maybe twenty-five. New suit jacket. Nice. No puckering at the shoulders. White T-shirt. Gold chain. Generic sneakers.”
“Are the sneakers significant?” asked Chafetz.
“They’re the whole thing,” said Karr. “They’re not Nike. Get it? See if he was a rap star or something like that, he’d pay attention to his footwear. Here—”
“It’s kind of thin, Tommy.”
“Maybe. But I say we check him out anyway.”
CHAPTER 101
Dean looked at the Conkel house while the marshals circled around the block, cutting off possible escape routes on the chance that Kenan Conkel had decided to hide out in his parents’ house. The raised ranch looked almost exactly like its neighbors, any eccentricities carefully hidden behind the dented aluminum siding. A basketball hoop hung down above the single-bay garage; the rim was bent slightly to one side, though not quite enough to prevent play. The grass had been mowed recently but the edges left untrimmed.
“Units are in place,” said Chris Sabot, the marshal next to him in the car.
Dean cracked open the car door and got out. They’d decided against asking the local police to come for backup. The Art Room thought it unlikely that Conkel was here, and they needed to walk a delicate line, gathering information without inadvertently giving any away. Besides, half a dozen police cars weren’t going to make Conkel or his parents any more likely to talk.
Dean scanned the house and yard as he went up the driveway. His right hand stayed near his hip, ready to grab the Beretta from its holster beneath his jacket if necessary. He jogged up the three steps to the stoop and tapped the buzzer.
The curtain behind the row of windows next to the door moved. A face appeared about chest high. Though beardless, it was so much like Kenan’s that Dean froze. Then he realized it was a girl’s.
“Can I help you?” she asked through the glass.
“I’m here from the U.S. Marshals Service,” Dean said. He held a business card to the window. “I’d like to talk to your parents.”
The girl drew back. A minute later, a woman in her early forties answered the door. Short and slightly stocky, the woman wore thick glasses that emphasized the roundness of her face. She didn’t look like Kenan at all — except for the color of her hair, an almost foxlike shade of golden red.
Dean introduced himself and gave her the card.
“I’d like to come in. I have some questions about your son, Kenan. Is he here?”
“Kenan? Is he in trouble?”
“I’m not sure,” said Dean. “We’re afraid he may have witnessed a murder and gone into hiding. We’re worried about him.”
“Oh, God. Oh, my God. Come in. Frank? Frank!”
Dean nodded to Sabot, and they went inside the house. Sabot went downstairs to check the basement rooms; Dean followed Mrs. Conkel upstairs. The dining room, kitchen, and living room were clustered on his left. The rooms were small and a quick glance showed Kenan wasn’t there.
Mrs. Conkel had gone down the hall to the right. There were two rooms on the right; a bathroom and another room lay on the left. Dean took a few steps down the hall, far enough to see into the first room on the right; there was a sewing machine set up in it, and an exercise bike.
“My husband will be right out. He’s just taking a shower,” said Mrs. Conkel, emerging from the room at the end of the hall on the left. Dean guessed it was the master bedroom.
“Your son isn’t here?” asked Dean.
“No, he’s at school in Detroit.”
“Have you spoken to him today?”
“No.”
“Recently?”
“Well, no. Not very recently. He doesn’t talk much. You know at that age, they don’t.” She smiled awkwardly. “Would you like some coffee?”
Mrs. Conkel started past him toward the kitchen. Dean took a step down the hall, glancing into the room on the left; it was the sister’s, and from the hall looked empty, though of course Kenan could be hiding in the closet. The master bedroom door was closed. Dean turned back and went into the kitchen, temporarily putting off a more thorough search.
The family had only just finished breakfast; a bowl of cereal and a half-eaten piece of toast sat on the table. Dean looked at the glasses and counted three places.
“How do you like your coffee?” asked Mrs. Conkel.
“Black,” he told her.
Sabot came up and stood in the doorway, shaking his head ever so slightly to indicate Kenan hadn’t been downstairs.
“So, you haven’t heard from Kenan recently,” said Dean.
“No.”
“And that’s not unusual.”
“Not with Kenan. God, I do wish he’d call more.” Her voice trembled slightly at the word “God.”
Frank Conkel came into the kitchen wearing a blue work uniform. The logo on the pocket said he worked for Cole Heating & Cooling. He was taller than his son, with dark, ruddy cheeks that hung away from his face, but he had the same overall build, thin and narrow. His hair was still wet from the shower.
“What’s going on?” he asked Dean.
“I’m wondering when the last time was that you saw your son Kenan.”
“Why?”
“He may have seen a murder, Frank,” said his wife.
“Detroit is a cesspool,” said Mr. Conkel. And with that he collapsed into a seat, as if the supports had been knocked out from under him.
“We shouldn’t have let him go to school there.” Mrs. Conkel put the coffee down on the table. “We shouldn’t have.”
“Is he here?” Dean asked Mr. Conkel.
“Here? Look around. Do you see him?” His voice was pained, not angry.
“Have you checked his dorm?” asked Mrs. Conkel.
“He doesn’t seem to be at school a whole lot,” Dean told her. “He hasn’t shown up for his classes all semester.”
