Hazard found a phone number for Astrolabe/Welkin, called, and when a young man answered, he said, “Yes, this is Robert Boyle with United Airlines. I need to speak to someone in your travel department.”

The young man said, “I’m sorry. We don’t have a travel department. If this is a solicitation—”

“No,” Hazard said. “This is about one of your employees who flew into St. Louis last night. He never picked up his checked bag, and the contact information he gave us isn’t working.”

“Give me just a moment,” the young man said.

The next voice that came on the line was a woman’s, raspy, and she said, “Bernice, Human Resources, how can I help you?”

Hazard repeated his story.

“What was the employee’s name?”

“Darnell Kirby.”

“Let me check,” Bernice said. But instead of the hold music, Hazard found himself listening to a keyboard clicking. Bernice hummed something that might have been bubblegum pop, but in her raspy register, it could have passed for a funeral dirge. “And what number did Mr. Kirby give you?”

Hazard read back Darnell’s number.

“That’s his personal cell number,” Bernice said. “He telecommutes, so he’s not in the area. We do have his travel on record. Flying Albany to St. Louis last night. Let me tell you what, Mr. Boyle: I’ll get in touch with his supervisor and pass this along. Do you have a number where I can reach you?”

“Of course,” Hazard said, and then made up a number and gave it to her.

When he hung up, he stared around the trailer and said, “Well, shit.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JULY 3

WEDNESDAY

12:56 PM

AT THE HOSPITAL, Somers got shuffled from administrator to administrator. He provided Darnell’s information, what he knew of it, once, to an elegant young woman with what looked like designer nurse shoes. And then he did it again for a middle-aged black man in a suit. And then he was back with the designer-shoes girl, who kept touching her blouse and looking up at Somers through long lashes, and he had to give the information all over again. She asked several times for his phone number, and Somers decided the only route that wouldn’t end with his balls in a vise was to give her Hazard’s cell phone number.

When he finally finished, he got an update on Darnell—stable, but asleep—and checked his phone. He had a single message from Hazard: Mustang purple 14. Somers messaged back his thanks and headed for the parking garage. He found the car on the purple level, found the section marked fourteen, and found his keys under the rear floormat, driver’s side. As he pulled out of the garage, he called Dulac.

The call went to voicemail.

“Where are you?” Somers said. “I’m starting to get worried. I need you to check in, please. Oh, and we got a make-work shit job from Park, so get your butt over to Sexten. Bring sunscreen.”

He disconnected and dropped the phone on the seat next to him, only to hear it buzz a moment later. At the next red light, Somers checked the message.