“Was he tall with blond hair?” Kit asked quickly.

“I have no idea. He was wearing a college ring, wasn’t he? I think it’s worth calling Larry.”

“It certainly can’t hurt,” Regan said.

“I spoke to him a little while ago. He’s at his place at the Jersey Shore. Let me get my cell phone with his number,” Kent offered.

Three minutes later, Kent had Larry on the line. After briefly explaining the situation, he said, “I’m going to put you on speaker,” then placed the phone on the table.

“Hello, Larry,” Regan said. “Billy told us he was with you the other day, and you nicknamed someone who had come in to sign up for your class ‘College Boy.’”

“Yes, I remember,” Larry said.

“What did he look like?” Regan asked.

“He was very tall, I’d say at least six five, and had blond hair—”

A shot of adrenaline went through everyone sitting at the table.

“He was a really nice kid,” Larry continued. “Very polite. I thought he seemed too normal to pursue stand-up comedy.”

Billy rolled his eyes.

“And you noticed his college ring?”

“Yup. It was one of those big, heavy, chunky ones. Like a World Series ring. Must be uncomfortable to have that thing weighing down your finger.”

“Billy said you had his name on a piece of paper. Do you have that paper?” Regan asked.

“I hate to admit this, but I have no idea where it is. I need to get more organized.”

“Did you notice what hand he used to sign the paper?” Regan asked.

“He was a southpaw. A lefty just like me. I always notice that.”

Becky gasped.

“He sounds like the guy we’re looking for,” Regan said. “You don’t by any chance remember his name, do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You do?”

“I do because he has a common last name. I thought to myself, if he ends up joining the Screen Actors Guild, his name might already be taken. That’s what happened to me. I had to change mine. But this guy’s first name was a little unusual so I thought he might be all right.”

“What’s his name?” Regan asked, trying not to sound impatient.

“Chip Jones. I have no idea what his e-mail address is though. He wrote that down, too.”

“Larry, this is great. You’re sure his name was Chip Jones?”

“Yes, I remember thinking of that expression ‘He’s a chip off the old block.’”

“Can you recall anything else he said?”

“I remarked it was a beautiful day. He agreed and told me he’d walked all the way from the Upper East Side where he lives. That’s all I can tell you. He was in and out pretty fast.”

“Thanks, Larry. You’ve been a big help,” Regan said.

“What a nice kid. I hope nothing bad happens to him.”

“We’re going to do everything we can to find him as quickly as possible. If you think of anything else at all, no matter how insignificant, please call.” She gave him her cell phone number. When she hung up, she called information. There was no listing for a Chip Jones in Manhattan. There were several listings under C. Jones on the Upper East Side, and several more that didn’t list an address. “The trouble is,” Regan said to the group, “his legal name is probably not Chip. That’s usually a nickname.”