couple of extra trash bags hung over the lip of the sink. The refrigerator, when Hazard checked it, was empty except for a box of baking soda—expired November 2009—and the freezer had a gel ice pack, the kind you might use in a lunch box.
Hazard trekked to the other end of the trailer, checking the rest of the rooms: the bathroom had a vinyl shower curtain printed with rubber ducks and a disposable bottle of hand soap; the first bedroom had a rolling rack with clothes on hangers, a lot of heavy jackets and flannel shirts; and the second bedroom had an office chair, the good kind with lumbar support, and a wireless router and a very expensive-looking laptop on the floor. Hazard could still see the impressions where a desk had stood on the carpet; he figured maybe Darnell had needed to catch up on some last-minute work.
Dropping into the chair, he examined the laptop on the outside first and noticed the sticker on the back. A barcode was printed above a serial number, and then DARNELL KIRBY printed in large letters. In Hazard’s opinion, that was a good sign that the laptop was company property; the sticker was peeling at one corner, the adhesive tacky and matted with grime. Hard to fake that kind of wear and tear. Not impossible, but not easy either.
Hazard opened the device, pressed the power button, and was greeted with a lock screen. The words Astrolabe/Welkin showed in a clear, sans serif font, and some sort of sketch—he assumed it was a very loose rendering of an astrolabe—took up the rest of the screen. When he tapped a key, a prompt came up, asking for the password for user kirbydarnell.
If this were all a fake, it was an elaborate one.
Hazard powered down the laptop, set it on the floor, and got out his phone. He searched flights between Albany and St. Louis; he found a single United flight that got in weekdays at 9:22 PM. Then he searched for Astrolabe/Welkin; news articles went back for almost five years. They did something with GPS and satellites, but the descriptions got vague after that. Still, the quantity of articles and the length of time they went back were further indicators that Darnell might have been telling the truth.
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,