“What do you mean?” he asked after a long pause.
“Last Sunday I talked with the sheriff’s deputy who came out the night Fritz disappeared. Guy named Lester Briggs. Briggs told me some things about the investigation into Fritz’s disappearance. Like how the FBI showed up and then a week later suddenly left, like they’d been called off.”
Trip frowned, causing his glasses to wobble slightly. “What do you mean, ‘called off’?”
“That’s just it. They came in, interviewed some people—like Tofer, remember him, the cook?—and then just left, said they hadn’t found any reason for their involvement.”
“So why’d they show up in the first place?” Trip asked. Then he answered his own question. “The Davenports.”
“Exactly. But Briggs said it seemed too abrupt the way the feds dropped the case, like someone had ordered them to stop.”
“Someone? You mean like a supervisor or something?”
I paused. “Briggs said I ought to take a look at the Davenports.”
Trip looked blankly at me. “Why?”
I knew how Trip would react, and how he might even be right, but I couldn’t let it go. “He wondered if Fritz’s family might have something to do with him running away. If they didn’t want the FBI to find out what had really happened.”
Trip took a long sip of his beer and then carefully put down the glass. “You know how that sounds,” he said. “Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. But Briggs said the FBI doesn’t usually back out like that once it gets involved in a case.”
Trip sat back in his chair. “Has he had a lot of experience with the FBI, this Deputy Briggs guy?”
I shrugged. “Sounded like he had.”
“But maybe not,” Trip said, not unkindly. “So maybe he’s misreading it. The feds didn’t find any reason to be involved, so after doing a favor or whatever for the Davenports, they backed out.”
I hesitated, but Trip was an old friend, and if I was committing to this, I might as well go all in. “There’s more,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Fritz’s Saint Christopher medal. It sat dully in my palm, the chain coiled around it. “It’s Fritz’s. I found it underneath my pillow the night he disappeared.”
As Trip stared at me in astonishment, I told him about how I’d found the medal, about my encounter with Mr. Davenport the next day, about talking with Pelham Greer and then Sheriff Townsend a few weeks ago. He listened intently, his hamburger lying half-eaten on his plate. When I finished, he looked down at the table, gathering his thoughts. “So you’re trying to find Fritz?” he asked. “Actually find him?”
“Yeah. I guess I am.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Did you talk with Abby about this?”
The sense of optimism I’d felt now sank a bit, like a leaking life raft. “Sort of.” Trip raised his eyebrows. Irritably I said, “I asked her why her family had Fritz declared dead.”
Trip looked at me with compassion. “That was her drink you were wiping off your coat, then. You dumbass.”
I leaned forward. “Listen, I need a favor. Two, actually. I want to take a look at whatever news there was about Fritz’s disappearance. The actual articles. I found some stuff online, in the Richmond paper archives, but I thought maybe you could find something more useful.”
I paused, waiting. Trip gave no sign of agreement; in fact, he had the look of a man with doubts. “You said you needed two favors,” he said.
“I need you to dig around and find out what you can about the Davenports,” I said. Trip’s eyes widened in alarm, and I hurried on. “See if they have any secrets, any kind of—”
Trip’s voice rose sharply. “Are you fucking insane?”
“Just hear me out—”
“What the hell do you think I do? I’m not a cop or some—”
“Listen. Davenport’s company does lots of work with the government, the military. Briggs said—no, listen—he said that the feds had a theory that maybe Fritz was kidnapped because of NorthPoint. They handled contracts that had to do with national security—”
“According to Briggs, an ex-deputy from rural Virginia.”
“These were contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars, Trip. Maybe billions. That’s what you write about, isn’t it? Maybe someone grabbed Fritz to get at some of that money.”
Trip shook his head, like someone shaking off a punch. “Okay, first, I write about finance, Matthias, not criminal investigations. Second, there wasn’t ever a ransom demand. Even your deputy said that, right?”
“No demand that we know of,” I persisted. “Maybe the Davenports got one and called the feds off, settled with the kidnappers.”
Trip tried to follow my reasoning. “If they paid a ransom, then where’s Fritz?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I want your help.”
Trip ran both hands through his hair and settled his glasses on his nose as if regrouping. “Have you thought that maybe you’re seeing conspiracies that aren’t there?” he asked. “This boy at Blackburne, the one who shot himself. That has to be upsetting to you.” I saw where this was going and opened my mouth, but Trip stilled me with a raised hand. “It would upset me, too. And so you’ve got this boy who died, and it reminds you of Fritz, and how we were all afraid that he was dead, too.”
“He’s not dead,” I said. “I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not true. But regardless, this boy last week, he is dead. And you can’t do anything about that. But you think maybe you can do something about Fritz.” He sat forward, eager on making his point. “Let’s say for argument’s sake that Fritz isn’t dead, that he’s alive. He took all that money out of the ATM the weekend before. Maybe he was planning to run away, Matthias. He was going to use that money to get away from school. If he did, then he doesn’t want to be found. Or maybe he was picked up by some wackjob. We don’t know.”
“That’s the point, Trip. I don’t know. Look, I just want to know what the fuck happened to my friend, all right? Is that so wrong? He was your friend, too.”