Best Laid Plans(137)

She referred to a photo of Ian, then looked around. She spotted him working with free weights. Ian watched her approach, a mixture of apprehension and pleasure in his expression.

“Ian Stanhope?” she asked.

“That’s me.” He grinned and wiped his sweaty face with his shirt. He was a good looking nineteen-year-old with blond hair that fell into his eyes. That he didn’t push it away bothered Max. Could he even see through the mess?

“I’m Maxine Revere.” She handed him her business card. “I need a minute of your time.”

“Why would a reporter want to talk to me?” he said, a half smile still on his face.

“Do you have a class?”

“Not until noon.”

“Great.”

He looked from her to her card. “You’re from New York.”

“Yes.”

He lost his smile and didn’t move. He tossed his head, moving his clump of overgrown hair to the side. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

“I’m looking into Scott Sheldon’s disappearance, from last October. You were his roommate.”

“I wasn’t on the camping trip.”

“I promise, I won’t take too much of your time.”

He mumbled, “I have class.”

“At noon, right? We’ll be done before then.”

Usually, for Max, the direct approach worked best. She didn’t like playing games or manipulating people into talking to her. But sometimes, she needed a gentle touch. She couldn’t tell if he was more upset or worried, but something was up with him.

She said, “How about if I give you twenty minutes to shower and change, and I’ll meet you at the student union? Coffee, brunch. My treat.” There was always the chance he would bail, but she knew where to find him.

“Is something wrong?”

“Other than your roommate has been missing for six months?”

“I mean, no other reporters have been around here asking about Scott. Like, ever.”

“I specialize in cold cases. Twenty minutes enough time?”

“Yeah—the quad has a food court,” he said. “I’ll meet you there. The student union is just vending machines. Gross stuff, really.”

She walked out, noting that Ian watched her before he disappeared through the locker room doors.

She’d definitely thrown him off, but she didn’t know why. Ian hadn’t been part of the foursome who’d gone camping, so what did he have to worry about? Unless he knew something he hadn’t told the police.

While she waited, Max checked her e-mail and text messages. Ben had sent her a message asking if she’d read his proposal. She didn’t respond. The truth was she had read it on the plane—and she still wanted to say no. The proposal was outstanding, and he’d addressed all her concerns, even though she hadn’t told him what they were. He even resolved issues she wouldn’t have thought to question, as if he’d known she’d come up with problems on the fly.

Ultimately, she had to decide if this was what she wanted to do with her life—or at least the next few years. Right now, she was very comfortable. She liked what she did; she liked her freedom.

It didn’t take long before Ian strode purposefully to her table and sat down. He had combed his hair back, so it wasn’t falling in his eyes as much. She smiled, pushed her papers back in a folder, and sipped her coffee. “What can I get you?”

He put a water bottle in front of him. “I can’t eat right after I work out. But thanks.” Ian looked around the quad sheepishly, as if he didn’t want anyone to see him talking with her. “I don’t understand why a reporter is interested in Scott,” he said.

“I specialize in cold cases. My Web site lists the articles and books I’ve written.”

His eyes widened. “You’re writing a book about Scott?”

“Not a book, an article. I spoke to his mother, Adele Sheldon, and she asked me to look into his disappearance.”

“Oh.” He stared down at his hands, not meeting her eyes. “I met Ms. Sheldon when we moved in. Her and Scott’s sister, Ashley. And then when she came to get his things. It was—uncomfortable. I felt bad.”

I felt bad. “Bad” didn’t cut it. Max had been much closer to Karen than Ian had been to Scott; the pain and rage she’d allowed to simmer were a dark fuel that drove her for the year after Karen disappeared. But Karen was not Scott; Max was not Ian.

“I understand that you didn’t know Scott before you became roommates.”

He shook his head. “We got paired up by the school. Same major, and like me, he’s neat. Some of the guys in my dorm—well, they’re slobs. I didn’t want a slob. So we got along.”

“I read the police reports. You told Detective Horn that Scott was quiet, you never saw him do drugs or drink, that he kept to himself. Is that accurate?”

Ian nodded. “He wasn’t a bad guy once you got to know him.”

That was an odd comment. “But before someone got to know him? Did other people not like Scott?”

“No, of course not.” He frowned, drank some water.

“Ian, no one’s perfect.”

He shrugged. “No one had a problem with him.”