The Colorado Kid by by Stephen King

just about the last thing he would have done.”
    “But she thought that’s what he did do,” Stephanie said. “Isn’t it?”
    Vince put his coffee cup down and ran his hands through his fluff of white hair, which was already fairly crazy. “Arla Cogan’s like all of us,” he said, “a prisoner of the evidence.
    “James Cogan left his home at 6:45 AM on that Wednesday to make the drive to Denver by way of the Boulder Turnpike. The only luggage he had was that portfolio I mentioned. He was wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and a gray overcoat. Oh, and black loafers on his feet.”
    “No green jacket?” Stephanie asked.
    “No green jacket,” Dave agreed, “but the gray slacks, white shirt, and black loafers was almost certainly what he was wearing when Johnny and Nancy found him sittin dead on the beach with his back against that litter basket.”
    “His suit-coat?”
    “Never found,” Dave said. “The tie, neither—but accourse if a man takes off his tie, nine times out of ten he’ll stuff it into the pocket of his suit-coat, and I’d be willin to bet that if that gray suit-coat ever did turn up, the tie’d be in the pocket.”
    “He was at his office drawing board by 8:45 AM,” Vince said, “working on a newspaper ad for King Sooper’s.”
    “What—?”
    “Supermarket chain, dear,” Dave said.
    “Around ten-fifteen,” Vince went on, “George the Artist, be he Rankin or Franklin, saw our boy the Kid heading for the elevators. Cogan said he was goin around the corner to grab what he called ‘a real coffee’ at Starbucks and an egg salad sandwich for lunch, because he planned to eat at his desk. He asked George if George wanted anything.”
    “This is all what Arla told you when you were driving her out to Tinnock?”
    “Yes, ma’am. Taking her to speak with Cathcart, make a formal identification of the photo—‘This is my husband, this is James Cogan’—and then sign an exhumation order. He was waiting for us.”
    “All right. Sorry to interrupt. Go on.”
    “Don’t be sorry for asking questions, Stephanie, asking questions is what reporters do . In any case, George the Artist—”
    “Be he Rankin or Franklin,” Dave put in helpfully.
    “Ayuh, him—he told Cogan that he’d pass on the coffee, but he walked out to the elevator lobby with Cogan so they could talk a little bit about an upcoming retirement party for a fellow named Haverty, one of the agency’s founders. The party was scheduled for mid-May, and George the Artist told Arla that her mister seemed excited and looking forward to it. They batted around ideas for a retirement gift until the elevator came, and then Cogan got on and told George the Artist they ought to talk about it some more at lunch and ask someone else—some woman they worked with—what she thought. George the Artist agreed that was a pretty good idea, Cogan gave him a little wave, the elevator doors slid closed, and that’s the last person who can remember seeing the Colorado Kid when he was still in Colorado.”
    “George the Artist,” she almost marveled. “Do you suppose any of this would have happened if George had said, ‘Oh, wait a minute, I’ll just pull on my coat and go around the corner with you?’ ”
    “No way of telling,” Vince said.
    “Was he wearing his coat?” she asked. “Cogan? Was he wearing his gray overcoat when he went out?”
    “Arla asked, but George the Artist didn’t remember,” Vince said. “The best he could do was say he didn’t think so. And that’s probably right. The Starbucks and the sandwich shop were side by side, and they really were right around the corner.”
    “She also said there was a receptionist,” Dave put in, “but the receptionist didn’t see the men go out to the elevators. Said she ‘must have been away from her desk for a minute.’” He shook his head disapprovingly. “It’s never that way in the mystery novels.”
    But Stephanie’s mind had seized on something