Devil's Run (6 page)

“That's what we think.”
She picked up a potato chip. “Can't prove it, though. Can't even tell you who
he is.”

“Well,” I said, “perhaps
Mr. Epstein can.”

Karen leaned forward.
“Why would he tell you anything?”

“I don't know. Let's say
I'm a cockeyed optimist and he'll believe I'm only looking for a missing kid.”

“Who you suspect is out
doing his bidding.”

“Possibly.” I put my
fork down. “But, it doesn't feel right.”

“Why?”

“Mainly, it's that so
much time has gone by and nothing's happened.”

“I’m not entirely sure
nothing has.”

“What do you mean?”

“The place you
mentioned. In Colorado. There was a fire there back in October.”

“I know, I read about
it. Some welder got careless.”

“So they say.”

“You don't buy it?”

She shook her head. “Not
really. Some of the original eyewitness reports made it sound a lot bigger than
their description. Some people saw explosions and a ton of flame.”

“Are you investigating?”

“Not in this lifetime.
FBI only investigates if it's terrorism. Owner said it was an accident, local
authorities confirmed. No damage to any facilities or buildings. End of story.
We've got enough on our plate.” She leaned forward. “But, it’s a little odd,
don’t you think, considering the connection to your missing boy?”

“I agree. I don’t like coincidences.
One more thing to ask Mr. Epstein.”

She sighed, and toyed
with the remains of her dinner.

“Karen, what's wrong?”

“You talking to Epstein.
It’s a problem.” She looked up at me. “I told Roma I was meeting you.”

I whistled. John Roma
was the no nonsense son of a bitch in charge of the New York office of the FBI,
which made him Assistant Director level. I'd met him once, briefly, at my
wife’s memorial service, but I didn’t remember anything he said.

“That was kind of you.”

“Come on, Nick. It's more
than just me; I've got to think about Tom, too. Epstein is an open
investigation. You shouldn't be messing around in it.”

“Are you ordering me to
back off?”

She grinned at me.
“Would it do any good?” When I shook my head, she said, “Well, then consider it
a suggestion.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Then, looking
down at her plate, she said, “Guy eating alone, by the entrance. Came in a few
minutes after you.”

“Describe him.”

She continued to look at
her dinner plate. “Dark grey sweater, dark slacks, medium build, dark blonde
hair, average features.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.
Why him?”

“Whole time, he’s
glanced everywhere in this room but at us. Just has an appetizer and a cup of
coffee. Cash already on the table.”

“Okay.” I did nothing
until our waiter passed behind me, then turned and called for him, raising my
hand and snapping my fingers loudly. Every other patron looked up, except the
guy Karen had described.

“Yes, sir,” said the
waiter.

“Dessert menu, when you
get a chance, please.”

“Yes, sir.” He moved off
and I turned back to Karen.

“See,” she said.

“I think I've seen him
before.”

“Where?”

“Security line at
Newark. He was on the flight out to Sea-Tac with me.”

“Did you see him on the
flight back?”

“No, I didn't. I was in
first class, so I would have noticed him get on.” I paused. Suddenly, the
reason for the phone call in Sea-Tac was clear.

“What is it?”

“Someone kept me from
boarding early. Maybe so he could get on first. And someone was following me in
Seattle.”

“Sounds a little
complicated for a simple missing persons case.”

 “Let’s find out.”

I took out my wallet,
retrieved a business card, and handed it across to her.

“What am I supposed to
do with this?”

“Pretend it’s a picture
of my kid or something.”

While she did as I
requested, I slipped a few bills out of the wallet and hid them under a napkin.
She handed the business card back.

“Cute kid, but the third
nostril is distracting.”

“You're sweet. I left
enough to cover dinner. I am going to the men’s room now and I ain’t coming
back. Order some dessert, if you want. Then leave when you're ready.”

“You don’t want me to
get your back?”

“No, you better stay out
of this. Have fun in Turkmenistan, or wherever.”

When I collected my
coat, the girl tried to hand me my bag. I told her I was just going out for a
smoke. I left through the main entrance and circled around to Ferry Street. I
crossed over to the other side and hid in the doorway of a dentist’s office.

If the guy was following
me, he knew I was traveling by train, so he’d figure to reacquire me on the
platform. That’s what I would do. If he went there, I would introduce myself
and see what happened.

He came out four minutes
later. If he was pissed, it didn’t show. After scanning all directions, he
spoke briefly into a cell phone and then trotted diagonally across Ferry
Street. He had a very erect carriage and a precise way of walking. A military
man, but not U.S. military. Even the most gung-ho Marine loses his “march” in
civvy street.

There was little
pedestrian traffic now, so I couldn’t just fall in behind him. I’d have to give
him some rope. I memorized his clothes, his walk, and the shape of his head.
When he was out of sight, I ran down to where Ferry intersected with Market,
and saw him heading towards the rear doors of the station. I shrank back in the
shadows, knowing he would look back just before he went in.

I ran up the outside of
the station, past the waiting buses, and in through the Market Street entrance.
He was headed towards the main lobby. I went back outside and continued up
Market and around the front of the building, where I stopped to watch through
the window. He marched into the grand Art Deco waiting room, did a precise
little turn, and gave the board a look. The next New Jersey Transit train to
New York was arriving in ten minutes on track one. He bought a ticket from one
of the machines and headed out towards the platforms.

I slipped into the
station and followed him to Track 1. I chose the stairwell opposite the one he
took and sprinted up to the platform. I circled around the waiting room and
stood behind one of the ticket machines.

He appeared, walking
slowly along the platform. I walked up behind him, matching his steps until he
stopped near a young woman who was busy typing away on her phone, oblivious to
the world. He pivoted slowly, scanning the waiting commuters, until I came into
his field of vision.

 “Hi,” I said,
smiling brightly. “Looking for me?”

He was good, barely
hesitating before seizing the woman by her upper arms and throwing her right into
me. She and I went down in a heap. He ran for the steps.

I pushed her off and
went after him. At the bottom of the steps, I saw him going out the back door.
I was outside in time to see him run across the street against the light. A
pickup truck swerved to avoid him and smacked into the side of a New Jersey
Transit bus. That brought the rest of the traffic to an abrupt, screeching
halt. I wove through the skewed vehicles, ignoring the blaring horns and
shouted curses.

Living in a fifth floor
walk up keeps you in shape, like it or not, and I gained on him as we ran back
towards Fornos. He stole a quick glance behind, then darted off the sidewalk
and ran across the street into Peter Francisco Park. I followed him across the
narrow park onto Bruen Street. Ahead of him, a dark sedan accelerated away from
the curb, skidding to a stop long enough for my guy to jump in the passenger
side. The headlights blazed on and the car leaped forward directly at me.

I threw myself onto the
hood of a parked station wagon. The sedan struck it with enough force to throw
me onto the sidewalk. Tires screamed and the air smelled of burning rubber. I
heard two gunshots and got to my feet as the sedan made a sharp turn onto
Ferry. I ran back through the park too late. They disappeared under the
railroad tracks.

Someone came up behind
me. I dropped into a crouch and turned, but it was Karen. She had the Sig Sauer
out, gripped in both hands.

“You okay?” she said.

“I've been better,” I
said, brushing myself off. “Shit.”

“What? Are you hurt?”

“Nah. Bastards ruined my
best pair of Dockers.”

“That's your best pair?
Sad.” She brushed back her overcoat and holstered the pistol. “This means a
night of paperwork.”

“That was you?”

“I put two into the
center of the windshield, just to keep them off you.”

“Thanks.”

“
De nada
.
Consider us even for dinner.”

“It's a deal.”

She opened her purse and
dug out a cell. “So, how do you like the private investigator business so far?”

“It has its moments.”

“You should start
carrying a gun.”

“If I carried one, I
might use it. Guns kill people.”

“People kill people. I
think those people were trying to kill you.”

I shook my head. “No.
They've had plenty of chances. They're just following me.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Yet.”

“John Roma, please,” she
said. “Yeah, I'll hold.” She came closer and put her hand on my arm. “Don't you
think you should take my advice and back off now?”

I looked down at the rip
in my pants, then back at her.

“Now I'm pissed.”

Raviv Peled's headquarters
was a nondescript one-story building in Brooklyn that looked like the office of
a successful plumbing contractor, albeit one that bristled with antennas,
satellite dishes, and security cameras. A block wall topped with razor wire
protected the building and its parking lot from prying eyes and unwanted
intruders. The few windows featured thick bullet resistant glass covered by
metal mesh for that extra measure of protection.

Just entering the place
was a chore. Raviv liked hi tech and muscle, and he employed plenty of both.
The stark waiting room, with its single cheap sofa and ancient Mr. Coffee, was
actually an airtight holding area large enough to accommodate four individuals.
Anyone attempting to enter the main part of the building unannounced could be
held there indefinitely, observed by video cameras in hardened mounts above
each door. Nozzles concealed in the walls used blasts of air to dislodge
microscopic particles from the visitors’ hair and clothing, which was analyzed
by sophisticated sensors. Simultaneously, a millimeter wave scanner, purchased
at Raviv's standard and loudly negotiated discount from a firm in Ireland,
searched for the specific electromagnetic radiation signatures of bombs and
weapons.

I experienced the full
treatment. His life's work and the experience of his native land had taught
Raviv that only blood was to be trusted. As goyim I was never going to be part
of the family. Once passed by the technical guardians, I entered a typical
office with six desks and all the standard paraphernalia. Here I was screened
by human assets; two giant former commandos wearing dark pants, dark shirts,
and even darker expressions, just in case you were a little dull and not
instantly aware they were bad news. One of them patted me down, while his near
twin watched stonily with arms folded.

“What,” I said, when the
search was over, “no kiss?”

That got no reaction. He
gestured with a hand like a shovel towards the next room. I entered the
workshop. Raviv was working at one of the weapons benches, looking like Barney
the dinosaur in a velour tracksuit of very royal purple. He was tinkering with
a Sig Sauer pistol.

“So,” he said, without
preamble “you don't know who they were?”

“No. And it's nice to
see you unharmed as well.”

“Let us not dwell on the
obvious,” he said, without looking up from his task.

“I have a hunch the one
I saw was foreign military.”

“Your instincts are
usually correct.”

“You don’t think that
odd? A simple missing persons case?”

“I have learned that
little in life is simple.”

“It is good that you can
learn.”

He put the gun down and
gave me his full attention. “You came straight here?”

“Yeah. Like Duke
Ellington, I took the A train. I figured they'd head for my place.”

“Don't you have to go
there eventually?”

“Not really, I showered
last week.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “I
cannot tell if you are joking.”

“I have the same
problem. Did you guys get anything from the phone bill?”

“Not really. Two long
distance calls, to a motel in New Hampshire.”

“New Hampshire? Close to
the Vermont border?”

“Yes, why?”

“Another hunch. What
about the hard drive?”

“Let's check with
Moyshe.”

We descended the
basement steps into his 'E-Room', an electronics workshop where several
redundant, hardened servers were stored. On a center table were twelve LCD
monitors that gave everything a bluish cast. Raviv's sixteen year old nephew
was perched on a wheeled stool, peering at one of them through thick glasses
with black plastic frames that screamed two pairs for twenty-nine dollars.

Moyshe was his uncle’s
complete physical opposite, thin as a rail and pale as a ghost, that complexion
accentuated by his jet black 'jewfro'. Moyshe was in love with all things
computer, and he employed superb hacking skills for his uncle, all in the
service of goodness and virtue of course

“Moyshe,” said Raviv,
“we have a guest.”

“Hey, Mr. Craig,” he
said, glancing away briefly from the screen, “how you doing?”

“I'm fine. How about
you?”

“Couldn't be better.”

Raviv stood behind him and
put a hand on his shoulder. “Moyshe, tell Mr. Craig about the hard drive.”

Moyshe swiveled to face
me. “You're not going to like it.”

“The story of my life.
What do you have?”

“
Nada
.”
He reached over and picked up the hard drive, which was sitting next to his
keyboard. “Wiped completely clean.”

“You could find
nothing?” Raviv sounded surprised. “Even with that expensive software I got for
you?”

Moyshe shook his head.
“Not the way this was cleaned. This is DoD level stuff. They reinstalled the
original software to hide it, but I can tell.”

“That doesn't mean the
kid didn't do it himself,” I said. “You can buy commercial stuff to the
Department of Defense standard.”

“Not this level.
Fifty-two twenty is their basic level. This was done with something more powerful.
Clean as clean can be.”

“What other bad news do
you have for me?”

“Good news, actually.
Excuse me.” I stepped out of the way as he scooted the wheeled stool down to
another computer. He tapped the mouse and entered a password to close the
screen saver. “Here's your missing material from that guy Epstein's website.”

It was an article from
earlier in the year.

“That's amazing. How'd
you do that?”

“Sorry, Mr. Craig, no
magic. There's a website called archive.org where they cache past websites.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do they do that?”

He shrugged. “Because
they can, I guess.” He picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to me. “I
printed out the articles for you.”

“Thanks.” I turned to
Raviv. “Make sure he gets nine Chanukah gifts this year.”

It seemed Epstein had
recently found a new target for his ire. Most of the recent articles were
devoted to the growing number of exclusive resorts in the mountains of the
American West. While private enclaves were nothing new, these hyper-restricted,
securely guarded developments were taking things to a whole new level,
compounding the usual environmental crimes with championship golf courses,
ritzy McMansions, and private ski areas. He was fairly blatant in suggesting
that these “rapacious” projects meet the same fate as Vail did.

“Hey, Moyshe, can you do
me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Can you bring up the
website in 1998?”

“Absolutely.”

His fingers flew across
the keyboard and soon we were looking at Epstein's website as it looked in
1998. Very different and very primitive, but he had already begun posting
electronic copies of his rants. There was no indication that the articles about
Vail's Blue Sky Basin expansion were pulled at any time, but that was a century
ago in Internet years. Perhaps he had been less cautious then, not to mention
the authorities would have been less likely to check such websites. Still, he
hadn't pulled the articles about the Washington State mansions that burned in
2007.

I continued skimming the
articles Moyshe had printed, which focused on three specific developments in
Utah and Colorado, all being developed by companies based in Florida.

“I’ll be damned,” I
said.

“What is it?” said
Raviv.

I handed him the
articles I'd been reading. “These are all rants about ski resorts in Utah and
Colorado.”

“So? He produced a pair
of half-lens reading glasses with thin gold frames and began skimming the
articles.

“One of them, The
Retreat at Diablo Canyon is right near Spanish Mountain.”

“So?”

“They had a fire around
the time Ken disappeared. And Jeffrey Boyd has a home at Spanish Mountain.”

“It could be
coincidence. Many wealthy people own homes in Colorado.”

“I don't like
coincidences. Epstein focused on these places, and Julie Nesbitt isn't the only
person in this case with daddy issues. Kids do the strangest things to get
their fathers to notice them.”

“You're stretching,” he
said, absently, continuing to read. Suddenly, he frowned. “Then again, perhaps
you are not.”

“What is it? What did
you find?”

“The developer of The
Retreat, who is also the owner of Spanish Mountain, is Verdugo Properties.”

“If you say so. Is that
supposed to mean something to me?”

He looked at me over the
half lenses. “Jeffrey Boyd is outside counsel for Verdugo Industries, the
parent company.”

“Really? Nice little
tidbit of information. I thought you said the type of corporate law he
practiced didn't matter.”

“I was wrong.” He
shrugged. “It happens.”

“Let's hope not too
often.” I thought for a moment. “Mrs. Nesbitt heard Julie saying someone was
financing a trip for Roger, probably Ken. He gets to strike a blow for mother
earth, impress the girl, and get back at Dad. The trifecta.”

“But, as you Americans
like to say, things got out of hand.”

I nodded. “The fire.
Perhaps he had second thoughts when reality hit. Arson. Domestic terrorism.
Attempted murder. Good reasons to destroy the evidence and cover his tracks. He
would be facing hard time.”

“Why go into hiding if
he had successfully covered his tracks, as he appears to have done?”

“I know. It doesn't
mesh.”

Both of us were silent
for a while, thinking.

“Assume Ken financed the
trip,” I said, “and they drove to Colorado in his van. We know the fire took
place. If we assume they started it, rather than some workman, something spooks
Ken. He returns to Washington, wipes his computer clean and details the van to
remove any forensic evidence.”

“You are crediting him
with knowledge the average person does not possess,” said Raviv. “How many
college students would know to cleanse the vehicle and remove the air filter?”

“Anyone who watches CSI,”
said Moyshe.

“CSI?” said Raviv.

“It’s a TV show,” I
said. “Stick with me on this. Ken and Julie decide to go into hiding. They
clean the van, take her laptop, and wipe his hard drive.”

“With software he cannot
possibly possess. And why do they need to do it?”

“Assume they planned the
trip on it,” I said. “Routes. Target information.”

“Photos and maps,” said
Moyshe.

“What are you saying
now?” said Raviv.

“If I was planning to
hit someplace like that,” said Moyshe, “I'd Google Earth it, download satellite
photos, topographic maps.” He shrugged. “You know, like the CIA would.”

“I see. I will speak to
your mother about your television viewing habits.” He turned back to me. “But,
why go into hiding if they have successfully destroyed the evidence?”

“I don’t know. Maybe one
of their companions was caught, and they wanted to see how the investigation
went. But, I don’t know. Even if she was going into hiding, I’d bet Julie would
speak to her mother first. And there is no evidence anyone in Seattle saw
either of them since before the fire.”

“And wouldn’t the fact
of their disappearance simply cause the attention they wished to avoid? Your
theory makes no sense.”

“Unless we consider the
possibility someone else returned the van and cleaned the computer. Someone
anxious to keep the authorities out of it.”

“Which itself presents
two possibilities. The group behind the arson, anxious to hide their
involvement, or the targets, who claim the fire was an accident. Neither theory
bodes well for young Mr. Boyd or Ms. Nesbitt.”

“No, it does not.”

“However, if we work the
theory that the children are dead and the evidence, whatever that may be, was
destroyed, why are these men following you?”

 “That’s been
bothering me, too. Maybe the first theory is the right one, the kids are alive,
and they’re looking for them, too. I’m another set of eyes.”

“Possibly. To me it is
more likely that Mr. Boyd’s firm, or one of the partners, may be aware that he
hired an external private investigator, and they are curious as to why.”

“How would they know?”

“He might have let it
slip. And you did meet him at his office. I will contact him tomorrow.”

“No, not yet,” I said.
“Let’s see how it plays out for a couple of days. Moyshe, I need another
favor.”

“Sure thing.” He poised
his fingers above the keyboard, looking at me expectantly.

“Dig up everything you
can on Verdugo. Summarize what you get and send it to my phone.”

“You got it.”

I turned back to Raviv.
“I need a car.”

“You still don't own a
car?”

“Don't need one.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Raviv.”

“You have a company Zip
car account.”

“Just give me one of the
SUVs.”

“Why an SUV?”

“I’m not driving a
skateboard to Vermont in the winter.”

“You have questions for
Mr. Epstein?”

“A few. Plus, there was
the phone call Julie made.”

“The motel in New
Hampshire?”

“She could only have
been calling Roger. New Hampshire is just too close to Epstein, and as we
know...”

“You don’t like
coincidences.”