Free Devil's Run by Frank Hughes Page A

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.”

10.
    Bedford, Vermont was
simply too precious for words. Picture postcard streets lined with antique shops,
candle stores, and a village green with a gazebo. Exactly the sort of place
many a key-jingling husband has his first vision of Hell.
    The Gaia Bookstore did
not look out of place with its neat brick storefront and discreet sign that
included the legend “Established 1975”. A brass bell jingled as I stepped
inside. To the left was a coffee bar promising only “environmentally friendly
Costa Rican blends” harvested by “well-paid union workers”. The rest of the
store was devoted to books, posters, and videos, all on environmental topics. A
faded poster guaranteed that all publications were on recycled paper using
vegetable dye inks. Good, I was worried about that.
    A pretty young woman in
jeans and a hemp blouse approached me. Her thick, dark hair hung in Pocahontas
braids. “I’m Miranda. May I help you?”
    “Yes, please. I’d like
to see Mr. Epstein.”
    Her smile faded a
little. “I’m sorry, he’s busy.”
    She figured me as a cop.
It had always been a problem for me, something about the haircut, the grim
expression, and the aviator sunglasses.
    “It’s unofficial. I’ll
only take a few minutes of his time.”
    “He’s quite busy.” She
tilted her head and pointed her chin