Free Devil's Run by Frank Hughes Page B

at me, as if offering it for a punch.
“Maybe you should come back.”
    “Well, if I come back it
will be official. I’m sure it will be much more inconvenient for him if a
subpoena required him to come to Boston.” I pulled a folded piece of paper half
out of my inside jacket pocket.
    She thought for a
moment. “Wait here.” She turned and flounced away.
    A couple of would-be
radicals sipping herb tea gave me suspicious looks. I slipped the folded
MapQuest directions back into my pocket and gave them a broad smile that was
not returned.
    Miranda returned. “He’ll
see you,” she said.
    I followed her behind
the counter into a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The old wooden floor creaked and
popped. The air felt electrically charged. Miranda stopped in front of an open
door and knocked lightly.
    “Send him in,” said a
man’s voice.
    Jack Epstein sat behind
an antique desk, looking a lot older than his website photo. He had both a Mac
and a PC. The man was bi-technical.
    He glanced up briefly.
“Thanks, Miranda. Better go mind the customers.”
    She nodded and left. I
could hear her creaking down the hall.
    “Makes it hard for
someone to sneak up on you,” I said.
    “I’ve been
meaning to get that fixed. Although, as you may know, the Japanese have used
the uguisu-bari or nightingale floor as a security measure for
centuries.”
    Oh goody, I thought, a
pompous ass. “Learn something new every day.”
    “A reason in itself for
living.” He settled back in his chair. “Miranda is under the impression you are
FBI.”
    “And you?”
    “I doubt it. They travel
in pairs, wear suits, and have much neater hair.”
    I smiled. “They’re
better paid, too.”
    “However,” he said,
sighing, “you are obviously some sort of cop.” He leaned forward, folding his
hands on the desk. “You are wasting your time.”
    “It’s mine to waste.”
    “Mine is not. I am a
busy man. If you do not really have a warrant or a subpoena, I must ask you to
leave.”
    I walked in and tossed
my business card onto his keyboard. While he picked it up and read it, I sat
down in one of the two antique chairs that fronted the desk.
    “Look, Mr. Epstein, my
name is Nick Craig. And your nose has not failed you. I used to be a cop. I’m a
private investigator now. Your name came up in a missing persons case I’m
working.”
    He snorted. “That’s
ridiculous.”
    “Maybe so, but you’re my
only lead so far.”
    “Please explain how my
name came up.”
    I took the Seattle
pamphlets from my pocket.
    “I’m looking for two
teenagers who disappeared in Seattle a couple of months back. The boy was
attending the University of Washington. His girlfriend was a green movement
activist. Her name is Julie Nesbitt and his is Kenneth Boyd.” There was a
fleeting reaction in Epstein’s eyes. “That name mean anything to you?”
    “No.” He had covered his
reaction quickly. I couldn’t even be sure it wasn’t wishful thinking on my
part.
    “Julie encouraged Ken to
become an activist.” I unfolded the campus flyers and handed them across to
him. “Julie had a long standing connection with another man, who seems to be a
leader in the movement, first name Roger, no last name. Tall, good-looking
young man, long blonde hair.” I touched a finger to my neck. “Scar on his neck,
heroically obtained, I understand, from the Seattle PD.”
    “And you expect me to
know these people simply because I support environmental causes?”
    “Julie had books
published by your company, and I’ve determined she made a phone call to this
area, probably to this Roger, shortly before her disappearance.”
    “Again, what has that to
do with me?”
    “It doesn’t take much of
a Google or Lexus Nexus search to turn up articles linking you to radical
environmentalists” I said. “Your own website contains communiqués from these
people, and is supportive of what is euphemistically called direct action.”
    “That’s FBI propaganda,
Mr. Craig. They