by Frank Hughes
“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 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 can’t seem to get a handle on the movement, so they m
ade me a convenient whipping boy. I do support the efforts of those who defend the Earth, but that doesn’t mean I know them, much less direct their activities. I have spent nearly forty years of my life advocating better treatment of our environment. I write articles that are published worldwide. I attend conventions and speak at colleges and universities. I am a well-known figure. People send me things anonymously. I, in fact, make an effort to not know these people.” He spread his hands. “So you see, I cannot help you.”
“I believe you can.” He calmly raised his hands and opened his mouth to protest, but I stopped him. “Yes, yes, you do a great job confounding them. Your trade craft is excellent. You’re a genius, and I am sure half the reason you do what you do is the enormous kick you get out of watching the FBI chase their tails. I don’t give a shit. To me, this is about missing kids.”
“You are wrong. They are wrong. I have nothing to do with these so-called attacks.”
“Yet, shortly after the recent fire, you took down all your articles about The Retreat at Diablo Canyon.”
He went stone-faced. “What articles?”
“I noticed you didn't say ‘what fire?’.” I pointed at his computers. “Net savvy guy like you doesn't know about archive.org?” I took out a sheaf of folded papers and tossed them on his desk, where they dramatically unfolded. “Kenneth Boyd's father is deeply involved in The Retreat at Diablo Canyon. And he had an axe to grind with his dad.”
“Who doesn't?” Epstein had recovered his smug expression. “It's not my problem.”
“Look, no one has seen either of these kids for nearly two months. The girl’s parents are frantic. I am not here to pry into your little empire or do the FBI’s work for them. I just want to find these kids. Whatever they got mixed up in, courtesy of this Roger character, may have gotten them in a load of trouble. I just need a lead.”
“Who are you working for?”
“That’s privileged.”
“Really? It has to be one of the parents and you are New York based from your accent. So you must be working for Jeffrey Boyd.”
“You can speculate. Interesting that you know that name.”
“Not at all. I am aware of everyone involved in these so-called resorts.” He pointed at the papers I’d brought. “And knowing that you work for Boyd makes me even less inclined to help you.”
“I’m looking for the boy. Nothing else.”
We stared at each other for a couple of minutes. Finally he said, “I don’t believe I can help you.”
I sighed, and sat back. He didn’t move.
“Look,” I said, after a moment, “this can’t be a particularly large operation. If you could let me look at a list of your subscribers, perhaps I can track down this Roger.”
He looked at me as if I were a lunatic. “Do you seriously think I would allow you to sift through my customer records like a one man Patriot Act?”
“God, can we lose the political crap for one minute?”
“No, we cannot. At least I cannot.” He relented a little. “The only way to survive, Mr. Craig, is by never making exceptions to the rules that protect you. If your request is legitimate, I am truly sorry, but I cannot help you.” He leaned forward. “Did it ever occur to you that they may not want to be found? If they are, as you’ve implied, involved in some sort of direct action, then perhaps they’ve dropped out of sight?”
“Yes, it has, but the fire is officially accidental. And this kid Boyd was new to it all. It sounds like the girl roped him in as a money man. She herself was in the thrall of this Roger character.” Again, I thought I saw something briefly in his eyes. “I hardly think either of them have the tradecraft to go missing for so long on their own, leaving their parents worried to death.”
He settled back in his chair. “You’d be surprised,” he said, “how quickly a person can become passionate, once they know how the facts affect them personally. If you’ve done your research, as it appears you have, you’ll know that these people often choose to sever all family ties and go underground.”
He stood up.
“I’ll see you out, Mr. Craig.”
He ushered me into the creaking hallway. He had my business card in his hand.
“Must be fascinating work. Private detective, I mean.”
“Yeah, no frustrations at all.”
He laughed shortly. We passed through the door into the store. He put my business card in his vest pocket. “Are you staying the night in our little town?”
“Yes. Already spent the day on the road”
“Yes, quite a drive from New York this time of year. Do you have a hotel, yet? I can recommend some good ones.”
“The Winston House.”
“Good choice. Not my number one, but comfortable.”
“Rooms are tough this time of year.”
“Yes, I suppose they are.” He walked me to the door and led me out onto the steps. “Have a good trip back, Mr. Craig.”
He turned and went back towards his office
11.
The Winston House did look comfortable. Hell, it had a bed and I was exhausted. I made sure the do not disturb sign was on the door, kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the bed fully clothed. The TV was on low, Fox News droning in the background.
The next thing I knew, I was awakened by a knock on the door. A glance at the clock radio told me it was 1:30, but since the sun was still shining, it was the wrong 1:30. I sat up and rubbed my face. The banging was louder this time.
“Can't you read,” I yelled, which only prompted more banging.
I got up and went over to the door. Standing to the side, I said in a falsetto voice, “Who is it?”
“FBI,” said a male voice.
“We didn’t order any.”
“Don’t be a wiseass. Just open the door.”
I slipped the latch on and opened the door a crack.
“Let’s see some I.D.”
There were two of them, of course, in cheap, dark overcoats. One was middle aged, average height. The other taller and about ten years younger. Both apparently bought their ties at car wash gift shops. The older one had his leather I.D. folder out and open. I unlatched the door and went back to the bed, sitting down on the corner with my hands in plain view. They stepped through the door, cautiously, glancing around. The older man stood in front of me, a comfortable distance away. His partner checked out the bathroom.
“The hooker went out the window,” I said.
He ignored me. After finishing with the bathroom he investigated the hell out of the closet.
“I’m Special Agent Briggs, this is Special Agent Stanton.” said the older of the two, pointing at the other guy as if I was going to confuse him with the fifty other special agents in the room.
Briggs propped himself on the edge of the desk and sat staring at me. I smiled at him. He shook his head slightly and glanced at Stanton.
“All clear,” Stanton told him.
“You didn’t look under the bed,” I reminded him.
Still no reaction. It was a tough room. Stanton leaned against the wall near the bathroom door. They were by the book, these two. I was bracketed, and either one could shoot me without fear of hitting his partner. Not that I was going to give them any reason to shoot me.
“Shall I send down for some snacks?” I said. “I hear the maple bars are great.”
Briggs ignored the question. “What are you doing messing around in our investigation?”
“What investigation?”
He sighed. “Don’t fuck with me, Craig. I’m not in the mood.”
“I can imagine. Stuck here babysitting Abbie Hoffman, Jr.” I grinned at him. “Who did you piss off?”
He didn’t like that, but he also didn’t rile so easy. “You are involved in an active FBI investigation,” he said, his voice weary. “As a former government agent and, for the moment, licensed private investigator, you know better than that.”
“Hey, I’m just here on a little R&R.”
&
nbsp; “You fly across the country and then drive six hours to Vermont in the middle of the night for relaxation?” said Stanton.
“I like antiquing.”
He snorted.
Briggs glanced at him sharply before turning back to me. “I know all about your missing persons case.”
“Good, can you solve it for me? I have Giants tickets.”
“I also know Special Agent Schultz ordered you to back off.”
“Well, to be accurate, it was more like a suggestion.”
“And I am concerned that you blew months of surveillance by your visit to Epstein.”
“Oh Christ, you think he’s not on to you?” I flicked a sleeper out of my eye with my middle finger. Clever and mature, that's our Nick. “This guy’s been at this almost forty years. He’s got an anti-eavesdropping cage built right into the walls. Bet you I got brain cancer just sitting in there for ten minutes. He knows he’s being watched.”
“That is beside the point. Sooner or later everyone slips, but he’s not going to get careless if cops are showing up on his doorstep. You are to back off as of this moment.”
That is when the light went on in my head.
“Of course, it isn’t just Epstein, is it?” I said “Boyd is also the target of an investigation.”
Briggs’ face betrayed nothing. “Speculate all you want, but do it while you relax at home. Back off. Or you’ll find yourself in a shit storm you won’t believe.”
“I’m really scared now.” I pulled my legs up and hugged my knees to my chest. “Will you stay here with me tonight?”
“We can have that license pulled like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“You can try. I haven’t done anything wrong, and PI licenses aren’t a federal matter. A New York judge is going to take a dim view of the Feds horning in, purely out of spite.”
We settled into a Mexican stare off that was interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone.
“Sorry, boys,” I said, leaning back to snatch it off the nightstand. “That might be Commissioner Gordon.”
Unknown number. I pressed the phone hard against my head, thumbing down the volume so they couldn’t hear.