Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  Whoever ran things, they weren’t getting good reviews from analysts. Verdugo was considered headed for trouble, negating the profits from its successful public resorts by pouring money into the development of the ultra exclusive enclave The Retreat at Diablo Canyon. Analysts considered the expense of construction and upkeep, not to mention the environmental cleanup, to be so enormous there was no way to turn a profit in a reasonable amount of time.

  I shut the PDF and laid the phone down on the table. Something was nagging me. After a few minutes of thought and a bottle of beer, I remembered that I’d left my phone and overnight bag in my Vermont hotel room. Somehow both items had managed to make it to New York long before I did. Briggs and Stanton hadn’t stopped for it, we’d come straight from the crash site. Yet, there it was in Roma’s office. That meant the phone and bag came down ahead of us by helicopter or plane, which was considerable trouble to go to over a guy now relegated to the sidelines.

  I tossed the bag in the corner. No sense searching it; if they’d put in a tracker, I wouldn’t find it without tearing the bag apart. As for the phone, if they’d given it the full treatment they could not only track me, anything I read, said, or typed would be captured and analyzed. I decided to give them a chance to check that everything was working by dialing the mobile number on Boyd’s business card. It went straight to voicemail. I disconnected without leaving a message. Next, I tried his office.

  “Tarantino, Rosen, and Parisi, how may I direct your call?” said the cheerful female voice at the other end.

  “Jeffrey Boyd, please. Nick Craig calling.”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Craig. Mr. Boyd is out of town on company business and cannot be reached at this time. Can someone else help you?”

  “No, I- yes. Can you connect me with Ms. Ricasso?”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Craig. Ms. Ricasso is accompanying Mr. Boyd and they are in transit at this time. Would you care to leave a voicemail for Mr. Boyd?”

  “No, thank you, that's okay.” I hung up on her “Happy Holidays.”

  The radiator was rattling to let me know it was working, and the apartment felt warmer. I looked at the disarray and realized I had little desire to straighten up. I was pissed at being used and tired of being two steps behind.

  I showered, shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes, adding a black turtleneck sweater to the ensemble. I wanted a warmer coat and better shoes than I’d had in Vermont. I put on insulated hiking boots and found my old ski parka. I couldn't remember the last time I'd used it, but the gloves were still jammed in the goggle pocket.

  Since my own bag was now suspect I dug out an old tactical bag that converted to a back pack using hidden straps. I packed a few changes of clothes, my long underwear, and some heavy socks. The ski gauntlets went in on top.

  My spendable cash was eleven hundred thirty-eight dollars, plus a Metro card and some local train tickets. That won't get you far in the Twenty-first Century. I took off my stainless steel Rolex, a Christmas gift from my wife, who’d be the first to understand if I pawned it. My Luminox diver's watch was a better choice for most situations anyway. One thing you didn’t know about a Rolex until you owned one is they keep lousy time.

  I needed to avoid the watchers below. The High Line, an elevated railway converted to a park, ran directly behind my building. It wasn’t close enough to jump to, but the roof of the auto repair shop next door ran right up to it. All I had to do was get myself to that roof.

  I went out onto the fire escape, which was visible to only one small sliver of 28th Street. I didn't see anyone there watching and the few hardy souls braving the cold weather on the High Line hadn’t noticed me. I crept down the steps to the third story, and heaved my bag over the gap and onto the roof. There was too much distance for me to jump, so I launched myself off the rail of the fire escape into the branches of an intervening tree, wrapping my arms around the trunk. Once I found stable footing, I shuffled out sideways on a thick limb, using a higher one as a handhold. Before I reached the spot I had in mind, the branch under me began to bend alarmingly. I decided not to take any chances and jumped from there. The branch gave me less spring than expected and I barely made it, slamming into the edge of the roof chest high. I hung for a moment, then planted my right elbow and rolled onto the roof.

  My antics had attracted the attention of the people on the High Line. Someone was no doubt already dialing 911. I tossed my bag over their heads into the park and scrambled over the railing and flower beds.

  “Sorry,” I said, “her husband came home early.”

  While they digested that bit of news, I threw the bag on my back and took off for the 30th Street stairs.

  18.

  My train pulled into Belmar at dusk in the midst of an icy rain. The small New Jersey shore town’s sole claim to fame is Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band, which took its name from the address where the band practiced in its early days. Once on the platform I moved to a sheltered spot and watched my fellow passengers sprint for the parking lot or dive into waiting cars. A couple of people popped umbrellas and hurried off on foot. By the time the train pulled out, I was alone. Just to be sure, I gave it a few more minutes before leaving the platform and crossing the tracks.

  I splashed diagonally across the wide expanse of 10th Avenue, weaving through the cars in the central public parking lot, reaching the sidewalk in front of Vesuvio pizzeria. Despite the weather, the restaurant was packed. I passed up the siren call of freshly baked dough and melted mozzarella and walked to Carl Josephson's jewelry shop.

  I stood outside and watched through the window. Three connected display cases formed a U shaped counter. Carl was hunched over the left side of the U, a jeweler's loupe screwed into his right eye. A tall, thin man with deeply set eyes watched anxiously from the customer side as Carl examined a ring.

  Carl was a mustachioed bear of a man, and not in the cuddly, teddy bear sense. He had the look of someone you just didn't fuck with, someone so tough he didn't have to prove it. In his college days, as a semi-pro arm wrestler he was so competitive he'd broken his own arm winning a match. He always wore a knowing smile, as if privy to secrets you would never understand, and there was a permanent twinkle in the coolly appraising brown eyes. He and his wife bought and sold estate pieces from people down on their luck or just eager to cash in Grandma’s baubles. You could count on Carl for a knowledgeable appraisal and a fair price. He was an honest man in a usually shady business, and I would trust him with my life, which I was about to do.

  I'd first met Carl when our paths crossed during a drug investigation. He was a DEA agent who, like me, had no time for inter-agency rivalries. We'd helped each other over the years sharing information and tips. The professional association had grown into a friendship that came to include our wives. Those two, seemingly polar opposites, were soon thick as thieves. Carl's wife Sharon was not part of law enforcement. She was as delicate as Carl was tough. Her particular passion was caring for injured and abandoned cats. Their home was like a pet hostel, but supported by love and Benadryl, Carl was quite happy with the arrangement.

  His examination finished, he stood up straight and pulled the loupe from his eye. He made his pronouncement, which was met with a mildly disgruntled look. Carl handed the ring back and spoke some more. The man nodded and said something to Carl. I'm no lip reader, but I know “I'll think about it” when I see it. The two shook hands and the thin man left the shop. He passed behind me and walked off in the rain. When I turned back to the window, Carl was looking right at me, that familiar smile on his face. I was certain he'd known I was there the whole time.

  Pointing forked fingers at my eyes, I made a switching motion with my other hand. He nodded, limped over a few steps to the far end of the display and reached behind it. Another nod told me he'd switched off the security cameras.

  I opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Hello, Carl.”

  “Nick. Been a long time.” Carl reached behind him and retrieved the cane leaning
against the wall. Then he limped around from behind the counter to shake my hand.

  “Good to see you.”

  “You, too. How's the leg?”

  “Okay, I guess.” He switched the cane to his other hand and rubbed his right thigh. “This weather doesn't help, though.”

  “I can imagine. They ever get it all?

  “Yeah. There was a piece right up against the femoral that took a couple of operations, but I'm lead free now.”

  “Good.”

  Carl had taken a couple of .223 rounds during a drug raid in 2001. The rounds tumbled when they hit, leaving massive wounds that would have killed a lesser man. As it was, he not only survived, he managed to keep the leg. However, the injuries ended his career. He pensioned out on a disability and took over his brother's failing pawn business. Now he had two shops, well placed and managed by people he'd personally trained. Keeping his little empire running well meant Carl usually worked seven days a week almost the whole year round.

  “Where's Sharon?” I said.

  “Home with the new cat. It's in pretty bad shape. Chemo, prednisone, the whole nine lives.”

  “I’d say to give her my best, but it’s better that she doesn’t know.”

  “I got that much from your phone call.” He lost the smile for a moment. “I was sorry to hear about Raviv. He was a good man.”

  “Yeah. Did you get a chance to talk to anyone at NYPD?”

  He nodded. “I know a guy.”

  “Of course you do. Any details?”

  “He confirmed the strangulation. And the other thing.”

  “What else?”

  “Not much. From the marks on his neck, he was strangled with something metal.” He ran a finger across his throat. “Dug deep.”

  “Garrote?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing thin like that. Whatever it was didn’t break the skin. Garrote would have taken his head off. My source says the M.E. likened it to a Thugee strangling cloth, something that chokes and crushes at the same time. Got him right on the massage table. There was an imprint in his back, like someone’s knee.”

  “Suspects?”

  “They’re going with the terrorist angle for now. And Raviv wasn't the only victim. They found the real masseuse dead in a linen closet.”

  “Strangled?”

  “Yup. Looks like the same weapon, although her autopsy is a lower priority.” He paused for a moment. “The killer knew the one time and place to get close to Raviv, when he had no weapons, no bodyguard.”

  “Not very hard, you could set your watch by that massage.”

  “No happy ending this time,” said Carl.

  It was cop humor and didn’t bother me. “Any word on his driver?”

  “No. No one has seen him.”

  “At least he wasn't found strangled. Seems to be a lot of that going around lately.” A thought hit me and I paused. “Do me another favor will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “See if you can get them to look into the murder of a Cynthia Simmons. Strangulation, you'll be shocked to hear. It would be within the past couple of years. See if there are any similarities.”

  “Who was she?”

  “My client's secretary.”

  His face took on that old look I remembered from his active days. “You’ve got something.”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Your hunches usually pay off.” The smile got wider, the eyes more penetrating. “I heard about what happened in Vermont. You okay?”

  “Yeah. Did you dig out that stuff you're holding for me.”

  “In the back. Lock the door and turn the sign off for me, will you.”

  When I'd complied, he led the way around the glass display cases. Once behind the counter, he stepped aside to let me through the curtained opening to the rear of the store. There was a workbench strewn with little tools. A fat magnifying glass on an articulating arm was screwed into the tabletop. I put my carryon down next to it.

  “How about a beer?” he said.

  “Couldn't hurt.”

  “Little fridge,” he said, pointing. “Under the workbench.”

  “You?”

  “No thanks. Still working.”

  I retrieved a bottle of Smithwicks and popped it open on the edge of the bench. While I took a long swallow, Carl limped past me to the ancient safe that stood at the back of the room. I could have stood up in the damn thing. He fiddled with the combination, while I politely looked the other way. The handle squeaked and I heard the door groan open. I turned back to see him digging beneath a pile of brown and white envelopes bound with string. He produced a battered steel box with a combination lock and carried it to the workbench.

  “I went to the Seaside shop and got it right after you called.” He gave me that sly smile. “Shall I leave?”

  “That's okay, although, you might want to step back. It's better if you don't know too much.”

  He nodded and moved away, leaning on the cane and watching me with that bemused look.

  I unlocked the box and opened it. A brown, waxed envelope secured with rubber bands lay on top of an oily rag. Inside were a passport, a Pennsylvania driver's license, two Visa cards, and an American Express, all in the name of David Somerset. My picture was on all the IDs.

  “Are those still good?” When I glanced at him, he said, “No, I didn't look. I'm just not stupid, is all.”

  “The passport and Amex are still valid, but flagged in the system. It’ll do for ID in this country, but I can’t leave the States on it, someone would notice.” I hefted the license and other credit cards. “These are all expired.”

  “Maybe you should take the hint.”

  “Maybe.” I stuck the documents in my carry on.

  “Rumor is you’ve been told to butt out.”

  “Rumor’s true.”

  “So, naturally, you’re going to keep going. What’s the plan?”

  “So far there’s one consistent thread in this, Verdugo Properties.”

  “How so?”

  “Boyd is counsel for Verdugo. The snowmobile the killers used was owned by Verdugo. The place that got attacked in Colorado is run by Verdugo.”

  “Not very clever using one of their own snowmobiles.”

  “It was short notice and they didn’t expect to get caught. Anyway, they hedged their bet and called in a theft report a couple of hours before the shooting.”

  He frowned. “So your theory is a construction company is running around the country killing environmental activists?”

  “Why not? It could be they’re taking proactive steps to prevent any more ‘accidental’ fires.”

  “Murder seems like a drastic business strategy.”

  “Not when there’s a lot of money at stake. This Retreat thing, it might spook potential investors if they thought it was a terrorist target. My grandfather used to say if they’d shot a few anti-war protestors back in the sixties that decade would have been a lot less stressful.”

  “Your grandfather sounds like a pleasant fellow.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Better if you don’t know the details, but I intend to find out who killed Raviv. And locate the boy, if he’s alive.” I zipped the bag shut. “Did I mention I ran into Imperatrice last night?”

  “With a truck, I hope.”

  “No such luck.”

  “How’d he get involved?”

  “He works for Verdugo, head of security.”

  “Interesting coincidence.”

  “You don’t believe in coincidence any more than I do.”

  “I never told you, Nick, but Mary asked me about him.”

  I stopped what I was doing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Shortly before, you know. Anyway, I think she was investigating him.”

  “When was this? What did she say?”

  “It was at one of the dinners at our house. Oh, it was all casual, 'Poor Nick and his horrible boss
, you ever meet him? Nick had to take that transfer', blah, blah, blah.” His eyes hardened. “I know when I'm being interrogated.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Sharon had you off meeting the new cats.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I just told her I didn’t like the guy.”

  “That it?”

  “Pretty much. She didn’t push it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  I pulled a brand new cell phone and charger out of my bag and laid it on the work bench.

  “I picked up a few burners at the K-Mart in Penn Station.”

  “There’s a K-Mart in Penn Station?” he said.

  “Geez, don’t you ever explore?”

  “I never make it past the Cinnabon.”

  “It shows. Anyway, keep this handy, just in case I need to get in touch with you.”

  “Where's your phone?”

  “Halfway to Rutland on the Green Mountain Express.”

  He laughed. “No doubt with the GPS locater turned on.”

  “Yeah, not that it matters. I’m sure they fucked with my phone.”

  “You sure they'll bite?”

  I shrugged. “Makes sense, I left one of Raviv's cars up there. Transportation is the first thing I'll look for. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you have a car I could use?”

  Carl heaved himself away from the work bench and went back to the open safe. He reached in and took a small manila envelope from the top shelf.

  “Just repossessed it. Year old Ford F150, seventy-five thousand miles on it, and just one owner, an 89 year old widower.”

  “I’ve heard this one: he only used it once a week to drive to church. On the Moon, apparently.”

  “It's in good shape.” He threw me the envelope.

  Inside were two keys on a ring and the New Jersey registration card.

  “Still in his name?”

  He nodded. “I haven't submitted the paperwork yet.” He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “It's around back.”

  “Good.” I took the keys out of the envelope and put the registration in my pocket.

  Carl gestured with his chin towards the box. “There's something else in there you may need.”