by Frank Hughes
“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.”
8.
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.”
9.
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 indi
viduals. 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.”
“Reall
y? 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?”
