Read Online 1 Runaway Man by David Handler - Free Book Online Page A

dead and taken off. Quickly, I looked around the cottage. It had only one room with a loft bed. A tiny bath. French doors out to a deck, bolted from the inside. There was no sign that anyone had forced open the front door. Bruce had invited his killer in. It didn’t appear to be a robbery gone bad. The flat-screen TV had been left behind. So had the Rolex on Bruce’s left wrist. Yet his laptop was missing. No way he’d be cramming for the Gauntlet without it. And I didn’t see his cell phone anywhere either.
    I went back outside with a sick feeling in my stomach and headed up the path to the circular drive, stepping carefully now so as not to disturb any crime scene evidence. I fetched my flashlight from the glove compartment of the Brougham and flicked it on. Followed my tire tracks back to the road, searching for any other tire tracks that might be there in the fresh snow. Bingo. Someone else had pulled in over by the main house, parked and gotten out. I could see footprints in the snow. One set. A lone gunman. His shoe prints led from the car down to the guest house and then back again. The prints weren’t any bigger than my own. Possibly even a bit smaller. The guy was no behemoth, whoever he was. I followed his tire tracks back toward the road. He’d made a sharp left when he pulled out of the driveway, meaning he’d headed north from there toward absolutely nowhere. There was only one possible reason for him to head north—so he wouldn’t bump into me.
    He’d known I was heading there. I was the one who’d led him to Bruce. I’d been his bird dog. That explained the tickle.
    But how had he shadowed me?
    I returned to the Caddy, climbed in ass backwards and shined the flashlight on the wiring underneath the dashboard, studying it inch by inch until I found it—a flat square plastic disc held in place with adhesive putty. I yanked the damned thing out of there. It was a voice-activated three-watt UHF transmitter. A bugging device capable of sending a radio signal roughly a mile for every watt of power. Which meant he could have been three miles behind me on the Cross Bronx and still heard every word I’d said to Sara on the phone. It was sophisticated equipment. Ran about a thousand bucks. Plus you’d need a receiver, too, and those didn’t come cheap. He must have planted it in the Brougham while it was tucked away in the garage. But that still didn’t explain how he’d known which way I was heading when I left the city. Because I didn’t have a tail. I got out and knelt under the car with the flashlight until I located it. A web-based GPS tracker was attached to the rear axle with magnets. The bastard had been following me by laptop. This was no goon. This was a pro who knew his trade.
    I stood there in the snow, boiling with rage. We’d been set up, used, chumped, punked—whatever you want to call it. Golden Legal Services had been hired to locate Bruce Weiner so he could be taken out by a hit man. Why? Was his love affair with Charles Willingham so toxic that this harmless college kid had to be gunned down? Who? Was Peter Seymour behind this? Had the patrician law firm of Bates, Winslow and Seymour given the scruples-free Leetes Group the green light to murder Bruce? As I stood there, my hand clenched around the bugging devices, I asked myself what would have happened if I hadn’t stopped for that cup of coffee in Brewster. What if I’d gotten here ten minutes sooner? What if I’d been inside of that cottage with Bruce when the killer showed up? And, God, what if I’d let Sara come with me?
    I smashed both devices under my heel, went out to the road and flung them deep into the woods. Then I pulled my cell out of my coat pocket. For all I knew they were bugging my calls. But I needed to use it. Besides, the damage was done.
    “Did you make it up there okay?” Mom asked me when I got through to her on the office line.
    “I made it.”
    “Did you find Bruce?”
    “I found Bruce.”
    “You