They’re not to Manitou Springs yet. “Where the fuck are they going?”
The question is rhetorical, but Fitz responds regardless. “What did your searches on Roger Briggs pull up? Did you do the searches on the rest of us as I asked?”
I’ve had exactly zero minutes of free time since his request. Except for the time I used clearing my head this morning.
“Your phone,” I say, extending a palm. He puts a nice new foldable device in my outstretched hand, and I immediately get the Escalade’s coordinates on screen for him to see.
With mine, I flip to a deep search and begin pulling at the threads weaving the story of Briggs Barnett and Roger Briggs. The Durango house is easy to find. Interestingly, the house isn’t registered to him, but to a corporation—LolaBee Crafts & Designs.
Bold choice, when her “crafts and designs” were on children’s corpses.
The dot on the map starts moving again.
“What’s northwest?” Fitz asks as he accelerates to cut the distance between us.
“Woodland Park, but there’s nothing there.” Data trickles in. “Now Cripple Creek? There’s an option. Briggs, or rather, Roger has a house there.” Well, the company that owns his homes does.
“Nothing like a wild goose chase on winding roads where speeding lands you in a gully or sailing off the side of a cliff.”
“Wild goose chases better in Texas?”
“Everything’s better in Texas,” he snarks.
“Except the mountains.”
We’re on I-25, one exit away in the Springs just as the car with my father, Barnett, and Lorien—God willing—makes it to Woodland Park.
I flip to my phone app and call a biker buddy who lives near Woodland Park. I don’t know why I didn’t think of him earlier. “Boz, Murphy. Yeah. You home? I need a favor.” He chats way too damn much, using too many words as I watch the car on the map.
“Boz, can you go create a traffic problem? Any problem. Any at all on 24?”
The talking continues.
“Yep. Westside and westbound if you can make it happen.”
He’s still talking but I’m not listening. If he doesn’t get his ass in gear soon, there’s no point in having listened to this.
“Did you hear me, Murphy?” the disembodied voice comes through the phone.
“No. Sorry. Repeat?”
“I got you. You owe me.”
“Done.”
I disconnect but can feel Fitz’s eyes boring holes through my cheek. “Do I want to know the type of favor a man named Boz might call in?”
“You do not.” I say to my phone as I go back to researching.
There’s no time for the full sweep that Fitz wanted. Hell, all roads could lead to me as a terrorist and I’d never know. That’s a tomorrow-me problem. Today-me needs to save Lorien and end this shit once and for all.
I don’t hear back from Boz, except for a text.
Boz: Handled. I’ll call my marker when the time is right.
Great.
And what doeshandledmean?
