Skeleton Justice by Michael Baden, Linda Kenney Baden

Boo took with him to Club Epoch aren’t going to know anything. We have to find the other guy, Freak.”
    “Or Deke or Zeke,” Manny said. “No one seems clear on his name, where he came from, or where he disappeared to.”
    “The police maintain a database of nicknames bad guys use on the street,” Sam said. “Do you know if the feds tried to find this guy in there?”
    Manny dropped into her desk chair and swiveled to look out the window. Twenty floors below, the hustle and flow of lower Manhattan moved silently by. “If you ask me, the feds seem to be doing all they can to pretend our mystery man never existed. And I find that in itself to be very suspicious.”
    “Ah, Manny—you see conspiracies everywhere. Why not give plain old incompetence credit sometimes?”
    “You’re right, Sam. It’s hard to overestimate that on the federal level. Luckily, I know a guy high up in the New Jersey Bureau of Criminal Justice. I’ll suggest he run those names for us—for their investigation.”
    Manny waved Kenneth into the office. He was wearing a faux tiger-skin shirt topped by a short feather boa jacket. The jacket was a concession to the need for formal law office decorum. Despite his new natural-toned acrylic nails, he’d done an excellent job typing up the Eduardo wrongful death summary judgment brief that had to be filed with the court the next day.
    “Thanks, Kenneth. I’ll sign that and you can send it off.”
    “Hello? Are you still there?” Sam demanded.
    “Sorry. Where was I?”
    “Tracking down Freak.”
    “Right. If I could find him, the feds would have to accept that Travis didn’t plan this. If I can’t, I have to find another way to convince them Travis was an unwitting dupe, not an intentional coconspirator.”
    “Are you sure that’s true?”
    Manny sighed. “Not entirely. And that’s exactly why I’m telling you to stay away from Travis Heaton. He’s under house arrest, and I’m sure there are federal marshals keeping an eye on his apartment. If they see you waltzing into his building, a fleet of cruisers will be waiting for you when you come out. I’ll talk to him.”
    This suggestion was met with silence. Finally, Sam spoke again. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”
    Manny smiled. There was a sentence you’d seldom hear any man utter.
    “Listen, this is what I want you to find out. Whose idea was it that they go to Club Epoch? Why that place, that night? Did Travis know they were going to be meeting anyone?”
    “I want to know those things, too, Sam. And believe me, I intend to find out.”
    “And what about this Paco kid—are you going to talk to him?” Sam demanded.
    Manny switched the phone to her other ear and reached out to stroke Mycroft. He yipped and scooted away from her hand. “Mikey, what’s—”
    “Manny! What about Paco?”
    She wasn’t eager to answer this question. The truth was, Paco Sandoval was proving quite elusive and it was really pissing her off. And worrying her. He was hiding behind his diplomatic immunity and letting his friend take the fall. If Paco was just an innocent dupe, as Travis claimed to be, then why wouldn’t he at least cooperate in his friend’s defense? She suspected that this mysterious caller who’d contacted Boo Hravek was somehow connected to Paco. But how could she prove it if she couldn’t even talk to the kid? His family’s apartment near the UN was a veritable fortress; the Monet Academy had treated her like a damn pedophile when she tried to reach Paco there. Still, she didn’t want Sam to panic. She could handle this.
    “Look, Sam, Travis went to school today, and he’ll talk to Paco and let him know we need to meet with him. I’ll work it out.”
    “You’d better. Call me as soon as you’re done with those kids.”
    “Fine. Expect to hear from me by five.”
    As soon as she’d put the phone down, Manny scooped up Mycroft to examine the paw he was licking. The dog held perfectly still as her fingers searched