Angie Neal’s being trafficked by her stepfather, along with the reemergence of Scooter Nelson’s case, with interstate implications, had secured the VBI’s federal task force legitimacy.

Lester turned his screen toward Sammie so she could see its contents. “Signed, sealed, and delivered,” he said.

“Way to go,” she responded, getting out of the car to retrieve a pry bar from the back.

No key could have bypassed the padlock faster than she did with her pry bar. She was already pulling the old barn door open as Lester got out of the SUV with his camera.

Their discovery turned out to be an older Ford Econoline—a little rusty, a few minor dents, dark blue in color—the perfect vehicle to at once carry a lot of belongings, while remaining invisible in plain view.

It was unlocked. Disappointingly, it was also empty. But not, they were pleased to find, pristinely so. As they systematically processed it from back to front, at last reaching the console between the two front seats, Lester let out a self-congratulatory grunt as he held up a key, complete with an identifier tag.

“Aha,” Sam reacted, looking up from searching under the passenger seat. “That say where it goes?”

Lester studied the tag. “Specifically? No. Generally? You bet. Ocean Storage Rentals.” He handed it to her, adding, “Where that is exactly, I have no clue.”

“I think I do,” she said, smiling. She showed him her phone, explaining, “Joe just filed his interview with Corey Browne. Given our present location, I’d say we’re the closest players to the beautiful Hampton Beach area, where Corey thinks Don kept his stash.”

Lester straightened, looking pleased. “I love the seashore in the winter.”

“And I’d love to bug Fred Houston for another warrant.” She glanced at the key chain again. “Specifically to search unit forty-eight.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

It is one of the curiosities of the Vermont / New Hampshire twins phenomenon that, although each looks like the upside-down mirror image of the other on a map, they have so fiercely maintained separate identities as to be products of opposite coasts.

Much of that difference is bunkum, born of pride and parochial competitiveness. Despite their mutual disparagement, both states, nestled along the Connecticut River like two old lovers spooning, had once had remarkably similar outlooks. Only since the 1960s has Vermont become the liberal enclave it’s now known to be. Before then, it was an outspoken bastion of rock-ribbed Republicanism.

Modern politics may have fostered the greatest schism, with labels like blue and red, but migration and proximity to urban centers have contributed additional geographical quirks. Vermont’s population is largely concentrated just below Montreal, while New Hampshire’s citizens cluster in its southeast corner, making of it a virtual suburb of Boston.

It was in response to this last fact that Lester Spinney had admitted to Sam about knowing Hampton Beach. Whenever legions of Bostonians had an appetite to leave Massachusetts for a few hours on a summer weekend, away from the lingering prudery of their Puritan forebears, Hampton Beach had become the customary destination. Lester and many like him had similarly been attracted from far and wide, although he was one of the few to prefer the place’s austerity in winter over its summertime excesses.