Damaged Goods Page 2

  “Does she usually call you or vice versa?” I asked. When faced with verbal ninja moves, respond in kind.

  “I always call. She usually answers or gets back to me.”

  “What happened over the weekend?”

  “I left a message.” Blaine brushed non-existent dust off the arm of his chair. “Haven’t heard a thing.”

  “So did you go to her place?” Patience.

  Blaine’s expression crumpled. “I don’t know where she lives,” he admitted.

  I had read that Blaine was divorced, so the next question would be tougher.

  “What about her mother?”

  “What about her?” His tone invoked the sound of thunder.

  “Does she have a good relationship with her mother?”

  Blaine shook his head like a wet dog. “I don’t know. We don’t talk about her. If you knew my ex, you’d understand why.”

  What a guy.

  “I’ll need to talk to her mother. Just in case.” This interview was turning out to be as much fun as a DIY root canal.

  Blaine released a breath with Arctic warmth. “Fine,” he said, and offered up his ex-wife’s email, phone, and address in California as though it were a state secret.

  When I asked about other close relatives, Blaine claimed there were none.

  “Here’s what I’ll do,” I said. “I’ll spend three hours looking for her. I’ll check with her friends and contacts around school and work. Do some online research. If I don’t get any leads, I’ll check back with you. But to be honest, any further work may be a waste of your money and my time.”

  “Now, see here—”

  I leaned forward and glared at him. “No, listen. If her disappearance is . . . ” my voice trailed off, but I resumed speaking in a lower tone, “ . . . due to foul play, the police must get involved. Given the unusual nature of my services, I don’t want to tread on official toes. Understand?”

  His expression turned sullen, but he nodded.

  “Now,” I continued. “About the missing partner and money. I can understand why you’d wish to keep this quiet and avoid official interference with your business. I’ll need more details—your partner’s name, the amount missing, and any information that could help me find him and the money.”

  Blaine launched into a story about how he and his partner, Slava Kandinsky, had knocked heads over marketing, reinvestment in the business, and other matters. Kandinsky had kept the books and was a spender. Blaine wanted to rein in extravagant purchases and focus on reinvesting to shore up the basics. He claimed that ten grand was unaccounted for. I nodded and took notes.

  “And the name of your business?” I asked.

  “B & K Developers, LLC.”

  That much I knew from reading the papers.

  “When did you last see him?” I asked.

  He squinted and pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Last Wednesday, maybe. Yeah, that was it. He called me on Thursday, claiming he was sick. I didn’t notice the discrepancy in our records until Friday. And I’ve been unable to reach him at home or on his cell.”

  Sucks when no one returns your calls. I paused to think of a good way to ask the next question. “How well does Kandinsky know your daughter?”

  He paled a bit, but answered with authority. “Far as I know, they’ve never met.”

  Right. Keep telling yourself that.

  “One more thing,” I said. “It’ll save me a lot of time if you tell me your daughter’s name.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “What was I thinking? Her name’s Melissa. Her full name is Melissa Anne Blaine.”

  I jotted down the name and very much wondered what he was thinking.

  Chapter Two

  Before I left Blaine’s palace, he dredged up a photo of Melissa. It was her high school senior photo, so she might have dyed her hair or who-knows-what in the five years since she graduated. In the photo, her mousy-brown locks were brushed back from a perfect oval face that featured full lips and her father’s green eyes.

  Blaine also gave me copies of articles about B & K Developers, including one with a full-color photo of Blaine and Slava Kandinsky sitting side-by-side. Kandinsky had longer legs, knees sticking out at awkward angles compared to his shorter partner’s. He had a swarthy complexion and eyes that gleamed like wet tar.

  I left the house and crossed a driveway that led to a three-car garage, slipped into my blue Fiesta, and fired it up. I lowered the windows to let in the warm, early September breeze. Then I drove to the local library, took my file and laptop inside, and started to put my thoughts on paper while they were still fresh.

  When I start a case, I like to create a flowchart. In this case, I had to find two people who may or may not have known each other. So I turned to a blank page in my notebook. Yes, I use paper and pencil for this stuff. I refuse to go all digital.

  I penciled in the name “Melissa Anne Blaine” on the right side, making an oval around it. Under her name, I wrote “MICA”, the acronym for the art school, pronounced “mike-ah.” On the left, I wrote “Slava Kandinsky” and drew a rectangle around that, then added the few additional names I’d squeezed out of Blaine. I put my client’s name at the top of the page and underlined it, then drew arrows between that and each of the others, noting the relationships along the lines.

  With the preliminaries out of the way, I turned on the laptop and scoped out Melissa’s last-known address and social media presence. Nothing. Not finding her on Facebook wasn’t surprising, since teens and young adults are apparently fleeing the site. However, Melissa’s friend Katie Saunders was there and was identified as a graduate of Damascus High School. I next turned to Instagram—the logical place for a young artist. And Pinterest. But there was no sign of Melissa on either one.

  I needed to delve deeper by using a subscription database—one of the few I can afford. I avoid using those outside my home, because I’m concerned about wi-fi security (or lack thereof). The downside is that some of these databases are often weeks or months out of date. I would have to rely on my threadbare people skills to gather the most recent intel. I set my sights on Katie Saunders first.

  I looked online for all the Saunders listed in the Damascus, Maryland, area. There were only five—Damascus isn’t exactly a huge metropolis. After jotting down the numbers and addresses, I left the library, returned to my car, and dug my cell phone out of my shoulder bag.

  I punched in the first number, and someone of indeterminate gender rasped a greeting.

  “Hi,” I said. “Is Katie there?”

  “Who? Kaley?”

  “No. Katie.”

  “Either way, you’ve got the wrong number.” I heard a click, and that was that.

  I kept going and hit pay dirt on the fourth try. A woman who sounded like someone’s grandmother answered. When I asked for Katie, she said, “She’s away at college, dear.”

  “Would you mind if I got her number, ma’am?” I chirped. “I’m putting together a contact list for the next high school reunion.” I figured the lie would protect Stuart Blaine.

  “Well, I don’t know . . . I’ll need to ask her mother.”

  “Is she there?” I pressed. “Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s out, but she should be back soon.”

  “How about if I check back in half an hour?”

  “She might be back by then, although you may want to wait an hour, just to be sure.”

  “Awesome,” I gushed. We exchanged brief farewells and hung up.

  I had no intention of calling in an hour; I would go to the house instead.

  I started the car and headed toward a shopping center I had noticed on the way to see Blaine. There was just enough time to grab a sandwich from the deli before stopping by the Saunders’ house.

  I bought a Reuben on pumpernickel, which I wolfed down while I scanned my notes and planned my general strategy. I would need to visit the art school, of course, and I could swing by the coffee shop while I was there. And a
s for Mr. Kandinsky, I would deal with him in good time.

  As I ate and reviewed notes, I stayed alert as always to my surroundings. Not that I expected anyone to attack me here, but old habits die hard. Fortunately, this wasn’t the bar where some drunk had tried to feel me up. I hadn’t expected that, either. And he hadn’t anticipated my fist connecting with his nose. Good thing I hadn’t connected squarely. I could have smashed his nose right into his brain.

  That kind of behavior lands you in court. Which leads to court-ordered anger management therapy. Which extends into talk therapy, ad infinitum. So many words, so little progress.

  I finished eating, did the minimal amount of cleanup expected of good citizens, and left.

  Katie Saunders’ house was tucked behind a stand of trees at the end of a long driveway. The architect must have been a fan of Frank Lloyd Wright’s late period work. The house had a post-post-modern design—all sharp angles and big windows. The property slanted downhill in back, and a porch surrounded the house, cantilevered over the hill by large beams. The driveway ended in a circle, making it easy to turn around. How considerate.

  The sound of birds singing floated up from the woods behind the house. I left the car next to a bed of yellow and orange marigolds and walked up to the house. After I rang the doorbell, I could hear a set of chimes echoing faintly from somewhere inside.

  The door was opened by a woman who looked too young to be the mother of a college student. She was wearing khaki shorts, an oversized green polo shirt, and glasses with blue rectangular frames. Her blonde hair was tied back into a low short ponytail, and her cheekbones were high and sculpted.

  “Our housekeeper says you’re looking for Katie?” she said, before I could get a word out.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Erica Jensen.” I extended my hand, but the woman didn’t shake it.

  “And why do you need to talk to her?” Her face was expressionless, but her voice had an edge.

  “I’m with the reunion committee. We’re updating our contact list. Are you Katie’s mother?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Good god, no! I’m her older sister. Mom asked me to take care of this.” She flapped a hand, as if drying her nails.

  “Look,” I said, adopting an easygoing tone. “I just want to be able to reach Katie, when we start planning the big reunion.”

  “Well.” The word hung between us. She scrutinized me for a long moment. “Which high school did you say this was for?”

  “Damascus,” I said. Good thing I had checked Facebook. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  She crossed her arms, as if to hold the information to her bosom. “I didn’t pitch it. So, why do you really need to reach Katie?”

  This was going downhill fast. I could either come clean or punch this woman in the face, which wouldn’t help my cause.

  “Why do you ask that?” I said.

  The woman smirked. “You could find that information easily if you were really on the reunion committee.”

  This game was already getting tiresome. “Look,” I said. “My name is Erica Jensen and I’m looking for Melissa Blaine. She’s missing and may be in trouble.” Okay, that was pushing things. But my intentions were good. “I understand she and Katie were friends, and I was hoping Katie could help me find her.”

  I fished out my business card with my name, contact information, and the words “Research Service” underneath.

  She glanced at the card. “Research service. Is that what they’re calling private eyes these days?”

  “I don’t normally handle missing persons cases.” My patience was running thin. “Can you help me or not?”

  “Sorry, but no.” She tucked the card in her pocket. At least she hadn’t thrown it in my face.

  As she closed the door, I said, “Is there a reason you won’t help me find Melissa?”

  In response, she simply smiled. Then, the door thudded shut.

  Chapter Three

  As I drove home, I mulled over the odd behavior of Katie’s sister. I understand why people want to be left alone, but looking up a number for me? To help find a missing person? Seriously?

  I pushed aside any more thinking about Katie’s sister and her ’tude. It was weird, but that was her problem, not mine. I sped south down New Hampshire Avenue, turned onto Randolph Road, then snaked through a series of backstreets toward a side road off Georgia Avenue in Wheaton, to my apartment-office.

  I had managed to find a studio apartment I could barely afford at the Heights, a building rehabbed from a sixties-era mid-rise into a gleaming high-rise tower. It was a short walk to the Metro Red Line. Not to mention all sorts of fancy new stores and the arts district. All part of the suburban renewal effort of the past few decades.

  I pulled into the garage and parked as close to the entrance as possible. I grabbed my notes as I left the car and walked up the two flights to my place. The apartment was just big enough to suit my needs. A short hall led past the bathroom on the right and opened into my living room-dining room-kitchen-office-bedroom.

  The wall on the left held my flat-screen and a watercolor painting I had found at a yard sale. On the right, a bookshelf housed an array of worn paperbacks. A bluebird-colored futon sat in the middle of the floor with a small desk behind it. Beyond the utilitarian living room/office, a kitchenette was squeezed into one corner and a nook into the other with just enough room in between for my emerald green Formica-topped table and four matching chairs. From the window, I had a view of the beautiful “downtown” area. For privacy, I had curtained off the nook, which held a makeshift closet and single bed. Not that I hold parties or have many visitors. Or any visitors. But you never know.

  A quick glance at my phone and its blinking red light, let me know there was a message waiting for me. I had a funny feeling that I knew who it was, but I checked it anyway.

  “Erica.” The soothing voice of Susan Findlay, my therapist. “You’ve missed two group sessions in a row without giving notice. Please call me when you get a chance.”

  At least it wasn’t my mother. Thank God. She had called once before in an outlandish attempt to fix me up with some “bright young man” who worked for a bank. The fact that my parents and I had spoken maybe twice since my return from overseas fazed my mother not at all. I made it crystal clear that I had no interest in her bright young man.

  Neither of my parents understood why I joined the Marines. Frankly, it was to escape the oppressive relationship my parents had with me and with each other. My father was one of those men who always wanted a son, and my achievements were never good enough for him. He also tended to boss my Mom around. Her responses were mostly passive-aggressive, but she never really stood up to him either on my behalf or her own.

  Returning Susan’s call could wait, but not too long, because I needed to attend at least 25 sessions to officially establish my sobriety to the state’s satisfaction. First, I wanted to follow up on my big new case while my motivation was high. I erased the message.

  I was about to boot up my computer when a black squirrel climbed onto the kitchenette’s window sill. He was such a frequent visitor, I had installed a sliding window screen so I could feed the little guy.

  “Hey, Rocky,” I said to the squirrel. “Want a peanut?”

  Rocky gazed at me through the window as I fetched the jar of shelled nuts. He waited patiently while I opened the window and handed him one. As he stuffed it in his mouth, I placed a small pile of nuts on the sill and closed the window. Rocky filled his mouth with nuts until his cheeks were huge and lumpy.

  After feeding my “pet” squirrel, I pondered my next move while waiting for my laptop to fire up. I logged into one of my paid databases and searched for Melissa’s last known address. A Baltimore City address came up, so I made a note of it. Maybe worth a visit.

  I tried calling Melissa myself, but there was no answer and no voice mail. Okay.

  Since that first attempt failed, I did a reverse search on Melissa’s last known address and came u
p with another number. OK, now we’re talking.

  Using my own landline (and hitting the code to conceal my number on the other end), I punched in the number and got a young-sounding woman on the second ring.

  “Yes, hi,” I said. “Could I speak with a Ms. Melissa Blaine, please?” I added the “Ms.”, hoping to sound like the call was formal.

  “I’m sorry,” the young woman said. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said. “I work for the law firm Dewey and Associates. Ms. Blaine has inherited some money. Did she leave a forwarding address?”

  “No, I’m sorry. The note she left with her last rent payment only said she was moving. She didn’t even say goodbye.” The young woman sounded more perplexed than upset.

  “When was this?”

  “Exactly two weeks ago,” she said. “The rent was due that day.”

  Before she and Blaine had last spoken.

  “And I take it you haven’t heard from her?” I pressed on with ridiculous optimism.

  “Not a word.”

  On that note, we exchanged pleasant farewells and I hung up. Back to the drawing board.

  I considered calling Melissa’s mother, but decided to hold off. Quizzing people by phone isn’t my first choice, and if Melissa had sought refuge from her father in California, what was the likelihood that her mother would talk to me about it?

  And what about art school? Plus flying to California to confirm anything exceeded my three-hour limit and then some.

  The art school was quite accessible, and I could easily spare the time to poke around the campus..

  Also, a talk with Katie Saunders seemed to be in order. She was away at college—not hugely helpful at narrowing my search.

  I did another online search on the terms “Damascus High” and “Saunders”. This time, I found a LinkedIn profile for Kathryn Saunders who had graduated from Damascus High School. Now taking graduate studies at Columbia University in New York City. The experience section showed that she worked as a teaching assistant in the English Department.