Damaged Goods Page 3

  I called directory assistance for the Columbia University main number.

  The woman who answered that number not only put me through to Katie’s office, but gave me the direct number to call for future reference. The phone rang twice, and then a young woman answered. “English Department.”

  “Hello, is this Katie Saunders?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  I ditched the notion of using my class reunion ruse, because Katie would probably call me out on it.

  “My name is Erica Jensen, and I’m looking for Melissa Blaine. I’m in one of her classes at MICA. She seems to have vanished. I understand you two were high school friends. Have you heard from her, by any chance?”

  “No. It’s been quite a while since Melissa and I last spoke. But you say she’s disappeared?” Katie’s tone struck me as worried.

  “It would seem that way, miss.” Call her by her first name, I thought. I silently berated myself for the excess formality. Two years of coaxing information from Afghan women, while making sure they are in fact women, should have taught me that. “Her father doesn’t know where she is and hasn’t heard from her, but he gave me your name. Any idea whether she might have decided to move without telling anyone?”

  This was the notion that niggled at the back of my brain. Maybe Melissa didn’t want to be found by her father. Would she tell anyone she knew, if she wanted to disappear completely?

  “That doesn’t sound like her,” Katie assured me. “The last we spoke, Melissa was serious about attending the art school in Baltimore. I can’t imagine her up and leaving there.”

  “When was the last time you saw or spoke to Melissa?”

  A long pause ensued. “It was after my graduation,” Katie said. “We had a girls’ night out up here in New York, but that was years ago.”

  “Did she say or do anything back then that seemed unusual?”

  “Unusual how?” Katie said. “I’m not sure what you mean. She was her usual self.”

  “Is she usually happy with her life?” I pressed on.

  Katie issued a short, uncomfortable laugh. Like a coughed giggle. “Well, she’s something of a temperamental artist. Melissa has her moods, but she didn’t seem to be troubled the last time we got together. How did you say you knew her?”

  “We’re in the same class,” I blurted. “I’ve been planning a project and we were going to work together.”

  “Ah.” A non-committal utterance.

  “Just out of curiosity, can you think of any reason she might want to hide from her father? He has no idea where she is.”

  “Oh, no.” Katie’s tone was dismissive. “Melissa depends on her father for financial support until after she turns twenty-five.”

  When her trust fund will free her from Blaine’s hold.

  “I understand her father didn’t approve of her going to art school,” I said.

  “That’s true, but I don’t think he’d cut off her trust fund because of that.”

  I hate talking to people by phone. I had no way of gauging Katie’s responses other than by her tone of voice. And even though New York was much closer to Maryland than California, a trek there would take all of the three hours I had pledged toward finding Melissa.

  I racked my brain to think of what I should ask. This could be my last chance for information from this source. “One last question. Why would your sister be reluctant to talk to me about this? When I spoke to her about talking to you, she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

  Katie giggle-coughed again. “Probably being over-protective. She’s my older sister, like a mother hen.”

  “I get that. Thanks for talking to me.”

  “No problem,” she sang out. The line went dead.

  Chapter Four

  The church’s basement reeked of overheated coffee and bleach. Despite my total lack of interest, I did call my therapist back and promise to make an appearance. I walked into the meeting room and surveyed the small group clustered around the coffee and donuts. It wasn’t easy, but I stifled the urge to pump my fist and yell, “Let’s get this party started!” Woo-hoo.

  The group leader, spotted me as she carefully arranged the chairs. She turned away from the chair project and walked toward me, waving.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Erica,” she said. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  I forced a smile. “Don’t worry, be happy.”

  She leaned toward me and touched my arm. “Is this really so hard? I think you’ve come a long way since your discharge. I would hate to see you backslide into using again.”

  Susan was in her early thirties, maybe a few years older. She had shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a creamy complexion. Today, she wore a green tunic and black leggings with short black boots. She looked like she had never suffered a sleepless night.

  “Think I’ll go get some bad coffee,” I said. Anything to keep me awake.

  Susan laughed. “Okay. We’ll get started soon.” She flitted off to fiddle more with the seating.

  I crossed the room to the refreshments table. My support group of seven had grown by three more members in my absence. People were scattered about, chatting among themselves. Two of them—one Army grunt and a Marine—had also served in either Afghanistan or Iraq. As I poured a cup of the dark and no-doubt bitter brew, I felt a presence at my side.

  “Hi. My name is Nick. This is only my second meeting. You just join?”

  I looked up to see a man of about thirty, with unruly brown hair and dark eyes.

  “My name is Erica, and this isn’t my first time. It may be my last, but I say that every time.”

  Nick grinned and shook his head. “Wow, don’t hold back on my account.”

  “I tend not to sugarcoat my views.”

  “I’ll do my best not to piss you off,” he said. “May I say that you are very pretty?”

  Oh-kay. “Sure.” I gave him my happy face. “It’s the high cheekbones, you know. Everyone used to tell me I should be a model.”

  “I take it you aren’t?”

  “Hardly. I don’t think it’s a good idea to build a career on your looks.” I sipped my coffee. Not as burnt-tasting as I’d expected. “My cheekbones are the happy result of a few Cherokee genes.” No one in my family talked about it, though. One of my grandmothers brought the topic up, only to have it dropped for good. I hoped mightily that my Anglo ancestors hadn’t raped a native.

  “Dare I ask how you feel about the Redskins?”

  “The same way I feel about football. I couldn’t care less.”

  He flashed another smile. “What do you do?”

  I leaned toward him. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” I winked at him and walked away.

  Chairs scraped the floor as everyone took their seat. I picked my own, leaving an empty chair on either side. Almost immediately, Nick sat down next to me. “Hello, again,” he said. “Fancy finding you here.”

  I suppressed a sigh. “I’m no good at small talk. Sorry.”

  “Neither am I. But I’m intrigued with what you’ve said so far.” He extended a hand. “My name is Nick Baxter. And yours is?”

  “Erica Jensen.” I put my hand into his warm, firm grip and we shook amiably. He had a direct, if somewhat piercing, gaze.

  Was he hitting on me or just terribly curious?

  “I used to be a Washington Post reporter,” he said “I’m working freelance now. Or trying to since I’m a victim of layoffs. I also work part-time as a night manager at Olive Garden.”

  “Are you a freelance editor or writer?” I asked.

  “Both. I’m taking whatever work I can get.”

  Uh oh. That explained his curiosity. Guard your tongue, Erica. “Best of luck with that. Things are tough, huh?”

  “Let’s talk about you instead. Seriously, do you work for the government or what?”

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Susan piped up, just in the nick of time. “Who would like to share first?”<
br />
  Nick’s gaze lingered on me. I mouthed, “No.”

  Chapter Five

  I made it through that session without slipping into a coma or getting on my knees and banging my head on my chair. Sitting and listening to other people whine on about personal shit seems like a huge waste of time, but I force myself to do it. It’s an art, listening. All good private eyes need the skill. I once mastered it as part of my mission with the Corps.

  Ever since my concussion, I have found it much harder to concentrate on what people are saying. I need to cultivate that skill again if I ever hope to have a future in the information research business. For good or ill, group therapy forces me to pay attention and listen to others. Even though it feels like torment, I basically have no choice but to go to group therapy. So I attend with reluctance.

  When it was Nick’s turn to share, he intimated that he’d gone through a brief period of addiction to over-the-counter drugs. He said he was off the pills and into meditation, and his story seemed genuine.

  As he spoke, I sensed a bit of anxiety. There was a disarming honesty in the way he revealed his insecurity about his future prospects. I didn’t have to be an empath to understand that.

  Nick asked me for my phone number after the session was over. I gave it to him with the hope that he wouldn’t turn out to be one of those douchebags who use self-help groups to meet women. Time would tell.

  The next day, I drove to MICA to see if anyone there could provide a clue as to Melissa Blaine’s whereabouts. I circled through the maze of streets around the school, looking for a place to park. After about five minutes of driving around, a spot opened up just a block or so from the campus.

  There were no coffee shops with the name Blaine had supplied as Melissa’s employer, but I was betting she didn’t work at Starbucks. There were, however, a a few cafes near the school. I picked one at random that was squeezed between two much larger buildings across from the campus.

  Naturally, my first try was a bust. But the second was a charm.

  Java Joe’s was a funky hole-in-the-wall, furnished with an overstuffed sofa and chairs, plus wooden tables and seats. Art decorated the walls, no doubt the work of promising MICA students, and a bookshelf jammed with used books sat in a corner.

  Two people stood behind the counter—a young woman at a noisy espresso machine and a man behind the register. I approached the young man who was unoccupied at the moment and introduced myself. A white name tag pinned to his shirt identified him as “Steve.” I launched into the spiel I’d prepared about how I was a friend of the family and that Melissa had vanished without a trace. Steve confirmed that Melissa worked there.

  “Do you remember the last time you saw her here?” I asked.

  Steve thought about it for a few seconds. “Maybe a couple of weeks ago. We usually work different shifts. Maybe Elle’s seen her more recently.”

  He looked over at the drink-maker. “Hey, Elle,” he called. “Have you seen Melissa Blaine lately?”

  Elle shot us a puzzled look. She finished the drink she was working on, put it out on the counter, and called a name. “Who wants to know?” she asked, walking toward us as she wiped her hands on her red apron.

  Steve jerked a thumb at me. “Her name’s Erica. A friend of Melissa’s family. Says she’s missing.”

  Elle eyeballed me, up and down. “You a cop?”

  “No, no. I’m not with the police. Melissa’s old enough so the cops won’t act unless there’s some indication that she’s in trouble.”

  Elle squinted at me, then nodded. “I thought Melissa quit. Last time she was here, it sounded like she wasn’t planning to come back.”

  “Do you recognize either of these men?” I asked, showing them the photo of Slava Kandinsky and Stuart Blaine.

  “Yeah,” Elle said.

  “Me, too,” Steve piped up.

  “That guy,” Elle pointed to Kandinsky, “has been here several times. We call him Mr. Macchiato. But I haven’t seen him lately.”

  “Do you remember when you last saw him? Was he with Melissa?” I asked.

  Elle tilted her head. “Well, it’s been a while. But I don’t remember seeing him with Melissa.”

  “How about you?” I turned to Steve, who was shaking his head.

  “I haven’t seen him, but I’ve seen the other guy. Not in here, but I’ve seen him around.”

  “At the art school?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him there.”

  “With Melissa?” I pressed on.

  He shrugged. “Not that I recall.”

  “Can you remember where he was or what he was doing?”

  Steve’s brow creased with thought. “I just know the face is familiar.”

  “Do either of you know any of Melissa’s close friends? Anyone she hangs with?”

  Steve shrugged again, but Elle nodded. “She and Jen Gardiner hang out together. Jen also attends MICA. We all do here, pretty much. The school is, like, the cheap labor camp for the stores in this area.” She smiled and gave me a wry look.

  “Hmm. Great.” I jotted the name. “You wouldn’t know how to contact Jen, would you?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “No problem.” I fished two cards from my shoulder bag and handed one to each of them. “Could you let me know if you hear from Melissa or Jen? Or think of anything else that might help me find Melissa?”

  “Sure,” Elle said.

  “Absolutely,” Steve added.

  “Oh, and a medium latte. To go, please.”

  The espresso machine roared into action as I considered the new information. Stuart Blaine could have come here to see his daughter. As for Kandinsky . . . there could be any number of reasons. My best bet was to start by exploring that connection.

  Who knows, I thought. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone here.

  Chapter Six

  Before I looked for Kandinsky, I figured I’d visit MICA while I was in the neighborhood. So before I left Java Joe’s, I asked if there was an instructor at the school who might be helpful.

  “Now that you mention it,” Steve said, “there is one that everyone likes. Marie Solomon. She mentors a lot of students. Melissa might be one. You could see if she knows anything.”

  “Thanks, I will.” I lifted my latte cup in farewell.

  The art school is spread over several blocks of the Bolton Hill area, and the logical place to start seemed like the administration building, a solid, white block of classical architecture. The high-ceilinged, columned foyer surrounded a marble stairway built to impress. One staircase led down from each side of the second floor, they met in the middle and then descended as a single staircase that widened right before it reached the first floor. If I squinted, the steps seemed to create illusory ripples, as if the stairway had managed to liquefy.

  Students milled about, artwork or portfolios tucked under their arms. Chatter bounced off the granite walls, creating a constant thrum.

  Finding the main office was easy enough. A young woman with Rit-dyed red hair was happy to point me toward it. Even the clerk behind the counter seemed cheerful. She directed me to Marie Solomon’s office with a smile and a twinkle in her eyes. Maybe I should get a job at MICA. Then I could be perky all the time, too.

  I climbed the stairs, turned left at the top, and walked to the second door on the right. The door was open, and I heard quiet conversation, so I decided to peek inside. A tall, thin woman in her thirties stood with a younger woman—probably a student. I hung back and waited. Eventually, the instructor and student came to the door, and when the younger one left, the woman I assumed was Marie Solomon beamed at me. “How can I help you?”

  After exchanging introductions, I gave her the spiel and asked if she’d seen Melissa recently.

  Marie Solomon’s smile faded. “The last time I saw her was two weeks ago, as of last Friday.”

  “You seem sure of the date.”

  The instructor nodded. “I’m sure of it, but I�
��ll double-check my calendar, if you like.”

  As she spoke, Solomon walked to her desk calendar and flipped the pages back. Ooh, paper instead of pixels. Call me old-fashioned, but I have a genuine love for all things paper, not to mention a huge distrust of technology.

  “There,” she said, pointing to the page. “I saw her at 1:30, exactly two weeks ago Friday.”

  “Can you tell me what you discussed, without violating any privacy rules?”

  The woman frowned. “No, I really can’t. But you say she’s disappeared?” Pausing for a moment, she added, “Are you with the police?”

  “I’m not a cop,” I assured her. “Just a concerned friend of the family.”

  “I’m not sure how much I’m at liberty to say.”

  “Well, if it helps any, I’m not too crazy about Melissa’s dad,” I said. “But if nothing else, I’d like to make sure she’s okay.”

  Marie Solomon looked me over as if appraising me. “In that case, I can tell you this much. Melissa seemed upset when we met. She mentioned possibly taking a break from school. I was concerned, of course, and tried to talk her out of it, but if she wanted to quit that was her choice.

  “Since then, I haven’t seen her in class or anywhere around the school.” She stared over my shoulder, her gaze puzzled. “I suspect she might have dropped out.” Solomon raised her hand in physical punctuation. “I haven’t received official word on that, though,” she cautioned.

  I wondered whether I dared to press my inquiries any further, but I forged ahead. “I understand Melissa is good friends with another student, Jen Gardiner. Have you ever talked to her about Melissa?”

  Solomon shook her head, gaze drifting down. “Sorry. I’m already cutting things close to the line. Besides, I really don’t have a clue where Melissa is.”

  Giving it one last try, I asked, “Did Melissa mention her father or a man named Slava Kandinsky?”

  “No. Who’s Slava Kandinsky?”

  I’m not a mind reader, but Solomon’s reaction suggested she was telling the truth.

  “No one you need to worry about,” I said, hoping that I was right.