Damaged Goods Page 6

  “Really?” My eyebrows shot up. “Like a Sotheby’s run by thugs?”

  “Between you and me, they could be doing it at Sotheby’s. In fact, there’s a case involving Sotheby’s. But for the most part, they do it online, in a secured chat room. I don’t know all the particulars, but smuggling and black market transactions have gone digital. A computer expert would know more about the technical aspects.” Kirov paused and gazed out the window. “Oh, brave new world,” he intoned. His expression grew wistful.

  “No kidding,” I said, scribbling notes.

  Kirov turned back to me. “You asked about ownership. Sometimes valuable items can be found in someone’s attic or other places.” He made air quotes around the word “found.” “In those cases,” he continued. “it’s handy if someone completely legit on the surface finds the item.”

  “You mean, to act as a front,” I said.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  This raised all sorts of interesting possibilities. Kandinsky could have been killed for just about any reason. But the fact that he hung out at the art school made me wonder. Could his death have been connected in any way to the disappearance of Blaine’s daughter? Could Kandinsky have been working with someone at MICA to help sell smuggled artifacts?

  “I would love to get your opinion on this,” I said. “How likely would it be for an artist to deal in smuggled artifacts?”

  Kirov raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t assume anything about that. Anyone interested in making money could be involved in smuggling.”

  “But would an artist be considered a good front?”

  “That would depend on the artist, I think.” He paused, and then said, “It’s a matter of reputation. There are lawyers, doctors, and others who have the credibility to act as a front.”

  I nodded. “So a businessman who’s a patron of the arts might count? Or an artist who benefits from one?”

  “Sure.” Kirov turned his hands palm up in a “why not” gesture.

  “Thank you, Doctor Kirov.”

  “Please. Call me George.”

  “Thank you, George. Call me Erica. If you can think of anything else that might help, please call me.” I delved into my bag, pulled out my card, and handed it to him.

  I left the building, eager to update my notes. Instead of heading straight to my car, I stopped at one of the campus libraries where I chose a table with enough space to spread out my notes and diagram. I drew more lines between various possible players. Next to MICA, I put a question mark. Could someone at MICA be involved?

  By the time I finished, it was well past noon and I getting hungry. I thought of hitting a deli or some other kind of eatery nearby. On the way out, I noticed an actual coffee shop, right in the library. I wandered inside, where my gaze lit upon a display case of muffins and other pastries. Tempting, but on the pricey side. I decided to take my chances on a Route 1 fast-food joint.

  I hiked back to the car and fired it up. I eased out of the space and made a quick left toward the campus exit. I hit the brake as I approached the exit intersection. The pedal felt mushy, but the car slowed enough to turn onto University Boulevard. As I came up to the interchange at Route 1 and University Boulevard, I pressed the brake again. Nothing happened. I hit the pedal hard, but the car refused to slow. The Fiesta had to be doing around 45 or 50 miles per hour. That got the adrenaline going.

  Shit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My foot mashed the brake, but the car barreled on. Automatically, I slammed the pedal. Nothing. By then, I was into a wide turn sweeping right onto a connecting road that led to Route 1.

  The weird thing about post-traumatic stress is that it affects you in the oddest ways, at the least expected times. Instead of panicking, my instincts kicked in, and a surreal calm settled over me.

  To make the turn, I wrested the wheel to the right. The car’s left side skidded onto the shoulder, but the right side tires gripped the pavement. I managed to reach the connecting road, and my car tore on in the right lane. I couldn’t imagine making it to Route 1 without plowing into a phone pole or another vehicle.

  I sideswiped the tires against the curb, which did little more than ruin good tires. Slowly, I pulled the handbrake. The car slowed a bit, so I pulled harder. The car shuddered to a halt curbside a few feet short of the intersection.

  Exhaling a breath, I stared through the windshield. After a minute, I hit my four-way flashers and called AAA.

  ϕϕϕ

  The AAA tow truck took nearly an hour to arrive. But that gave me plenty of time to figure out my next move. Sure, my car was old, but I kept up regular maintenance. Perhaps the brake line had sprung a leak when I hit a pothole or accidentally ran over something.

  Or had the brake been monkeyed with. Who would do it? Who knew I’d be at the university that day? I hadn’t told Terry my exact plans. Maybe someone who knew him found out. Surely, it wasn’t the guys he’d expected to greet with his gun in hand. I called Two-Bit Terry and got his voice mail.

  I mulled over these questions as I rode with the tow truck driver, who seemed hell-bent on engaging me in conversation.

  “Sorry I took so long,” he said. The driver wore washed-out denim overalls (bib and all) over a red-and-white checkered shirt. Looked like he should’ve been driving a farm tractor.

  “No problem.”

  “Leastwise, it’s not raining or snowing, huh?”

  “Right. Snow in September would be weird.”

  The driver laughed, taking my comment as an invitation to keep talking. Someday, I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut.

  “Well, with that global warming stuff going on, you never know what the weather will be, right?” he said.

  “Yeah.” Full stop.

  He chuckled and shook his head. “That’s quite a car you have there. Fiesta Mark I, right? Cute little things.”

  “It runs.”

  “Haven’t seen a Mark I in ages,” he continued. “German-built, but the ones sold here had more kick than the overseas models.”

  I smiled, despite myself. “Really?”

  “I love working on cars. ’Specially old ones.” His gaze through the windshield turned wistful. “Done my share of engine and body restoration. You know, people don’t hold onto things like they used to. Everyone’s chasing what’s shiny and new.” He glanced my way. “Name’s Clyde Beavers. You ever need work done on your car, I’m a mechanic on the side.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I don’t charge an arm and a leg, neither. Too many folks in this line look to gouge customers. Especially when they’re—no offense, miss—women.”

  I turned to look him over. Seemed like a decent guy. “Got a card?”

  “Sure thing. The wife just ran a load off for me. Got ’em right here.” He reached into a pocket in the bib of his overalls and handed me a white card with a name and contact information printed on it. He lived not far from me.

  “Thanks,” I said, tucking the card into my bag. “And I’m Erica,” I added, passing him one of mine.

  When we arrived at the shop, I thanked him once more and gave him a $10 tip before exiting the tow truck. Good thing I hadn’t stopped at the Overpriced Cafe. In the meantime, a bag of overly-salty chips from a vending machine would have to be my lunch while I waited for the vehicular verdict.

  I returned to pondering my situation as the mechanic examined my car. Two other customers sat with me in the waiting room. A small TV set perched above us blared an annoying talk show. If I had to spend hours listening to mindless chatter on that TV, I’d probably smash it with my chair.

  A thin young man wearing a light blue shirt and dark blue slacks, identified as “Roy” on an oval embroidered name tag, emerged from the shop area, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Ms. Jensen?” His eyes scanned the group.

  “Here.” I raised my hand like an elementary school student.

  “Follow me, please.” He crooked his finger, and I trailed him toward my car.

  My car
was still on the lift, and Roy beckoned for me to follow him underneath it. With the hope that it wouldn’t come crashing down, I gingerly ducked under the vehicle.

  “See that?” Roy pointed a smudged finger toward what I assumed was the brake line, unblemished and completely intact. “That’s the replacement. Now here’s what I took out.”

  He waved me over to a workbench strewn with tools and replacement parts. The young man plucked an identical, but dirty line from the disarray. It was smooth, except for the small break in the line.

  “This line was in good shape,” he said. “Your leak wasn’t caused by a faulty line. You ask me, I’d say it was vandalism.”

  ϕϕϕ

  I didn’t bother calling the cops. What would they do? Automobile vandalism wasn’t exactly a high-priority crime.

  At least I knew I had someone’s attention. The questions were Why? and Who? Was it because I’d followed up on finding Kandinsky’s body or my inquiries about Melissa? Were they connected?

  As I drove home from the shop, I kept a lookout for suspicious cars or people. I felt the vague tingle under my skin that came when I thought I was being watched, a side effect of my time in Afghanistan. I had something of a sixth sense when it came to trouble.

  So it wasn’t a huge shock when I realized that a brown SUV a few cars behind me had been on my tail several miles after I’d left the garage. I slid over two lanes to the right and swung onto a residential side road. Doing a quick scan, I noted few hiding places. Except for one well-placed line of juniper bushes. I pulled my car over, jumped out and scurried behind the hedge. The brown SUV slowed, then sped up to pass. But not before I got a photo of the license plate.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I returned to my home office and logged into one of my databases. A quick search on the license plate number revealed the SUV’s owner was a guy named Brian Weis. According to the file, Weis lived in Baltimore, mere blocks from MICA. I jotted down the address and added another name to my diagram. The nature of his connection to be determined.

  ϕϕϕ

  When I arrived in Weis’ neighborhood, I deliberately drove past the street he lived on. For one thing, the curb was jammed with cars. For another, I wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. If Weis had cut my brake line, parking too close to his residence would be asking for trouble.

  The neighborhood was typical West Baltimore. Stone or brick rowhouses with marble steps at the entrances, some with Victorian-like facades that had lots of curlicues and scalloped trim.

  I spied a parking space just big enough for my Fiesta. One benefit of driving a small car—it’s much easier to hide than a big honkin’ SUV.

  After parking, I strolled toward Weis’ address. My plan was to scope out the house, find a spot for surveillance, and move the car closer to it, if possible. I had no intention of knocking on the front door. Most urban residences have peepholes. If Weis was home, what were the chances he would look through the peephole and decide not to open the door to me? I live in the suburbs, so I don’t open my door for just anyone without first doing a rudimentary check.

  When I reached the intersection with Weis’ street, I didn’t immediately see the SUV. Maybe he wasn’t home or maybe he’d parked farther from his house, which was two doors from the intersection, where I stood catty-corner. I crossed Weis’s street and continued straight, until I reached an alley that extended both ways behind a long line of buildings, Weis’ stone rowhouse included. I spotted the SUV parked behind his house.

  The Fiesta could fit in the small space between the street and a dumpster on my side of the alley, which provided a fine view of the SUV. I didn’t see any “No Parking” signs, so I boogied back to my car and motored to the space. I backed in, hoping no one would hassle me.

  In the interest of making sure it was the same SUV, I got out of my car and walked toward the vehicle to get a closer look. The license plate matched, so I inched closer to get a quick peek through the back window. There were several crates piled up in the storage area. Interesting. I snapped a photo.

  The sound of a door opening and footsteps meant that I needed to move away, so I quickly scanned the area for a hiding place. The footsteps grew louder. I hustled myself behind another dumpster.

  From my hiding place, I saw a man open the back of the SUV. He moved out of view and returned with another crate, which he heaved into the vehicle. He looked to be my age or maybe younger. Rail thin, with scruffy brown hair and the hint of a goatee. I snapped another photo.

  Moving toward the man, I said, “Brian Weis?”

  The man peered at me. “Who’s asking?”

  I extended my hand. “The woman whose car you followed earlier today. Nice to meet you.”

  Weis looked nonplussed. “Huh?”

  “I looked up your license plate,” I said. “Or, wait . . . let me guess. Someone borrowed your SUV?”

  “No,” he declared. “And I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Oh, a cool customer. What fun.

  “What’s in those crates?” I asked, gesturing toward the vehicle.

  “Nothing.” He turned away.

  “So, if I tell the police that an SUV with your license plate followed me after my car was vandalized, that wouldn’t be a problem for you? Since you know so little about it.”

  He paused, but wouldn’t make eye contact. “Do what you want,” Weis retorted over his shoulder as he went back into the house.

  I intended to do just that. I ducked beside the SUV, where Weis couldn’t see me from the house and fished an old set of lock picks from my shoulder bag. I hurried toward the back of the vehicle and jimmied open the door’s lock. Just plain, white boxes. No markings. My gaze shifting from the house to the boxes, I threw off one of the lids. The close-up shots of what lay inside were well worth the profanities from Weis when he burst out the back door, and after one short second of sizing up the situation, started after me as fast as he could run.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sound of Weis charging out of his back door gave me just the surge of energy I needed to get away. I pounded down the alley away from my car, with him hot on my trail and shouting at the top of his lungs.

  When does a Marine run from a fight? When she’s on probation and in anger management therapy. But don’t get me wrong. Frankly, I ran because I was afraid I would break Weis’ neck if we got into a fight.

  I hadn’t come with the intent to fight the guy. The last thing I needed was an assault and battery charge on top of everything else.

  Rounding the corner, I scanned the street and bolted into a convenience store three doors down. From behind a shelf of chips and cookies, I peered through the plate glass front. Weis came into view and I ducked, which set off a painful twinge in my back. Great.

  Bending low to avoid being seen by Weis, I ignored the pain and crept toward the rear of the store. A short, swarthy man with a pickle-shaped nose eyed the shelves and scribbled on a clipboard.

  “Excuse me,” I mumbled, feeling ridiculous.

  Pickle Nose gave me a curious look.

  “Is there a back door?” I asked, with as much desperation as I could. I jerked a thumb toward the window. “That man outside is stalking me.”

  The man looked like a Middle Easterner, and for that reason, I figured he probably understood what being harassed was like.

  After the quickest glance out the window, Pickle Nose nodded. He gestured for me to follow him into the back. Just in time, as it happened, since Weis chose that moment to enter.

  The man guided me to an exit that opened into yet another alley.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded, moving his hands about. “No problem.”

  If only there’d been more of you in Afghanistan, I thought. And then appended that with, and whose fault was that?

  I checked both directions, but I couldn’t tell exactly where I was vis-à-vis my car. My gut told me to go left.

  I checked my surroundings at the intersect
ion. It seemed this alley led me to a point about half a block from my car. With the hope that the man at the convenience store was keeping Weis occupied, I made tracks toward my car. A glance back revealed no sign of my quarry as I approached my car.

  Once safely inside, I pulled my car behind the dumpster, to make it invisible from the street but still in a good place to maintain surveillance using the right side rear-view mirror. I slouched in my seat and waited. While I was waiting, I used up a bit of my precious data to email the photos to myself . . . just in case I lost my phone. Pictures of metal icons and crucifixes engraved with intricate patterns. If those weren’t pictures of valuable artifacts, I’d eat my external hard drive.

  It wasn’t long before Weis plodded into view. He seemed grumpy, even from a distance. Not that I could blame him. But part of me savored the feeling of escape. Amateur, I thought.

  Weis meandered home and reentered the house. I moved the car back to the spot near the street. Ignoring the pain in my lower spine, I settled in for a wait. I assumed that Weis was loading the SUV with the intent of taking its precious cargo somewhere. When he left, I would follow. Turnabout is fair play.

  I kept my eye on the SUV while scanning the periphery. Maintaining a constant state of awareness came easily to me now . . . a little too easily sometimes.

  Unfortunately, even the best laid plans sometimes fall apart. Like now, when I saw Weis leave his house and walk toward the nearest intersection. He waited to cross the street.

  I left my car and hugged the opposite wall, where I could check Weis’ progress without being seen. He crossed to my side of the road and disappeared behind the building. I hustled toward the corner and cautiously peeked around it to see Weis walking really fast, now almost a block away. I followed, trying to look nonchalant while keeping an eye on him.

  I could only hope he wouldn’t look back and recognize me. If I were a “real private eye,” I might have come better equipped to follow people out in public. Alas . . . I didn’t arm myself with a bag full of wigs or even a hat. Then, I wondered if actual private eyes really did that anymore. Or ever.