Damaged Goods Page 7

  I pulled a pair of sunglasses out of my shoulder bag, which I donned in a somewhat lame attempt to avoid being recognized. Weis seemed hell bent on getting somewhere fast, which gave me hope that he wouldn’t turn around.

  Weis reached another intersection and made a left. Scrambling to catch up, I stopped short of the edge of the building, leaned against it, and did a quick visual sweep. Half a block away, Weis was climbing steps flanked by wrought iron rails adorned with distinctive curlicues. He fished a key from his pocket, but entered the building without using it.

  Interesting, I thought. His parents’ place? Or someone else’s? An apartment in this building would make an expensive storage space.

  As I approached the building, I reflexively scanned for hiding places and emergency escape routes. From what I’d seen, it appeared that the building had an unlocked entryway, which would suggest the residents lived in apartments or condos. Not knowing whether Weis’s destination faced the street or not put me at a disadvantage. Nonetheless, I was too curious to turn back.

  Mounting the steps, I entered what turned out to be a small vestibule with a locked door providing access to the rest of the building. A door through which my quarry had disappeared.

  The wall to my right was lined with mailboxes. A phone was mounted on the wall next to them. A quick check of the mailboxes revealed . . . nothing.

  Great.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The way I saw it, I had two choices: hang around for God knew how long waiting for Weis or move on or save him for later. For all I knew, Weis could have left already through a back door. I went back out and maneuvered through the alleys in an impromptu recon mission around the building. Didn’t see anything and didn’t figure on it.

  Since I was near the art school, taking my photos there and seeking an artifacts expert seemed the better course of action. As for my throbbing back, I’d power through it.

  I returned to my car and thought about Melissa Blaine’s situation as I drove toward MICA. Finding her would take more than the three hours Blaine and I had agreed upon. This was assuming her disappearance wasn’t connected to Kandinsky’s death and/or the artifacts in Weis’ SUV.

  En route to the school, it hit me. Ancient artifacts are not only the purview of art experts. I’d probably need to run the photos by a museum curator, if not an archaeologist. And who knew how much they could glean from photos snapped on a cell phone?

  I turned onto a side street and pulled into the first spot I saw. Once again, I tried to reach Two-Bit Terry and got his voicemail. My message was short and prefaced with a long sigh. “Erica again. Please call me.”

  Time to review my options. I pulled out my makeshift flowchart and eyed it looking for previously unseen connections. A glance at Google Maps showed a few museums in the Baltimore area, but I considered taking a trip to D.C. where the Mother of all American Museums—the Smithsonian—had its headquarters.

  The phone trilled. My eager gaze locked on the caller ID, only to find that it wasn’t Terry. But the number did ring a bell. After looking at it for a moment, I answered.

  “Erica? Hi, it’s Nick Baxter.”

  Nick Baxter? I pulled a momentary blank.

  “From the support group,” he added.

  Oh.

  “The journalist?” I said.

  “Right,” he answered. “The unemployed journalist.”

  “The word is freelancer.”

  “Yeah or consultant. I’ve heard all the jokes.” His voice was weary. “I wanted to see if you’d like to meet for coffee sometime,” he added. There was an inkling of suppressed hope in his voice.

  That depends, I thought. Is this really about meeting for coffee or more? Don’t get me wrong. He seemed like a nice enough guy. And I could go for the coffee or even a chat with a journalist (unemployed or otherwise), but not much more. Depending on what “more” entailed.

  “Wait, let me check my busy social schedule,” I said. Half a second later, I added, “Well, what do you know? I can meet you now.”

  “I’m in D.C.”

  “I’m in Baltimore.”

  He laughed. I smiled. “How about we split the difference and meet in Laurel. Have you been to More Than Java Café on Main Street?”

  “I know it. See you there in, say, half an hour?”

  ϕϕϕ

  Thirty-five minutes later, Nick and I sipped our coffees at one of the tables by a window. After the usual polite chitchat, Nick said, “I actually hoped to ask you . . . ” A thin line between his eyes deepened.

  To marry me? A sarcastic response that went unspoken.

  Nick’s expression smoothed. “I’m looking for a sponsor. Would you consider it?” The words rushed out of his mouth as if propelled by a gust of wind.

  I cradled my coffee cup in both hands. “That depends.” I leaned toward him, keeping my voice low. “Can I tell you something that’s specifically not for publication?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  I drew closer and murmured, “Would you be interested in assisting an unlicensed private eye, who wants to go legit?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  For a moment, Nick stared at me. It was an elastic moment that seemed to stretch way out.

  “You mean—,” he started.

  “Yes, I mean me.” I smiled with all requisite enthusiasm. “You asked what I did. Now you know.”

  Nick sipped his coffee. “Why are you unlicensed?”

  “Want the long version or the short?”

  He studied my face. “Whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

  “Okay, here’s a short one.” I took another swig from my cup, taking time to decide on where to begin. “I’m a Marine. Between concussions, lower back pain from the weight of my protective armor, and a case of PTSD, I became addicted to the painkillers my doctors prescribed.

  “Because my medical treatment comes through the VA, my addiction is a matter of military record. In Maryland, anyone addicted to narcotics is disqualified from obtaining an official investigator’s license. I don’t dare lie about this on an application. Being addicted is bad enough.”

  I let the words hang. I stared into my coffee cup.

  When I raised my glance, he was nodding, sympathy in his eyes.

  “I was embedded with a platoon in Iraq,” he said. He convulsed in a brief shiver. “I’ll never forget what I heard and saw there. I don’t have to tell you it wasn’t pretty.”

  “Mmm.” What could I say? “Is that how you . . . ?”

  “Became an addict?” He shook his head. “Between the memories and the mass layoffs, I went off the rails.”

  Derailed. Great description of my life. Our lives.

  “So . . . you want me as your sponsor?” My tone betrayed my disbelief.

  “Yes, please,” Nick said. “I’ll be glad to help you in return, as long as it’s nothing illegal.”

  “No worries,” I assured him. “I need help finding resources and developing contacts. Usually, this isn’t a problem. Up until recently, my job has been limited to discovering assets. But now, I’m now handling a matter that involves questioning people. Frankly, my people skills are rusty. As a journalist, I suspect you’re much better at dealing with other people than I am.”

  “And I have contacts,” he added.

  “Just what I hoped you would say.”

  I dug out my cell phone and displayed the artifact photos. “Check these out. I have no idea if anyone can authenticate them as obscure Georgian artifacts from a photo, but I wouldn’t mind having an expert look at them.”

  Nick accepted the cell phone from my extended hand and inspected the images. “Not exactly my former beat, but I know another reporter who might know someone. I’ll give her a call.”

  He took out his phone, punched some buttons, and, apparently, reached the source. Without going into a lot of detail, Nick said he was looking for a Soviet artifacts expert. The response seemed to please him. He pulled out a small notepad and pen, then made
a hasty looping scrawl across the pad.

  “Thanks. I owe you,” he said, before disconnecting.

  Nick pushed the notepad toward me. “A retired Russian archeologist who came here shortly after the Wall fell. The Berlin Wall.”

  “I know my history,” I snapped. Oops. Rude. “I mean, thanks.”

  “No problem,” he assured me.

  I scanned the scrawled note, and the name Dr. Peter Amelin emerged from the looping handwriting, along with a number I could just barely make out.

  “Are you still sure you want me as a sponsor?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Do me a favor. Go into your recent calls.”

  So I did. “Save your number?” I guessed.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Now I have your number and you have mine.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nick and I parted ways with mutual promises to stay in touch. The thought of having an unofficial partner or mentor was unfamiliar. I hadn’t had to work alongside anyone since my time with the FET. Surely, working with me in the United States couldn’t be as potentially deadly as doing that in a war zone.

  Before I left Laurel, I called Peter Amelin. He answered on the third ring with a heavily accented “Hello.”

  I introduced myself and explained the problem, leaving out most of the worrisome details. “Would you be able to determine anything about an object’s authenticity from a cellphone photo?”

  “Hmmm.” It was the lowest C possible on a pipe organ. “In the strictest sense, I can’t really authenticate objects from a photo. I would need to use spectroscopic analysis for that. But I could look at the photos and judge whether they have the outward appearance of Svaneti artifacts. It won’t tell you much, but I can do that.”

  “That would be great,” I said. “Could we meet today?”

  He gave me his address and invited me to come by in an hour or so.

  ϕϕϕ

  Amelin lived in a brick rambler, not unlike the many brick ramblers on one of the side streets off Randolph Road where it passed Wheaton High School. Passing Wheaton High always made me think of Joan Jett, because she’d gone to school there. Then, she moved to California. Good for Joan.

  Amelin’s brick rambler had a small front yard with a tall maple tree that had yet to turn color and a row of azalea bushes that weren’t in bloom because it was September. It also had the kind of fancy front walk that you get from a landscape architect—an arrangement of irregular-shaped flat stones in a line that curved toward the door. I stepped carefully from stone to stone and managed to make it to the front door without tripping.

  Despite the familiarity and quiet of the neighborhood, I felt a nervous tickle in my subconscious that made me itch all over.

  One ring of the doorbell and Amelin was there within moments. “Ms. Jensen?” He extended a smooth hand with unusually long fingers—the immaculate hand of a scholar. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Thanks for inviting me, Dr. Amelin,” I said. “And please call me Erica.”

  He waved me in. “Then you must call me Peter. Please.” Again, the hand waved his permission to enter.

  He closed the door behind me and led me from the small foyer into a comfortable living room, furnished in soft grays and blues. It was a living room that merited the name, because it actually looked lived in.

  “Tea? Coffee?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. This won’t take long.”

  Amelin sat on a blue-gray sofa, which was perpendicular to a matching love seat. I took my place on the end of the love seat nearest him—my cell phone in hand. I put on a smile. Lord knew, I could use the practice.

  “I appreciate your taking the time for this,” I said, adding, “Peter.”

  Amelin grinned as if I’d said the funniest thing. “Let’s take a look at those photos, eh?”

  I brought up the pictures and swiped through them while he watched.

  “Hold on,” he said, raising his hand. “Two shots back. I’d like a closer look at that one.”

  I displayed the photo in question and handed him the phone. Amelin peered at the screen. He placed the phone on a small side table at the intersection of our seating.

  “One moment, please.” Amelin opened a drawer in the side table and retrieved what looked like a photographer’s loupe. He picked up the phone again, enlarged the image, eyeballed it, then observed it through the loupe. As he gazed at the photo, I shifted in my seat to keep my back from barking at me.

  Finally, Amelin shook his head. “I cannot give a firm opinion on the authenticity of these. But even if they are not real, they might convince an amateur.”

  “What is it about them that makes you think they might be real?” I asked.

  Amelin replaced the phone on the little table. “Excuse me,” he said. He rose and left the room. I stared at the photo, then looked around the room and ran my hand along the love seat’s cushion. Silky, almost. It was a nice, middle-class room, furnished with an impressionist oil painting and pieces that might have belonged to my grandparents. I continued looking for ways to distract myself from the pain in my back until Amelin returned. He had a magazine in hand, opened to a specific page.

  “I collect some of these,” he said, holding up the magazine. “A publication for archaeologists and artifacts experts. Occasionally, they feature a subject in my particular field.”

  He sat down again and showed me the page. “Now, these are actual artifacts recovered by authorities who were investigating a smuggling ring.” Amelin handed the magazine to me.

  I checked the photo and compared it with my cell phone pictures. I could see what he meant. The resemblance between them was clear.

  “So what do you see that suggests they might be fake?” I asked.

  Amelin gave me the “aren’t you funny” grin again. “It is not a matter of how they look. There is money to be made in selling fake artifacts.”

  “So, it’s just a possibility.”

  “A distinct possibility.” He raised his finger in a professorial manner. “Had you ever heard of Svaneti before?”

  “A friend told me about it. It relates to another matter.” And let’s not go there.

  “How likely is it that anyone would have ready access to genuine artifacts from a place like that?” Amelin queried.

  “Not likely, unless they knew someone. Had an inside connection.”

  “There is your answer,” he said. “You must find that connection to know whether these are genuine or not.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  After talking to Amelin, I sat in my car and reviewed my jottings. I combined what I had learned from him with what I’d learned before our meeting. None of it gave me any comfort.

  The scenario Blaine had presented—one in which Kandinsky might have skimmed a portion of the partnership’s profits—was metastasizing into something much worse—a phony artifacts smuggling ring. But I couldn’t know for sure without poking my nose where it might get cut off.

  If Kandinsky had been part of a smuggling ring and the artifacts were fakes, that could explain why he was murdered. Or he might have been killed by a jealous competitor. Maybe Kandinsky’s death had nothing to do with either of those things.

  The problem is, I don’t believe in coincidences. I doubted that I had simply stumbled across Kandinsky’s body, met with an art instructor and a criminologist, then became the victim of a passing vandal with time on his hands (and a sharp knife) who cut my brake line.

  I went home and turned my attention to other work that was waiting for me—small-change stuff, but clients, nonetheless. While I was at the computer, I tried again to find information about Melissa Blaine—free information, that is. Once again, I came up almost empty handed. I did happen across a Web site that featured artwork credited to “Melissa B.” Very nice, but not very helpful. I wondered how she managed to keep such a low online profile.

  That night, I decided to read a book to relax before hitting the sack . . . but I was still haunted by the nightmares.r />
  ϕϕϕ

  Car is approaching the outpost. I motion for it to stop, but it keeps coming. My partner yells at the driver. We both yell and gesture, but that doesn’t change a thing.

  This damn place is so hot, it’s like an oven. I squint against the glare of the sun and the grit of sand blowing against my face. Focus on the dark object barreling towards us out of the white heat. Why won’t it stop?

  Screaming the word “halt” over and over seems ridiculous. Does the driver even speak English? By now, you would think they’d have learned what the word meant, though. Surely they understand my frantic motions.

  My partner raises his M16, sites the oncoming vehicle through its ACOG Riflescope. Almost simultaneously, I do the same. We’re synchronized, like we’re on parade. Or a perverse new Olympic event. Our drill sergeant from boot camp would be impressed.

  My mouth is dry and my heart pounds. No time for thinking or feeling. I’m a soldier. This is what we do. Aim and shoot. Protect and defend. Kill.

  The car is almost on us when I pull the trigger. I aim for a tire. Shots ring out. The sound echoes as a child runs toward me. The scene has changed. I’m on a street in Kandahar, in the middle of a neighborhood in ruins. Hot as hell, positioned behind a fallen wall, laboring under the weight of pounds of gear not designed for my body, but rifle at the ready.

  The child reaches me—a small boy. He’s crying. I give him a one-armed hug, checking to see if some joker has strapped a bomb to this kid. All good. When I return to my position, the boy’s tears have turned to blood. The boom of an explosion knocks me to the ground. Knocks the wind out of me. For a moment, I’m too dizzy to move.