Damaged Goods Read online

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  By now, the pounding in my skull had graduated to stabbing pain. “Which friend?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

  But I was talking to dead air. I clicked disconnect and threw the phone down on the sofa.

  Like a zombie, I stumbled toward the bathroom, where I kept an emergency stash of Oxy buried deep behind the toilet paper, shampoo, conditioner, and other toiletries stored under the sink. I grasped the pill bottle and almost ripped the top off in my haste to ease the unceasing pain.

  Something stopped me from swallowing multiple tablets in one gulp. I’d been clean for so long. If I fell off the wagon now, where would it lead? If I OD-ed, what would happen to Terry? Then again, whoever had threatened me would be rid of me at that point. The horrid notion that Terry and I were better off dead passed through my mind.

  I shook my head, like a dog shaking off water. Buck up, Marine. If my time in the armed services had been good for anything, it taught me that I had to stay strong, show no weakness, and quash any hint of self-pity.

  I screwed the cap back on as if I was on autopilot. My thoughts turned to Nick, and I considered calling him for a pep talk. But I was plagued with worries about Terry and suspected there was little Nick could do to help with that.

  After snapping out of my daze, I stowed the Oxy back under the sink, hoisted myself upright, and took two Tylenol.

  Then I went for a walk around the block. Then another. By the end of the third go-round, I’d decided what to do.

  I had no choice but to return to Baltimore and find out what Weis was doing with those artifacts—fake or otherwise. I had a sinking feeling that Terry’s disappearance and the shooting were connected with them.

  Before I left, I retrieved the slim file of information I’d managed to gather before Stuart Blaine dismissed me from his case. Again, I checked the diagram for any clues that I had missed earlier. Nothing stood up and waved at me.

  When I got in the car, I checked the time. It was 1643 hours (4:43 p.m., in civvy-speak). Late in the day on a Friday. God knew what Weis would do, or where and with whom he’d do it. Melissa had been missing for a week or three, depending on whom you believed. And I’d been hired and fired in the span of five days. The situation was ridiculous. But I had to do something to help Terry. There had to be a connection between his disappearance and Blaine’s case. Since it was my fault that he was in trouble, I needed to set things right.

  ϕϕϕ

  I drove up I-95 to Baltimore and found my favorite “Brian Weis surveillance spot” unoccupied. After easing my car into the space, I noticed Weis’ SUV parked in the same place as before. I gazed at the vehicle, willing myself not to force my way into Weis’ residence and beat the information out of him. That man was into something that smelled to high heaven. So who cared if I went a bit Dirty Harry on him? What would he do, call the cops?

  I was fast reaching the point of not giving a damn what I did or to whom. I had been fired by a client I didn’t trust, I had been used for target practice, and my friend was missing, maybe kidnapped or killed by Russian mobsters. The more I thought about all of this, the more my rage kicked in.

  Rather than sit there with my thumb up my ass, I decided to go straight for Weis and damn the consequences. I got out of the car, slammed the door, and marched straight toward Weis’ front door. After I pressed the bell, I waited, then pounded my fist on the door three times for good measure. To my surprise, Weis opened up. He leaned against the doorway, crossed his arms, and smirked at me.

  “Last time we met,” he said. “You ran away. Now you’re back?”

  “That’s right, Brian,” I spat. I held up my phone with the artifacts photo displayed. “Care to explain what these are?”

  “I don’t, actually.” While I pocketed my phone, Weis began to close the door. I threw my weight full force against the door and it flew open so fast, it knocked Brian over backwards. He collapsed to the floor and smacked his head against it.

  As he lay there in a daze, I walked inside and stood over him. My lower spine yapped at me once. I ignored it and powered on through . . . such is life with back injuries. I refuse to sit in a corner and sulk over them.

  When Weis tried to move, I slammed him back down and pinned him by the shoulders. I straddled Weis’ legs and moved one forearm across his throat. At that point, he lay very still.

  “Now, if you’re finished with the fun and games,” I said. “Let’s talk about those photos.”

  I could sense Weis’ arm muscles tighten, as if to make a move. I drew back and slapped him hard, grabbed both his arms, and tucked his hands under my knees. Then I put my hands back on his shoulders.

  My face hovered inches from his, as I barked like a drill sergeant. “Would you like me to snap your neck? That what you want, you little shit?”

  I had no intention of murdering that worm, but he didn’t need to know that.

  Weis opened his mouth, licked his lips, but said nothing. I leaned over him and gripped his throat. He shook his head. “No,” he croaked.

  “Then what’s the story with that stuff in the back of your SUV?”

  “I’m just a courier,” he said.

  “What the hell does that mean? A courier for who?”

  He shook his head again. I tightened my grip.

  “Please.” He blurted the word. “I don’t want her to get into trouble.”

  “Who? Who are you protecting?”

  “He’s talking about me.” A woman’s soft voice piped up from within the house. I looked up and saw a backlit figure approach. From what I could see, her hair appeared to be brown, streaked with blonde, but I couldn’t make out her facial features.

  Could it be? Keeping a tight hold on Weis, I asked, “Are you Melissa Blaine?”

  She shook her head. “My name is Jen Gardiner.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  For a moment, I had no idea what to say. Jen approached me as one might a wounded animal.

  “So what’s your story?” I asked, once I’d found my tongue.

  As she drew near, I was able to make out her expression, a mixture of bafflement and guilt.

  “Who are you?” she asked. A fair question.

  “I was hired to find a man who stole money,” I said. “And while I was looking, I ran across a dead body and someone tried to kill me.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Jen said. Her gaze darted toward Weis and snapped back to me.

  I stood up and backed away from Weis. He scuttled back and kept an eye on me, as he rose to his feet.

  “How about we sit down and have a chat?” I said.

  Jen nodded and looked at Weis, who shrugged. Jen led the way toward a small kitchen, with Weis behind her and me in the rear.

  “Coffee?” Jen asked. I nodded. She grabbed a half-filled carafe off the burner and poured three mugs. Once we’d gotten our fixings (Jen offered milk, sugar, soy milk, fancy flavors—all that crap), we took our places around the vintage Formica dinette. We made a cozy threesome.

  After a moment of quiet, I decided to get the conversational ball rolling. “Let me get this straight. Are the pictures on my phone of fake artifacts?”

  Jen began to answer but hesitated. Weis touched her arm, in a wordless show of support. I sipped my coffee, thinking my hosts seemed about as dangerous as field mice.

  I sighed. “Can you at least tell me who paid you to make the artifacts? I’m assuming they’re fake?”

  Jen finally nodded. “Yes, they are,” she blurted. “Slava Kandinsky paid me to make them.”

  I turned toward Weis. “So that would put you in charge of transportation.” His head bobbed forward once.

  “Funny you should mention Kandinsky,” I said. “It was his body I found.”

  Their faces turned such a ghastly pale, either they hadn’t heard that he had been killed or they should both be awarded Oscars.

  “Any idea who might’ve killed him?”

  They shook their heads, l
ooking numb.

  “Okay,” I said. “Those were the easy questions. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Why were you”—I jabbed a finger toward Weis—“following me?”

  Weis swallowed so hard, his neck seemed to spasm. “Our contact asked me to do that. He got worried after you started asking people around the art school about Melissa.”

  Like this should surprise me.

  I pressed forward. “Did your contact tell you to cut my car’s brake fluid lines?”

  His gaze met mine, confused. “No.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Our contact . . . ” His voice trailed off. “He gave me the address of an auto repair shop and told me to look for a blue Fiesta.”

  Weis looked sincere and seemed unlikely to lie about this. So, who the hell damaged my car?

  “Who is your contact?”

  Weis shook his head. “He calls himself Mr. D.” He must have sensed my discontent with that answer, because he added with haste, “That’s all I know about him. The rest of the time I dealt with Mr. Kandinsky.”

  “What does Melissa have to do with this?”

  Weis propped his head in his hands and rubbed his face, elbows on the table. “She introduced us to Mr. Kandinsky. Oh, shit.”

  I absorbed the response. If Kandinsky had stolen money, this could be where he’d spent it. “So, Slava Kandinsky paid you to make fake artifacts for his contacts? Is that how it works?”

  Weis said, “Yep,” so abruptly, it sounded like a grunt.

  “Who are these contacts? Buyers? Wholesalers? What?”

  “I don’t know,” he snapped. “We just get paid and do our job.”

  And whoever got the product probably figured out the scam, and Kandinsky had paid with his life. That was my guess. Oh, shit, indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Digging for information bit by bit from these two was wearing me out, so I asked the $25,000 question: “Where is Melissa Blaine?”

  Weis and Jen both gave me a hopeless look. “I don’t know,” Jen said.

  “I thought you guys were friends,” I said.

  Jen heaved a sigh. “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Did she even give a hint that she was leaving?”

  Jen shook her head. Weis appeared on the verge of collapse.

  “My own friend has apparently been kidnapped by your business associates,” I said. “I hope, for your sake, that neither he nor Melissa have joined Kandinsky in the hereafter.”

  Weis peered at me. “Why would they kidnap your friend?”

  “I was hoping you’d help me figure that out.”

  Weis frowned. “No clue.” He hid his face with his hands again.

  I forced a smile. “Well, we can’t always get what we want.”

  ϕϕϕ

  By the time I left the house, it was dark. I strode to the car, only to find a ticket for illegal parking tucked under the right windshield wiper. Great. Charm City was not living up to its nickname right now. I snatched the thing off the windshield and tossed it into the car.

  After sliding behind the wheel, I grabbed the file and fished out my notes. By the light of my cell phone, I eyed my makeshift diagram of the major players in this fiasco. Possible connections were coming into focus now, but I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. There was also the matter of finding Terry.

  I put the file back together and set it on the passenger seat. As I started the car, a vehicle pulled up and blocked the alley’s closest exit. A dark limo. I threw my car into reverse and backed as fast as I dared.

  My hands shook as my car swerved backwards down the alley. It was all I could do to keep from sideswiping a building in the dim light. I dared a swift glance at the limo. It hadn’t moved. In the gloom, I could make out what seemed to be an intersecting alley. I careened backwards around the corner, saw a brick wall behind me, and paused to consider my next move. Nosing forward far enough to look both directions, I detected no movement from the limo on my left. On the right, the exit was partially blocked by a dumpster on one side and a car on the other.

  Part of me fumed about getting a ticket for parking in an alley while these idiots blocked it at each end ticket-free, but I didn’t have time to dwell on that. The more important question was, could I make it through the tiny exit?

  Having little choice, I turned right and prayed that I could squeeze through.

  I sped to the opening, then slowed to a crawl. It was a tight fit and then some. I yanked my left-side rearview mirror in to keep it from scraping the dumpster. Moving inch by inch, my car was almost halfway home, when another car appeared at the curb ahead of me.

  The passenger door opened. A man emerged and approached my car, making hand motions, as if to guide me through. Yet, I felt little relief getting help from this apparent Good Samaritan. Not with that limo parked behind me.

  As I moved forward, I tried to make out the license plate as it angled into view. It was barely legible under the nearby streetlamp. My peripheral vision spied more doors opening on my so-called savior’s car. That was my cue. I gunned the engine and swerved onto the street, sending a small group of pedestrians scattering and eliciting a honk from another driver, but leaving my anonymous helpers in the dust.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As I barreled down the street, I took a quick glance in the rearview mirror. The men who came to my aid had disappeared, except for the silhouette of a leg slipping behind the car’s open door. The car started to move toward me, the door shutting while the car was in motion. It was obviously much more powerful than mine—a full-size Ford or Chevy. If this had been a race, my Fiesta would be the tortoise to their hare.

  I pressed the gas pedal as hard as I dared, looking both ways and praying as I blew through a stop sign. With a wrench of the wheel, I careered to the right down a side street. I swear my side of the car lifted off the ground. At least, it felt that way. When I checked the rearview mirror again, a car that could’ve been the one in pursuit rounded the turn I’d taken. I swung left onto another street, punched the gas, then turned left again.

  By this time, I was buried deep within residential Baltimore City. Not a bad neighborhood, but one from which I had no clue about how to reach the interstate. I was startled into swerving to the opposite lane after spying a plastic garbage bag on the side of the road—a sight that sets the letters “IED” flashing through my brain. I eased on the brake and slowed enough to stop for the few seconds it took me to back the Fiesta into a tiny gap between two cars.

  I had chosen the spot hoping that I’d go unnoticed if the car went by. It was between streetlights, creating a shadowy hideout between pools of light. Of course, if they did notice me, I was screwed. All they’d have to do is pull up alongside me and I’d be trapped. Well done, Erica!

  Having few options, I shrugged it off and dove into my shoulder bag for a pen and paper, so I could scribble the car’s license plate number before I forgot it. The act of writing it relieved me of the need to repeat it mentally—over and over—like the world’s most annoying mantra.

  I heard the car before I saw it and slid down below the steering wheel. The headlights glared above me, then dimmed slightly. From the sound of the motor, the vehicle seemed to be moving as fast as a snail. Keep going! I wanted to shout.

  To my surprise, the car did just that. Even so, I waited ten minutes before extricating myself from my crouched position.

  A quick scan revealed a street sign tinted orange in the glow of a sodium lamp. I reached for my cell phone and checked Google Maps. Adjusting the size with fumbling fingers disclosed the art school’s location and reoriented me to mine. Now, to figure out how to reach the interstate without encountering those Good Samaritans.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I started the car and eased out onto the street. With no one in sight, I started to relax a little. My gaze swept back and forth as I eased through the darkness toward the main road. With no sign of my pursuers, I left the neighborhood feeling
more secure by the second. The main road—four lanes that led to I-83—buzzed with commuters and whoever else might want to brave city roads at rush hour. Constant surveillance showed no sign of black limos or Good Samaritans. I made a beeline to the interstate and got the hell out of Dodge City, so to speak.

  After an uneventful drive home, I pulled my car into the garage and left it in the space closest to the entrance. I trudged inside and climbed the two flights to my unit. While approaching my door, I spied a large plain white envelope tucked underneath it. What now?

  I opened my door and toed the envelope inside. Unaddressed, but no doubt meant for me. It could contain a letter or anthrax. I shut the door and locked up tight, then retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the kitchen and pulled them on before opening my surprise delivery. Inside was one photo.

  The man depicted looked like Terry, although it was hard to tell for sure. The lack of lighting and angle of the shot made it hard to determine the man’s identity. He also looked like he’d had the living crap beaten out of him.

  I recoiled at the sight but managed to recover rather quickly. My revulsion was dwarfed by rising anger and disgust. What is this supposed to accomplish? I could only hope that the victim wasn’t Terry. Shoot me, if you must, but leave my friends out of it.

  Too tired to think any further, I tossed the photo onto my coffee table. Get a magnifying glass and examine the picture, my conscience yelled. Later! I mentally shouted back. My lower back threw occasional sparks down my legs and up my spine. Frustration made my head pound again. It was all I could do not to scream.

  Exhausted and in pain, I collapsed into bed fully clothed, but my brain was churning like crazy. So, I struggled to my feet and turned on the TV. Unfortunately, I’d left it on a news channel, which did nothing to improve my mood. Rather than channel surf, I snapped the damn thing off, made myself a pot of coffee (believe it or not, coffee for me, is both stimulating and relaxing), and tried to calm down by reading a book.