by Debbi Mack
Chapter Seven
I had promised Blaine three hours and no more to find Melissa. However, hearing that Kandinsky, supposedly the main focus of my investigation, had been hanging around the art school raised a red flag or at least presented the possibility that Melissa and Kandinsky knew one another better than my client thought. It could have been a coincidence, but I’m not a big believer in that. Even so, I couldn’t jump to any conclusion based on what little I knew at that point.
Nonetheless, I had a name—Jen Gardiner. To save on minutes of data usage, I sought out the nearest free wi-fi connection and did a simple directory search on Gardiner’s name. Couldn’t even come up with a J. Gardiner, but I did find the name on Facebook. Location: Baltimore City. The avatar: a flower. That’s helpful. I would need to check my subscription databases for more.
At that point, I had to make a choice. I could wander around the campus asking random bystanders about Melissa and Jen Gardiner, or I could move on to what I thought should be my priority—investigating Kandinsky. I went back to my car and checked my file for Kandinsky’s home address. He lived in Ellicott City. Not exactly around the corner from Java Joe’s. Talk about a red flag.
Before I drove to Kandinsky’s house, I updated my research diagram with a new shape representing Jen Gardiner and added a dotted line between the symbols for Melissa and Kandinsky. If Melissa’s disappearance was related to the alleged embezzlement, so much for the three-hour limit.
About half an hour later, I pulled up in front of a brick rambler set behind a lawn as lush and manicured as a putting green. I got out of the car and walked up the driveway toward a set of flat stones leading to the front door. The neighborhood was eerily quiet and the air held the musty odor of marigolds. The traffic noise from nearby Route 40 was oddly subdued. I rang the bell and waited.
After a few minutes, I rang the bell again and knocked hard on the door. My knock sent the door swinging open, so I poked my head inside. The air conditioning must have been turned up to maximum freeze, because the house was as cold as a meat locker.
I hesitated for a minute, and then went in. There were no cars in the driveway. Kandinsky could have made tracks with the money and Melissa. But why would he leave the air conditioning on and at full blast to boot?
It didn’t take long to find the answer. As I moved from the foyer into the living room, I passed the kitchen and caught a glimpse of a body sprawled on the floor. Being careful not to touch anything, I approached the prone form of the man to confirm that it was, in fact, Slava Kandinsky. He’d been shot at least twice. The bullets had punched holes through the back of his shirt and the base of his skull. Blood, sticky and dark, had leaked from the head wound and congealed in a grim aureola.
I heard the sound of a passing car (sounded larger than a car—a delivery truck maybe?) and absent-mindedly catalogued it, along with the gory vision before me. A sudden loud bang made me jerk to attention. My heart raced. For a moment, I was back in the desert again. I stood stock still and took several deep breaths, trying to slow down my pounding heart. All was quiet now. Had the passing vehicle hit a pothole? Or had someone fired off an M-80? I peeked out the kitchen window, which had a view of the street. No movement. No fireworks. All clear.
I returned to the body, squatted, and studied it. Kandinsky’s head faced left, as if he was turning to look at me. I spotted a third entry wound. The bullet had plunged clean through his temple, the entry wound was a small hole with no visible powder burns. His skin was waxy and bluish. I didn’t dare touch his shirt, but I was willing to bet that the torso shot went through his lung or even his heart. I’m no medical examiner, but I’ve seen enough dead people to recognize a professional killing.
I stood up and edged around Kandinsky to check the wall for bullet holes. None that I could see. The small, white kitchen appeared otherwise undisturbed. I snatched a paper towel off the rack and, using it to prevent leaving fingerprints, checked drawers and cabinets. The kitchen wasn’t likely where Kandinsky had kept receipts, but you never know what you’ll find or where.
The cupboards were well-stocked, as was the fridge. I noticed butter pecan ice cream in the freezer and resisted the temptation to take it home.
After further checking the kitchen, I searched each of the other rooms. The furnishings were standard Ikea, geared toward comfort rather than style. My cursory search revealed nothing, but then the killer might have taken the money or any account records. Or not.
Apart from hoping that I could find the money, I was focused on finding clues. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but anything linking Kandinsky to Melissa would definitely be a plus.
I had a pair of leather driving gloves in my car. I mentally debated retrieving and wearing them before conducting a more thorough search of the house versus getting the hell out of there.
Duty calls, I reminded myself, and went to fetch the gloves. I could only hope that no curious neighbors shielded by window curtains were watching me, .
I donned the gloves, returned to the house, and searched each room again. This time, I was more thorough, looking under the seat cushions of the living room furniture, as well as between the mattress and box springs on the bed. I shivered because the house was so cold, but I didn’t dare open a window or touch the Thermostat. I knew the stink of a dead man’s body would increase along with the rise in temperature.
The bathroom revealed nothing useful. Kandinsky had recently used a decongestant. An open package of nasal spray lay across the washstand. The pollen from ragweed will kill you this time of year . . . unless somebody with a gun gets you first..
I booted up the computer in what looked to be Kandinsky’s home office. However, in order to access anything, I needed the password. Damn. It could take forever to guess, and I didn’t want to accidentally lock myself out.
I upended waste paper baskets and pawed through the contents. Found an envelope addressed to Kandinsky, but no letter or return address. The handwriting was plain, block letter print. Very tidy.
I dug into the bedroom closet. A stack of folded papers bound with thick rubber bands hid behind a box on a shelf. Setting them on the bed, I eased one page out. It was a handwritten letter, the paper off-white and the writing neat and clear, but it appeared to have been written in Russian or some Cyrillic script.
I looked again and found one I could read. Based on the salutation and signature, it was a letter from Kandinsky’s son. It was dated a month ago and consisted of three sentences.
Dear Dad,
I’m sorry, but I can’t do what you’ve asked. I have to live my life the way I see fit. I hope you understand.
Love,
David
So, Kandinsky had a son, and apparently the father disagreed with the son’s life choices. An old story, if there ever was one—my story in fact. But what had Kandinsky asked of David? Did what Kandinsky ask lead to his own murder?
It occurred to me that Kandinsky’s son and Blaine’s daughter both had parent issues. Mere coincidence? Had Blaine even mentioned Kandinsky’s son?
Abandoning the search for the moment, I left the house. The street was as quiet and empty as when I’d gone in, but the clock was ticking. Commuters would soon be returning home from work. Even housekeepers or nannies in the neighborhood might become suspicious.
I returned to my car and checked the notes I took at Blaine’s house to see if he had mentioned Kandinsky’s son. Couldn’t recall him doing so and saw no mention of David there, but I noticed something else. I forgot that Blaine said it had been four days since he’d heard from Melissa. Based on what Melissa’s art instructor and her co-workers at Java Joe’s had said, she had been absent from school roughly two weeks. Why this time discrepancy?
Chapter Eight
I extracted my cell phone from my shoulder bag and called Blaine, leaving a message to get in touch with me as soon as possible. Then, I went back inside the Kandinsky house.
The time disparity between Melissa’s l
ast phone call with her father and the day she was last been seen at school worried me. Perhaps Melissa’s pride kept her from revealing that she had stopped going to class. After all, her father hadn’t approved of her career plans.
I considered some other possibilities. Had someone taken Melissa and forced her to call her father? Toward what end? I needed to get more details from Blaine about their last conversation. Given the circumstances, I had no reason to think he would hold anything back.
Just in case, I used my cell phone to take photos of the letters and put them back their proper place with the other papers. When I tucked the bundle back into the closet, I noticed a small blue binder with the words “Cherished Memories” embossed in gold on the cover. I picked it up and flipped through the plastic-encased photos inside. In a few of them, I saw Kandinsky posed with a woman. I also found photos with Kandinsky, the woman and a boy. Probably the son, David. One picture resembled a high school yearbook headshot of the boy, now a teenager. Based on the contents, it seemed that Kandinsky had fathered only one child.
I slid the most recent photo of David from its holder, set it on the dresser, and snapped a shot of it with my cell. I did the same for one photo of the woman. The closet in which I had found the photo album contained only men’s clothes. If Kandinsky and his wife or live-in girlfriend had been estranged, how hard did either of them take it? Did the presence of a woman in his life (or the lack thereof) pertain to his death?
After tucking the photo album away, I continued to search the closet and scanned the room. A brightly colored Russian nesting doll, of all things, sat on a bedside table. On a hunch, I took it apart. Inside the smallest doll, I found a key. I’d be skating on mighty thin ice if I took it. What would I do with it anyway?
For lack of other options, I tore a page from the notebook in my shoulder bag. Pressing the paper onto the key, I took a pencil and ran the point sideways, back and forth, atop it. I managed to make a very rough outline of the key’s shape, ridges and indentations. Turning it over, I repeated the process. Far from perfect, but it would have to do.
I also took a photo of the key and noted the alphanumeric code engraved on it. With this information, maybe a locksmith could provide a lead on what the key opened.
I slipped out the door and hurried to my car, leaving Kandinsky’s body for someone else to find.
On Route 40, one of Ellicott City’s main roads, I found a Home Depot. Whether I’d find a real locksmith there was another question. I decided to take my chances, so I pulled into the shopping center’s parking lot.
I had a hunch the key opened a safe deposit box. If so, then getting access could be a problem. Unless I could track down Kandinsky’s son or the woman who appeared to be his wife. In any case, Kandinsky’s death left someone as his heir. Maybe more than one someone.
I found an elderly man who made keys in the hardware section. Unfortunately, he had no more clue than I did about what the key would unlock, but he was able to tell me where to find the nearest locksmith—right in the heart of old town.
I left the store and headed down Route 40 to Rogers Road, which led to the county courthouses. Taking a right, then another, I ended up on Ellicott City’s Main Street. This part of town had suffered a series of devastating floods over the years, but had somehow managed to endure. Whether the history of old town Ellicott City merited the residents’ continued allegiance to doing business there—come flood, come whatever—had escalated into an ongoing controversy. The place was an environmental disaster area and a journalist’s dream.
The narrow road was lined with historic buildings, crammed together. It plunged downhill in a set of curves, past a rocky outcropping, toward the old mill and the railroad bridge. The locksmith’s shop was wedged between a tobacconist store and a place that sold used hippie clothes.
Main Street’s crowded curbs left me no place to park my car. I ended up leaving it in a small lot alongside the bridge and walking down the hill toward the shop. As I approached, the stench of patchouli from the hippie store nearly knocked me on my ass.
My entrance into the locksmith’s shop set the small chime-like bell hung over the door to ringing. A man in his early 20s or younger stood behind the counter, organizing stock. Was he the locksmith? He was just a kid, but then so was everyone I’d served with in Afghanistan.
The young man came to attention and said, “May I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m trying to figure out what this key unlocks. Would you be able to tell me?” I showed him the photo, the outline of the key, and the information I’d noted on the key itself.
“The key to a safe,” he said, with barely a look at the photo.
“How can you tell?”
“The manufacturer’s number you wrote down. Hudson makes keys for standalone safes.”
I squinted at him. “I’m not doubting you, but I need to be sure. Are you positive?”
“Let me take another look,” he said. He glanced at it again and nodded vigorously. “The shape is right, too. Take my word for it. I can look up the specific model, if you like.”
“You said it was a standalone. So it’s movable?”
“Could be. Depends on who’s moving it.”
How about a dead Russian’s wife or ex-wife? Thoughts best left unspoken. “Is it possible to make a copy of the key, using this etching?” I asked instead.
“I’m sorry. There are high-tech ways, but we don’t have those here. I’d need either the key or an impression of it.”
My heart sank a bit. Time to make another command decision.
Chapter Nine
As I trudged uphill toward my car, I wondered where the safe might be located. I could’ve sworn I had checked every inch of Kandinsky’s house. Maybe his killer made off with the safe. If so, surely they’d find a way to force it open.
However, if the killer didn’t have the safe, it had to be somewhere accessible to Kandinsky. I’d checked the attic and basement. Maybe it was buried in the yard or under a floorboard. Was it worth returning there, not only to take another look, but to make a waxed impression of the key?
I unlocked the car, got inside, and sat there, staring through the windshield. My head slowly filled with a jumble of thoughts, which were mostly suppositions. For all I knew, Kandinsky had siphoned off the money to an account in the Bahamas. I was not at all sure the key was worth all this mental effort, so I turned my mind to other matters.
Did Kandinsky steal the money, as Blaine suspected? And if so, how? And did he have an accomplice? On top of that, why was he hanging out at the coffee shop where Melissa worked?
I pulled my flowchart from the file and gazed at the diagram. It had nothing new to offer.
Right now, my best leads were the letters and photos I’d found in Kandinsky’s closet. Since I couldn’t read a word of Russian, I needed a translator. My friend Two-Bit Terry claimed to know almost every one of the world’s current languages.
Two-Bit Terry was the name the then 20-year-old Terry Morris acquired while performing on the Ocean City boardwalk. I had known him since high school where we shared the status of “invisible nerds.” I spent my lunch break with my face buried in a book whereas Terry had learned to read at age 3 and seemed to know a little bit about everything.
In Ocean City, Terry was one of those guys who guesses your weight and age, within a certain range of possibilities (plus or minus whatever number Terry had devised). But first you had to pay him a quarter. If you stumped him, he’d give out a cheap prize. If he was right, no prize. Terry had good intuition, and all those two-bit wins added up.
Unfortunately, he had no license to perform on the Boardwalk. This led to a few misunderstandings with the local police. It was Ocean City’s finest who had endowed Terry with a nickname worthy of a bit part in Guys and Dolls. Rather than reject it, Terry relished the idea of being such an official pain in the ass that he had (in his own words) “acquired the moniker.” So Terry began using it on a regular basis, even after leavi
ng Ocean City for more promising opportunities. He thought his old nickname lent him a certain gravitas. Two-Bit Terry may have been a genius, but his idea of gravitas was kinda messed up.
None of that mattered, at the moment. I needed a translator, and Terry could probably do the job.
I tried to raise him on the phone. His voice mail was full. Weird.
I fired up the car and headed toward Laurel. Last I heard, Terry worked from home as an On-Call Geek fixing computers and doing other cyber stuff. After a quick spin down Route 29, plus a fifteen-minute drive after exiting the main highway, I pulled into a space near Two-Bit’s apartment. His car sat nearby.
It was late afternoon, and I hoped Terry would answer the door. I clanged up the metal steps to reach his third floor flat. Knocking gently on the door, I waited.
When there was no response, I knocked louder. Still nothing. His car was in the lot, which worried me.
I fished a bump key from my shoulder bag. In the old days, only locksmiths had these. But now, anyone can buy them online. Terry’s not exactly a health nut. His notion of a balanced meal is to have fries with his burger. Hopefully, if Terry was in there, passed out or worse, I was in time to help.
After inserting the key, I wiggled and smacked it lightly with my small notebook until the lock turned. I opened the door, stepped inside, and froze.
Terry sat on the sofa—the biggest piece of furniture in his sparsely-decorated living room—pointing a gun at me. He was tall and skinny, with disheveled light brown hair. In his baggy jeans and loose-fitting T-shirt, he looked like a criminal scarecrow.
A feeling of deva vu and an adrenaline rush washed through me. If Terry hadn’t been a familiar face, I might have taken serious defensive measures. Thank God I didn’t have a weapon.
He lowered the gun. “C’mon in,” he said. “Sorry about that.” He set the weapon down on the coffee table.
