Damaged Goods

by Debbi Mack

  “Expecting guests, Terry?” I asked, after finding my voice.

  There’s something about walking into a friend’s home and finding the occupant pointing a gun at you. It tends to throw you off.

  “Good thing I’m not carrying, huh?” I added, pouring on the sarcasm.

  Terry approached me, a flush of shame spreading across his face. He extended a tentative hand. When I didn’t slap it away, he placed it on my arm.

  “I’m really sorry, Erica,” he said. “I just need to be prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?” I glanced at the gun, grimacing. “You setting someone up for an ambush?” Didn’t seem like Terry’s style.

  He waved a hand. “Just a couple of knuckleheads who think I hacked into their system. They’ve been getting nasty. And, yeah, I’m thinking they might be making an unannounced visit at some point.”

  “And you’re going to stay here and provide a reception?” I asked. “Why not hide out in a motel for a while? Or get a better lock for your door?” Uh, who’s the real knucklehead here?

  “I can defend myself, but I can’t hide in motels forever. I figured, okay, fine, if you want to play it that way, let’s get it done with.” Terry strolled to the door, locked the doorknob lock and threw the deadbolt securely into place. Apparently, Terry had conveniently left that unlocked for his unwanted guests. “But, forget about that. Let’s talk.”

  “Yeah, let’s. I tried to call. How long have you ignored your voice mail? I couldn’t even leave a message.”

  Terry picked up his phone. “A while, yeah. Got tired of taking calls from those dipshits I mentioned.” He grinned. “Sorry.”

  “This won’t take long,” I assured him, my eyes darting from the door to him and back. “I just wanted to ask you to translate this letter. It looks like Russian, but I’m no expert.”

  I thumbed to the photo of the letter on my cell phone. Terry squinted at the screen. “Let’s take a closer look,” he said. He strolled down a short hall, with me in tow and took the first right into his home office. A computer was parked by the window, its psychedelic screensaver in constant motion.

  Terry jiggled the mouse, then scrabbled through a small pile of cables, pulling out a thin one to hook my phone up to his computer And with a few key taps and mouse clicks, he transferred the photo to his computer and enlarged it.

  After one quick look, he nodded. “Yeah, I’d say you’re sorta right. It’s actually a bastardized version of Georgian. As in the former Soviet Georgia.” Terry looked at it more closely and frowned. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  I cleared my throat. “I found it.”

  Terry leaned back in his chair and stared at me. “Not in your mailbox, I hope.”

  “Of course not. It’s not addressed to me, is it?”

  Terry shrugged. “No, but it’s addressed to . . . well, not a nice word. It would translate roughly to ‘Jerkoff.’ Or the Georgian version of it.”

  “So, uh, what does the letter say?”

  Terry sighed and stared back at the screen. In a halting manner, as if struggling a bit with the odd use of language, he read: “Dear Jerkoff, It’s been nearly a week since we last talked. You are way overdue at this point. You will either pay us in full by the end of the month or you will get an unwelcome visitor. You know how this works. We’re very disappointed in you. One with such a stellar record as you should know better. Don’t bother to answer without payment included.”

  Terry continued, his eyes glued to the screen. “It pains me to write this letter, since we’ve always been friendly, but what you’ve done is unacceptable.” He paused, squinting at the page. “Business is business. End of discussion.”

  Terry turned from the computer toward me. “The letter ends there. ’”

  Chapter Ten

  “Interesting,” I said. “What do you make of this?”

  “Well, obviously, someone threatened the intended recipient . . . ”

  “I got that much,” I said. “Does it sound like it was written by someone in the Russian mob?”

  Terry peered at the screen. “Well . . . not necessarily.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Terry scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. “The writing itself suggests otherwise. This isn’t written in Russian. It’s written in Georgian, which is similar, but not the same. A whole ’nuther country now. I don’t know if they have ties to the Russian mob or not.”

  “Perhaps the letter was written by someone connected to the Mob who isn’t Russian,” I said.

  “Good point,” Terry said. “Or maybe ‘Jerkoff’ knows Georgian.

  “The letter doesn’t prove anything, really.” He lifted his long, gangly arm and let it drop.

  “It’s the only lead I have right now.”

  “Lead on what?” he asked.

  “Better that you don’t know,” I replied. “Based on the reception you gave me when I arrived, it looks like you’ve got enough trouble already.”

  I thought back to my meeting with Blaine. I didn’t recall him mentioning that Kandinsky had a drug habit or gambling debts. Not only that, but I’d run a background check on both Blaine and his partner before the meeting on Monday—a mere two days ago, although it felt like a week. I always like to know who I’m doing business with. True to their claim, the partners appeared to run a clean shop. Neither had been arrested, not counting Blaine’s previous incarceration.

  “Look, I’d like to explore this Russian-Georgian or whatever angle further,” I said. “What do you know about the Russian mob?”

  “Enough to steer clear of them. That’s about all.”

  I must have looked terribly frustrated, because he added, “I do know someone who might know more.”

  ϕϕϕ

  I left Terry’s apartment armed with a printed copy of the letter and a new contact: George Kirov, Professor of Criminology at the University of Maryland. Terry mentioned that Kirov knew first-hand about mobs (Russian and otherwise) from his time working for the FBI. I kept that in the back of my mind as I mulled over the questions I wanted to ask him.

  Before I started my car, I checked the notes from my meeting with Blaine again. Just as I remembered, Blaine had simply asked me to find Kandinsky and the missing money. He never mentioned reasons why Kandinsky might have stolen it. Why would he? And how could he know?

  I left the parking lot and headed home. By now, the sun was low in the sky. My interview with Professor Kirov would have to wait until tomorrow.

  I’d driven no more than half a mile when my cell phone rang. One hand on the wheel, I used the other to hit the speakerphone button.

  “Erica, I’m returning your call.” It was Stuart Blaine, sounding fatigued.

  “Would you mind if I stopped by for a moment?” I asked. “I have a few more questions.”

  “Can’t you ask me now?”

  “I’d prefer that we meet. I promise it won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  He let out a loud sigh. “Okay, fine .”

  “Be there in about thirty.” I started to say goodbye, but Blaine had already hung up.

  Much as I wanted to call it a day, I could manage to swing by Blaine’s on the way home. The trip gave me time to consider my questions, how to frame them and how much to ask. I could already tell that the kind of conversation we would be having would benefit from face-to-face contact. I was as interested in his reaction as I was in what he would say.

  By the time I turned into Blaine’s driveway, the sun had disappeared behind the trees. The mini-manse appeared as dark and foreboding as a Gothic manor.

  After I rang the doorbell, it only took seconds for Blaine to answer. He was dressed in a ratty T-shirt and worn jeans. Always the dapper one.

  “Hi. Thanks for agreeing to see me,” I said.

  “Ask your questions.” You’re welcome. Guess I’m not getting the Grand Tour this time.

  I breathed in and exhaled slowly to maintain my composure. “How well did you k
now Slava Kandinsky?”

  Blaine crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “Well enough to trust him as a business partner.”

  “Would you say you were friends?”

  “Friendly, yes. Close friends? Well . . . ” His mouth set in a firm line. “We don’t talk much about our personal lives, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Was he married? Did he have a son or other children?”

  “I . . . I really . . . I don’t know.” Blaine had the good grace to look ashamed. Then, his eyes widened and he asked, “Why do you keep talking about him as if he’s . . . ” His voice trailed off.

  “As if he’s dead?” I looked directly at Blaine, scrutinizing him. “Because he is. I found him shot to death at his home.”

  “Dear God.” He whispered the words. His look transformed to one of fear. “Did you call the police?”

  “I didn’t think it advisable, given your strong preference against involving the police.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.” Blaine seemed less upset than relieved.

  “Now will you tell me exactly how you decided to become partners?”

  Blaine stood up straight and shifted away from the door frame. “I met him at a local business mixer. We seemed to hit it off well enough, so after checking out his credentials, I asked him to meet me privately. That’s when I first proposed our partnership.”

  “And, no doubt, he knew of your legal . . . escapades?” I pressed further.

  Blaine gave me a look that suggested I’d lost a few marbles. “Everyone did. Does. Your point?”

  I kept my eyes on him, gauging his every move and vocal intonation. “To the best of your knowledge, was Slava Kandinsky connected in any way with organized crime?”

  “I found nothing in his background to suggest that.”

  “Did you ever cross paths with organized criminals, during,” I paused to mentally revise my thought. “Before you were incarcerated?”

  “No.” His tone was flat, his expression changing from an inquisitive squint to a scowl. “I’ve done my time, and I don’t do business with crooks.”

  My questions seemed to be leading nowhere. If he was lying, I doubted that he would simply break down and confess if I kept going down this road.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said, stabbing a finger at me. “Have you made any progress in finding my daughter?”

  I took a moment to breathe again, for fear I might bark at him. “Mr. Blaine, you hired me all of two days ago.” God knows, it felt like forever. “I told you then, I’d devote three hours of my time toward that task. I am still in the middle of completing my entire assignment for you. And, per our contract, I’ll send you a report of my findings by week’s end.”

  “OK, OK,” he said, waving a hand. All debonnaire now. “I’m just concerned about her. Like any parent would be.”

  “Okay, then.” I tried my best to sound conciliatory, but I still didn’t quite trust the man. His responses seemed a bit too blasé.

  “So.” Blaine spat the word out. “Are we done here?”

  “Yes, thank you. We can talk later.”

  I turned and left before he could slam the door in my face.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day, I looked up Professor George Kirov in the university’s online directory. I called his office and made an appointment to meet him later that morning.

  In the interim, I searched online for David Kandinsky. The name did not pop up in the usual phone directories. Perhaps David relied on his cell phone. Not unusual these days.

  So, I went into a credit database to see what I could find. Believe it or not, there was a long list of David Kandinsky’s. At least twenty, scattered here and there around the country. Imagine how many more there might be outside the United States.

  There had to be a way to narrow down the possible sons of Slava Kandinsky. I realized once the cops found out about Kandinsky’s death, they’d find a way to contact his next of kin. Quite likely, they would end up contacting David. Or Slava’s wife or ex-wife. I decided to let the cops do the work and somehow get the intel from them later.

  Before I left for Kirov’s office, I checked myself in my full-length mirror. My black slacks, matching jacket, and pin-striped button down shirt looked professional. My dark, shoulder-length hair was behaving for once and framed my face nicely. I checked my teeth. Nothing gross stuck in there, so I grabbed the file and walked out to my car.

  The drive to the University of Maryland College Park campus was unusually free of traffic. I made it there in record time, which was lucky given the amount of time it took to find a parking spot.

  Kirov’s office was in LeFrak Hall, a colonial-style, red-brick building typical of others on campus. I parked my car a few hundred miles from the building and did a long march across the wide green slope criss-crossed by paths that fronts the campus. Once I reached the building, I took the stairs to the second floor, per Kirov’s instructions, and managed to find his office. I knocked on the door and heard a deep voice call, “Come in.”

  Kirov stood behind his desk. He was tall, with ink-black hair and dazzling blue eyes. I judged him to be in his early 50s. The professor had a cozy office decorated with dark wood furniture and a multi-colored Persian rug. Bookshelves lined the walls, and I half expected to see a fire in an open fireplace.

  “Come on in. Have a seat,” he said, his voice booming. “I assume you’re Erica Jensen?” We exchanged the usual niceties, and then I chose a guest chair that faced his desk and retrieved a writing pad from the file and a pen from my shoulder bag.

  Kirov eased into his high-back chair and spread his arms wide. “How can I help you today? You said something on the phone about Russian mobsters, right?”

  I explained once again about the letter I’d found and my questions about the Russian mob and the use of the Georgian language.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, steepling his fingers. “May I see the letter?”

  I fished it from the file and handed it to him.

  He frowned as he read it. “Interesting. This is written in a weird combination of Russian and Georgian.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said, eager to get to the heart of the matter. “Could you read it aloud?”

  “I can give you the gist.”

  Kirov gave a reading that was virtually identical to Terry’s.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Does the Russian mob have any connection to Georgia?”

  “The Russian mafia makes connections wherever and however it suits their purpose,” he said, putting the letter down. “If they found a way to make a profit through a former Soviet nation, they’d do it.

  He paused, frowning at the letter, as if in disapproval. “Have you ever heard of a place called Svaneti?”

  “No. Never.”

  “I ask because the letter is so oddly written. As I said, neither Russian nor Georgian. As if the author wasn’t sure how to express himself or herself to the recipient.” He raised a finger, as if to begin a lesson. “Svaneti is an unusual place for several reasons. For one thing, it’s located way up in the Caucasus Mountains. Very few people live there, let alone go there. Plus, Svan is a dialect of Georgian. It’s an oral language only and nearly dead.”

  “You know a lot about the Russian culture,” I observed. “Did you learn all this as a criminologist?”

  “I know this as one who focused on Russian studies before attending law school,” he answered. “I’ve had a life-long fascination for my genealogical roots and my forebears’ culture.”

  I hummed assent and nodded. “So, what else makes this Swameti interesting?”

  Kirov gave me a mock glare. “It’s Svaneti,” he said, mildly. “It’s a medieval village, walled in like a fortress. The Svans were known as fierce warriors for centuries, dating back to the sixth century AD. In the early eleventh century, Svaneti became a duchy within Georgia. When the Mongols invaded Georgia, Svaneti became a safe house for Georgian artifacts. Because the village is so high up in
the mountains and the paths there so difficult to traverse, the Georgians in the lowlands moved precious icons, jewels, and manuscripts to Svaneti to keep them out of enemy hands.”

  I perked up. “Any possibility the Russian mafia might deal in smuggling such items into this country?”

  He smiled like a pleased tutor. “More than a possibility. I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Professor Kirov turned out to be a gold mine of information. He also seemed eager and happy to share. I settled in for a lecture.

  “You see,” Kirov continued. “Smuggling artifacts—or cultural property, as it’s generally called—is among the top ten most profitable crimes. And the United States is one of the top markets for illicit cultural property of all kinds. You’re probably aware that the Washington area has quite a few museums.”

  “I’ve heard there’s a little place called the Smithsonian,” I chimed in, unable to resist.

  “Yes, but not just the Smithsonian. There are private museums, as well as cultural and historical societies throughout the Baltimore-D.C. area.”

  Brief thoughts of the cultural artifacts from the Middle East floated through my head. I vaguely recalled a line from Full Metal Jacket, “I came to Vietnam to meet people of an ancient culture and kill them.”

  “Don’t museums need proof of ownership before they’ll buy something?” I asked.

  “Provenance? Yes, but such papers can be forged.”

  “And they accept them at face value?”

  Kirov shrugged. “Depends on the price. The institution. Not all museum curators are created equal. Not only that, but small museums and collections are likely to be run by volunteers. Typically, understaffed, undertrained, overwhelmed with work, and low on funds.”

  “How are the sales handled?” Surely, one didn’t buy online or pay with a credit card.

  “Generally, through private auctions,” he said. “Notices of sales go to particular possible bidders. You have to know the right people to get in.”