by Debbi Mack
“Nice to know we can count on at least one thing, eh, kiddo?”
Rocky gave me a quizzical look, like “What?” Ah, to be non-sentient.
I fixed myself a quick breakfast of toasted English muffin with butter and Marmite. As I polished it off, I reviewed the chart I had made while working on Blaine’s case. A vague suspicion arose in the back of my mind . . . something that might help me connect the dots on my diagram.
I reviewed the names and drew a few more lines. This showed what I knew, but something was missing. Things I couldn’t know for sure. Speculating on possibilities based on my knowledge was the next step.
Kandinsky, connected with the Russian mob and terrorists, may or may not have embezzled money from Blaine. The money was still missing. And Kandinsky had a son who refused to take part in something his father proposed.
Kandinsky used art students to create forgeries and was ripping off the Mob or terrorists or both, skimming profits from the sale of the items to museums and auction houses.
A vague suspicion was beginning to take shape, but there was a missing link in the chain of events. Kandinsky’s son. According to his letter, he wasn’t involved in his father’s business. This got me thinking.
Even if Kandinsky’s son hadn’t been involved in ripping off terrorists or mobsters, that didn’t mean he was completely out of the picture. But where did he fit, if he fit anywhere in the scheme?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Before I could delve into the matter of Kandinsky’s son, I had business to attend to.
I grabbed the Blaine file, stuffed the photo of Terry inside, and readied myself for an excursion.
By the time I hit the road, it was close to 1030 hours. I headed straight to Terry’s apartment. I needed to give it one last look to make sure I hadn’t missed a clue.
I lucked out on the weather. According to the forecast, at least three days of sunshine were in store. I cracked the windows to let the balmy early autumn breeze flow through the car. Technically, early September was still summer and it felt like it—sans the stifling humidity of a typical Maryland July or August.
The flow of air as I drove was like bath water, and its caress should’ve been relaxing, but it wasn’t. My mind still churned with thoughts of where Terry was and what had happened to him.
Keenly alert, my gaze hopped like a flea on a griddle from the road before me to the rearview and sideview mirrors. As best as I could see, no one was following me. Being hounded by too many people made me doubly cautious, especially with the destination I had in mind.
After I arrived at Terry’s place, I used my bump key to enter. There were no obvious changes. Other than the low murmur of the TV in the next apartment, the place was quiet. I started with the living room, checking for scraps of paper, address books, receipts, anything at all. As I searched, the TV upstairs was turned off and an eerie hush fell over the place. When I reached the kitchen, the refrigerator cycled on with a loud, metallic click. I jumped an inch, and my heart started to pound like crazy.
After a thorough search of the kitchen and bath, I moved to the bedroom. I peeked under the bed and did a double take. No sign of Terry’s phone. Was this a good sign or a bad one?
I continued to scour the room for clues as to Terry’s whereabouts. The exercise felt futile and repetitious. I stopped and sat on the edge of the bed. If insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, I was definitely insane.
I closed my eyes, and my mind drifted back to when Terry and I had met. It was on the boardwalk in Ocean City. A summer day, years before I enlisted, when life seemed to hold the promise of an existence better than my reality.
Images from those times floated through my head, like my flashbacks to Afghanistan, except they were pleasant. My eyes snapped open, and I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead. Could the answer be this simple?
Chapter Thirty-Six
I hurried back to my apartment to grab a few essentials—night shirt, toothbrush, and toothpaste. If I had to stay overnight, the bare essentials would do.
After hastily stuffing these items into a backpack, I added a change of underwear. That was really all the clothes I would need.
I decided against throwing in the Sig. I had no permit to carry and was already on thin ice legally by simply doing a private investigator’s job without a state-sanctioned license. Besides, where I was headed, I had no reason to think I was in danger.
I grabbed my luggage, such as it was, locked up my apartment, and hurried to the car. I headed south toward the Beltway, and made my way to Route 50. From there, it was a straight shot east to Ocean City.
ϕϕϕ
Traffic was relatively light. No doubt a few of my fellow travelers were taking advantage of the good weather and the relative lack of crowds at the beach resort during the off-season. You could go to Ocean City as late as October and still enjoy warm weather without the irritating crush of great hordes of tourists.
Endless fields rolled by and the pungent odor of manure tinged the fragrance of soybean fields, corn stalks, and summer wheat. Driving through air perfumed by fertilizer was a small price to pay for the warm late-summer breeze.
Easton, Cambridge, Salisbury … it seemed to take forever to get there. Even though it was only a two-hour drive.
I finally reached Berlin, and from there, it was only a short distance to the water and the Route 50 bridge into the resort town. I wanted to find a parking place near the Boardwalk, and mercifully, there were plenty to choose from, lots more than during the height of tourist season. I nabbed a good one and hustled up the walkway toward the bar where Terry used to share an upstairs apartment with one of the ride operators.
The place, which had been a popular dive before my time, was as seedy as I remembered it. Mismatched wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the horseshoe-shaped bar. I perched on the cracked upholstery of a teetering stool and waved to the barkeep. The man aimed his dark button-like eyes, surrounded by wrinkles from too much sun, my way and approached with the speed of a sedated sloth.
“Does Dell still live upstairs?” I asked.
“No one lives upstairs.” He grabbed a rag and wiped an invisible spot on the counter.
I pasted on a smile. “Any idea where Dell lives now?”
“You buying a drink or what?”
“Sure,” I said. “You got root beer?”
The bartender pulled a sour expression. “No.”
“Any kind of cola then. Not too much ice.”
The man shuffled off to fill my order. By the time he returned with my drink, I had laid a $20 bill on the counter in front of me.
“You can keep the change, if I find the service up to par.” I smiled wider.
The bartender looked me over. “This your idea of a bribe?”
“No, but this is.” I added another twenty and dangled a third over it.
He nodded, humming what sounded like an assent.
“Suppose you could dig up an address for Dell?” I asked.
The old man rubbed his chin. “I suppose.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dell’s place was located on a side street off the north end of Ocean Highway. Little more than a shack, the small building cowered behind a row of tall marsh grasses. In an apparent attempt to make the place look more like a California or Florida resort, the owner had planted a hapless palm tree in the yard. The plant thrust its way upward, but it was dying, its dry brown fronds drooping listlessly despite the breeze.
A small walkway poked through a gap in the overgrown grass. I plunged through and approached the door.
A few seconds after a quick knock, the door opened a crack. A rheumy eye peered out. “Yeah?”
“Hi, my name’s Erica. Are you Dell?”
The eye squinted. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying.”
“Good, because I’m not here to sell anything. I’m looking for Terry.”
“What?” It came out like a bark. “
What’s your game, girlie? How did you get this address?”
I gave him my hardest look. “I’m an old friend of Terry’s. You used to live with him, back in the day. Frankly, I’m worried about him.” I held up the photo. “Can I assume that you are Dell? If you are, this should worry you, too.”
The eye widened. It’s gaze darted between me and the photo. “Hang on.” The door closed.
Be patient, I told myself. Either he’s here or Dell’s going to call him.
I was counting the limp fronds on the doomed palm when the door opened wide. A man about my height and three times my age faced me. Slightly stooped with thinning gray hair, the man waved an invitation to enter.
“I’m Dell. Come on in,” he said. “Sorry about the wait, but you can’t be too careful these days.”
The entrance led directly to the living room, furnished like the stereotypical man cave. A worn, stained sofa stretched against one wall opposite a flat-screen TV. A recliner and a coffee table strewn with magazines and remotes finished off the ensemble. On the right, I spied part of the kitchen, the rest of which hid behind a wall.
“Have a seat,” Dell said. “Terry will be here in just a minute. He was asleep. Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure,” I said, eyeing the sofa stains before I perched on the edge of a cushion. “With a little milk, if you have it.” I usually take my coffee black. And fresh. But based on my first impression, I figured the coffee would not be top quality.
Terry emerged from a hallway on the left that no doubt led to the bedrooms. To my relief and amazement, he looked unharmed.
I leapt from the sofa and practically tripped over the coffee table running toward him. “I’ve been worried sick about you. Ever since I got this.” I gave him the photo. “Even before that. Since I found your cell phone under your bed at home, dead.”
Terry’s eyes telegraphed regret. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to tell you, but those computer geeks I told you about. They were getting seriously annoying. I needed to hide out.”
“Did you consider calling the police?”
He shook his head. “That wouldn’t have been in anyone’s interest. Get my drift?”
Loud and clear, I thought. “And you didn’t take your phone, because you didn’t want . . . ”
“I didn’t want them to track me.”
I thought about that for a few seconds. “How the hell did it end up under your bed?”
Terry shrugged. “It was kind of my joke on them. I figured if they tried to track my phone it would simply lead to my place. And if they searched my place, all they’d find is my phone.”
“Looks like the joke was on me,” I said, snatching the photo back from him. “Would your angry geek clients know anything about this?” I added, waving the picture around.
He frowned. “Doubtful. More likely someone else took advantage of my absence to play head games with you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
My relief at seeing Terry alive gave way to annoyance. “I’m not your minder. But you might’ve at least let me know you had to go underground.” I gave him a push, and he stumbled back.
“I would’ve if I’d had time,” he countered.
I took a deep breath and nodded. The smell of fresh coffee infused the room. Dell tottered in with two steaming mugs in hand.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting an offered mug. Surprise, surprise—the coffee did not disappoint.
A million questions raced around in my head. Were the people who followed me the same ones who were after Terry? Would they be the sort who would take a rifle shot at me?
“You just going to stand there or what?” Terry sounded amused.
“Just trying to figure a few things out,” I said.
I returned to my perch on the couch and sipped my coffee. Definitely fresh. I could’ve skipped the milk.
Terry joined me on the sofa and waited for more of my story. Dell stretched out on the recliner.
“Would these geeks coming after you have reason to sic a sniper on me?”
“What?” Terry looked appalled.
“Yes, really,” I said. “I guess it’s open season on ex-Marine drug addicts.”
“Not funny,” he said.
“Couldn’t agree more. So uh . . . why would your business associates want to kill me?”
His brow furrowed with concern, and he shook his head. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Are you sure it’s the geeks who are after you?” I asked.
“Who else?” He waved a hand.
“What about the letter you translated for me? Anyone else know about that?”
“No way.” Terry looked indignant.
No one but the University of Maryland professor, and I’d been followed to Maryland by Weis. Or at least someone connected to him.
I looked straight into Terry’s eyes. “Do your clients have mob connections?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t ask those kinds of questions.” He didn’t look away from me.
Assuming the answer was yes, who were those guys in the car with the stolen license plate?
I sipped more coffee. It was damn good.
“Maybe the sniper wasn’t trying to kill me,” I muttered.
“Just warn you off?” Terry asked. “From what? What do I have to do with it?”
“Maybe nothing.”
Dell raised his mug. “More coffee?”
“Yes, thanks,” I said. “Just black this time.”
ϕϕϕ
It was late by the time I got back. Staying overnight in Ocean City had been an option, but I felt the need to get home and get to the bottom of whatever the hell was going on.
I studied my flowchart of names again. Then I tore a blank sheet off a writing pad and started scribbling fast as I could. The resulting brain dump was a disorganized mess of semi-decipherable words. But it jolted my brain into thinking outside the constraints of my flowchart.
I sensed an answer before one could fully form, but it was there. When the thought became coherent, it came at me like cold water thrown right in my face.
The answer had always been there. Perhaps I couldn’t have imagined it. In any case, I hadn’t wanted to see it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I checked the time. It was 0030. A little late to be calling anyone, but I speed-dialed Nick, my new intrepid journalist mentor, with the hope that he’d be up. Much to my relief, he answered.
“Are you okay?” he asked. Not an unreasonable question given the hour.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Have you ever written about smuggling or its connections to terrorism?”
“I never had a story run, but I have done some poking around.”
“To the best of your knowledge, do these smugglers use computer hackers?” I asked.
This elicited a “hmmm” from the other end. “It’s likely that they do, since so much crime involves computers these days. How exactly they might use them I couldn’t say.”
I considered the implications. Nick eventually said, “When I saw your caller ID, I was afraid you were having a crisis.”
“What makes you think this isn’t one?”
“The questions you’re asking—I mean, I thought you were having a mental—” Nick faltered. “You know what I mean, right?”
I nodded, like the guy could see me. “I know. It’s late, but I need help and wanted to run these ideas by you while they were still fresh in my mind.”
“Erica?” Nick’s voice had a razor-sharp edge. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.”
ϕϕϕ
The next morning at approximately 0920, I drove back up to Baltimore to visit MICA again. I stopped in at Java Joe’s first to check out one of my hunches. I didn’t recognize the man behind the counter, but the woman seemed familiar. As I approached, the man moved to the register.
I ordered a medium cappuccino, and after paying the cashier, I approached the woman who would be making
the drink.
“Remember me?” I asked.
She gave me a blank, I-see-a-lot-of-people look. After a moment, her eyes sparked with recognition.
“You were looking for Melissa,” she said.
I nodded and checked her name tag. Elle.
“That’s right, Elle,” I said. “I assume you still haven’t seen or heard from her.”
She shook her head. “I wish I could help.”
“How about this guy?” I held up my phone and displayed a photo I’d taken of Kandinsky and the young man I assumed was his son.
“Just a sec.” The espresso machine roared as she fixed my cappuccino. She handed me the drink and stared at the image.
“The older one. That’s the guy I told you about—Mr. Macchiato.”
“How about the younger man?”
She looked at the photo again, this time more closely. “He does look familiar. May I?” She reached for the phone, and I handed it off.
Elle studied the picture. “I think I have seen him. Maybe. The guy I’m thinking of was a bit older than this.”
“Could the man in this picture be the one you are thinking of when he was younger?”
She nodded and handed back my phone. “Definitely.”
Now that was interesting. “Where have you seen him? Was he with Melissa by any chance?”
“I’ve seen him here and at the art school. Sometimes with Melissa.”
Interesting. Make that very interesting. As I tucked my phone into my shoulder bag, Elle added, “I don’t know if that’s much help.”
“More than you know,” I said. Assuming my developing theories panned out.
Chapter Forty
I speed-dialed Nick again to see what he had learned from his sources. According to his DOJ contacts, artifact smuggling was not only linked with the Mob, but was definitely being used to finance terrorist activities. All the federal intelligence agencies—CIA, NSA, Homeland Security (that big umbrella that seem to include everyone else)—were on this.
