by Debbi Mack
“Here’s a hypothetical,” I said. “Suppose someone involved in ripping off terrorists wanted to disappear. Any idea who could help them do that?”
“Other than witness protection?” Nick said. “There are actually people who do this for a living. Help other people stay under the radar, that is.”
“I know that.” A hint of annoyance crept into my voice. The words that came out of my mouth were sharper than intended, so I stopped for a few seconds and then continued in a more reasonable tone. “Do you know anyone in particular who does this?”
Nick gave me the name of a private eye in DC—Alex Kingsley. I had to give the woman props in the cool name department. Alex Kingsley, P.I. Could have been a new Netflix series. I gave her a call.
After introducing myself and explaining who had referred me, I told her I needed to find someone who I suspected was taking great pains to stay hidden. “I’ve done a bit of skip tracing and repo work, but I could use your advice as someone who helps people stay off the grid. Any tips at all on how to discover them.”
“I tell them time and again not to stay in touch with anyone from their old life, but they do it anyway,” she said. “The problem is people really don’t want to leave their old lives. They’re usually running away from something they’ll never escape—themselves.”
Figures.
ϕϕϕ
I decided to take a bit of a risk. I’m not on Facebook or Twitter, so my clients come to me by personal referral only. And I can’t think of a soul I’d want to connect with through social media. But I took the plunge and opened a Facebook account under the slightly different name “Melinda Blaine”, using the photo Melissa’s father had provided as the profile picture. Then, I searched for her old friend Katie Saunders, verified her status as a teaching assistant at Columbia University, and sent her a friend request. I waited, but not for long.
My request went unaccepted, but within a day, I got a message back: WTF?
The response spawned numerous guesses. Time to nail down the truth.
ϕϕϕ
With advice from Alex Kingsley, I did a bit more poking around. Then I called Nick to thank him again for the referral. “Just so you know, I’m leaving town for a while.”
“What’s up? Where are you off to?” he asked.
“Better you don’t know.”
“Erica.” Spoken like a warning. “What are you doing now?”
“It’s about that case I had. There’s unfinished business.”
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Nick said.
I laughed. “I’m never sure of that. But I had probably best manage this on my own.”
Nick grunted what might have been assent. “Okay, but don’t forget. I’m willing to help.”
“I won’t forget,” I said. “You’re on my phone as my emergency contact. Please don’t forget about me.”
Chapter Forty-One
I headed north on I-95 toward New York City, without a clue about where to spend the night. Traffic was the usual onslaught, but at least it wasn’t a holiday. It took only four hours before the distinctive skyline of Gotham appeared in the distance.
The thought of driving into Manhattan gave me a headache, but I didn’t want to leave my car. I made my way through the Lincoln Tunnel, plagued by thoughts of maneuvering through a sea of taxis and the cost of parking. Not to mention the $12.50 I paid to use the tunnel. But I was on a mission.
I had to confirm what I suspected was going on. In this case, I had to go directly to the source. Another phone call simply wasn’t going to cut it. Besides, there were other matters to attend to. As long as I was in the area, I’d take care of them in person.
Before making this trip, I’d taken the precaution of looking up a few details online. I approached Columbia University’s Morningside Heights campus, and there I had my pick of either on-street parking or one of several parking garages. Trying to decipher New York City’s on-street parking signs wasn’t worth the migraine, so I settled on a garage. I might not have a client to cover my costs, but getting to the bottom of things would be worth the expense.
From the garage, it was a pleasant walk to the campus. Autumn in New York is much nicer than its summers. Most of the trees were green, but some had leaves edged with gold and orange. The air was warm and gentle, without the intense heat and stickiness of summer. And the campus provided an oasis of calm within the bustle of the city. I had written down the location of Katie Saunders’ office, but I asked a passing student for directions, just to be sure.
I made my way through the building to Katie’s office, hoping no one would stop me or ask for a student ID. No one did. Was that just dumb luck? Or can people just wander in off the street any time? When I knocked on Katie’s door, a female voice invited me to come in.
I recognized her right away from her Facebook page—light brown hair, mid-twenties, hazel eyes, studious, pretty. She gave me the once over. “Are you in one of my classes?”
“No, Katie,” I said. “I’m Erica Jensen.”
The look on her face said, go away. Instead, I entered and closed the door behind me.
“You and I need to have a talk,” I said. “About Melissa Blaine.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Katie’s gaze skittered about the office, as if looking for an escape hatch. I approached her desk and sat down, uninvited, in one of the guest chairs.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“I . . . I already told you. I don’t know.”
I leaned forward. “You’re not a good liar. I think you do know. And you better start talking.”
She threw me a scornful look. “Or what?”
“Or I call the cops.”
Katie shifted in her desk chair. “I don’t know . . . anything.”
“You know enough.” I rose, planted my hands on her desk, and leaned over it until my face was inches from Katie’s. Yoga had done wonders for my battered back. “I’ve been threatened, shot at, and fired by a client who said he was looking for his daughter. That’s enough to make me think there’s something going on here. And, whatever it is, I think there’s a reason my client wanted to keep the police out of it.”
I thought about grabbing her by the shirtfront, but didn’t. “You’re going to tell me what you know about Melissa. Now.”
ϕϕϕ
Back in Maryland, I went directly to the Blaine residence. I left my car on the street and hiked up the driveway toward the grand entrance. Three sharp raps on the door and it opened a crack. Blaine eyed me through the gap.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped.
“Where’s Jeeves the Butler these days?” I asked. “He didn’t answer the door the last time I was here either.”
“None of your damn business,” he said. “Now, unless you have a reason to see me, I suggest you leave.”
“Or what?” I asked. “You’ll call the cops?”
Blaine said nothing. That stumped him.
He tried to shut the door, but I slammed a hand against it and stiff-armed it open. It flew back and Blaine staggered away from me as I entered.
“You said you didn’t want the police involved in your affairs,” I continued. “Since we met, I’ve discovered why. You knew Kandinsky was skimming from the Russians. You knew, and you wanted your share.”
Blaine’s face contorted with rage. “You’re guessing.”
“Am I? You’re forgetting something, Stu. I look for assets. That’s what I do. If I had to, I could track down all the accounts you could create in the Caymans or any other tax-sheltered country you can name.”
“Then, do it,” he said. “See what you find.”
“I don’t have to,” I said. “I’ve found Melissa.”
The anger in his expression morphed into one of longing. Or hunger.
“Where is she? Is she all right?”
I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Here’s your answer,” I said, handing it to him.
&nb
sp; Blaine unfolded the paper and his eyes bugged out. “No!”
“Yes.”
“No way.” He shook his head. “No way is she dead.”
“Feel free to check the records office in Broward County, Florida,” I said. Then I turned to leave. “Case closed.”
Chapter Forty-Three
My business with Blaine was finished, but I hadn’t wrapped everything up just yet. After a dramatic exit from my former client’s house, I went home, caught a few hours’ sleep, and hit the road again. In an abundance of caution, I bought a burner phone and left my cell at home. I also used a map to find my way rather than rely on GPS.
The map included directions given to me (under only the slightest duress) by Katie. It led to a post office in Charlotte, North Carolina.
I backed my car into a space beside a sandwich shop far enough from the post office to go unnoticed, but close enough to watch the entrance. My first day of surveillance was a complete bore, as were my second and third. Now and then, I moved the car so I could walk to the shop and stake out the place while scarfing down a sandwich at a window table. For the most part, no one seemed to notice me. I slept in the car and stayed at my post while sneaking in a few minutes here and there for a hurried pit stop or to grab a quick bite to eat at the deli.
The fourth day finally bore fruit. The man entering the post office looked a good bit like the photo I had of Kandinsky’s son. Less than a minute later, he reappeared and walked around to the back of the building. I started the car and crept toward the post office, pretending to look for a space.
A green pickup truck nosed out onto the street. My quarry was behind the wheel. He turned left, so I pulled into the drive that led to a parking lot, making as if to take his spot. After a quick three-point turn, I left the same way I’d come in and hastened to catch up with the pickup, making sure to keep two or three cars between us.
We took a fairly well-traveled, but hardly crowded, highway into the surrounding countryside. As we went deeper into the Great Smoky Mountains, traffic thinned out. The need to keep a greater distance made my pursuit more difficult, especially given the winding roads and occasional forks in them. Most of the time I was able to stay on course. Only once did I pick the wrong fork. A quick encounter with a dead end made my mistake obvious, so I quickly corrected course to get behind the pickup again.
We ended up near a cabin tucked away downhill from the road and nestled so far back among evergreens and birch trees I could barely tell the cabin was there. There was a gravel driveway but I stayed away from it to avoid the inevitable noisy crunching of my tires and to maintain my distance. The pickup drew up in front of the cabin and the driver went inside. I looked around for a good place to leave my car. The hilly topography gave me few options, but I managed to find the world’s tiniest pull-off area and squeezed the Fiesta into it. From there, I walked back to the driveway and tried not to overly disturb the gravel as I made my way down toward the cabin.
The place apparently had no official address, that is, no house number. Not surprising, under the circumstances.
I knocked on the door, stepping to one side just in case. No shots were fired, but my spidey-sense tingled. I was being watched.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I announced. “We just need to settle a few things.”
A prolonged silence followed. Then a man’s voice. “Why? Who are you?”
“A friend. Someone who’s tired of being hounded because of my work for an ingrate client.”
That gave him something to think about. “Why should we talk to you?”
We? The use of the plural answered one question. “Because if you help me, I can help you, Mr. Kandinsky.”
Chapter Forty-Four
The door eased open and young Kandinsky peered through the gap.
“Who are you?” he said.
“I’m Erica Jensen. I was working for Melissa’s father, but I have nothing to do with him anymore.”
He squinted. “Why should I believe you?”
“Believe this,” I said, holding up the death record with Melissa’s name on it. “I was hired for two reasons: to find Melissa and some money your father allegedly stole from the company he co-owned with Melissa’s father. At least that’s what Stuart Blaine told me.
“But what really happened was your father was stealing from the Mob. And you told him you wanted no part of that. Am I right?”
As I spoke, the squinty eyes suddenly opened wide. He glanced over my shoulder. “Maybe you’d better come in.”
With that, he turned and walked inside, leaving the door ajar. I pushed through and closed it behind me. Before me was a small, but comfortably furnished living area. Across the room, I spied a closed door that could have led to a bedroom or bathroom. A kitchenette was tucked into a far corner. Nice digs for a hideout.
Kandinsky slunk toward a cushiony sofa and dropped onto it. From his look, you’d have thought I’d come from the IRS to audit him.
I took a seat in a comfy-looking chair. “Before we go any further, what is your first name?”
He looked at me with suspicion all over his face.
“Come on,” I said. “It’s not a trick question.”
The look softened. “David,” he answered. The challenging edge had left his voice.
“Take my advice, David,” I said. “Don’t take up poker. And consider leaving the country.”
He scowled. “I have nothing to worry about.”
“Is that because you made a deal to split the money your dad stole? With the people he stole it from?”
“That’s ridiculous.” David shifted in his seat so much, he could have been doing the hula.
“Who arranged for that sniper to take a shot at me?” I asked.
“I have no idea.”
Not even a hint of surprise or shock in his expression.
I rose and stood over him. “Were you trying to kill me, David? Or was it the Mob?”
He refused to look me in the eye.
“Must I kick your ass for answers?” I pressed on. A total bluff, but enough to make David squirm even more.
“No one wanted to kill anyone,” he said. “But when my father was murdered, I knew he’d done something to piss off his so-called business associates. They let me keep some of the stolen money, in exchange for keeping clear of them. The sniper and the photo of your friend . . . they were warnings. They wanted you to stop looking into everything. I wanted you to stop.”
“And that’s it, huh?” I said. “No hard feelings? No more attempts on my life—fake or otherwise?”
“Right.” David looked contrite. “Just leave us alone.”
There it was again. Us. “Where’s Melissa?”
David gawked at me. “She’s dead. You have her death record.”
I leaned toward him. “Bought and paid for with mob money. I checked with the Broward County morgue. Their records show a Jane Doe processed around this date, but nothing about Melissa. I assume it didn’t take much to buy this forgery.”
David sat up. He went round-eyed on me again.
“The feds aren’t going to stop looking for that money,” I continued. “The money you and Melissa took, because she wasn’t willing to wait for her trust fund. Right?”
He slumped and rubbed his face.
I heard a door open and turned toward the sound. Melissa stood in the entrance to the other room. She looked neither surprised nor angry, just tired.
Chapter Forty-Five
Melissa’s gaze locked onto mine. “Leave him alone. He’s just trying to protect me.”
I scrutinized her. “From what?”
She looked incredulous. “Have you met my father?” Her expression suggested a stench had enveloped her.
“Point taken. He’s not the easiest guy to like.”
“Ha!” She approached me, still wearing a look of disgust. “You don’t know the half of it.”
I held up a hand. “And I don’t want to know. Just know this. The feds are loo
king for the money you’re using to do your disappearing act. At some point, unless you leave their jurisdiction, they’ll probably find you. I did.”
Melissa’s expression morphed from disgust to mild gratitude. “I guess I owe you.”
I stood. “In that case, do me a favor. Forget that I was here. I’m done with your father and his father.” I cocked my head toward David Kandinsky.
“Sure,” Melissa said. She did me the huge favor of not feigning ignorance about what I meant.
“Great. By the way, I have no idea where you are or where you’re going, and I plan to leave it that way.” I turned to go.
My hand was on the knob when Melissa called out, “Thank you.”
“Good luck.” I opened the door and left.
ϕϕϕ
By the time I reached the Virginia state line, Nick had texted me twice. I was anxious to get home, and I don’t text while driving. But when he pinged me a third time, I pulled into a rest area to reply.
Each message asked how I was doing. By the third message, something in his words, “please get back to me ASAP” hinted at panic.
I sent back “I’m fine. Mission accomplished. Coming home now.” I resisted the urge to add, “I had no idea you cared so much.” Smiley-face.
Chapter Forty-Six
Three weeks later, I was in the midst of a routine due diligence check on a potential employee. Not for me, but for an actual small client I’d managed to scrounge up through Nick’s connections. My new client was thoroughly legit and (as far as I knew) had no underworld contacts. Maybe I could manage to run my own business without having to fear for my life. Now I was glad to have met Nick the way I did. Who knew that I’d actually get a benefit out of going to those damn group therapy sessions?
