Damaged Goods

He smiled and shook his head. “What was I thinking? Her name’s Melissa. Her full name is Melissa Anne Blaine.”

I jotted down the name and very much wondered what he was thinking.

Chapter Two

Before I left Blaine’s palace, he dredged up a photo of Melissa. It was her high school senior photo, so she might have dyed her hair or who-knows-what in the five years since she graduated. In the photo, her mousy-brown locks were brushed back from a perfect oval face that featured full lips and her father’s green eyes.

Blaine also gave me copies of articles about B & K Developers, including one with a full-color photo of Blaine and Slava Kandinsky sitting side-by-side. Kandinsky had longer legs, knees sticking out at awkward angles compared to his shorter partner’s. He had a swarthy complexion and eyes that gleamed like wet tar.

I left the house and crossed a driveway that led to a three-car garage, slipped into my blue Fiesta, and fired it up. I lowered the windows to let in the warm, early September breeze. Then I drove to the local library, took my file and laptop inside, and started to put my thoughts on paper while they were still fresh.

When I start a case, I like to create a flowchart. In this case, I had to find two people who may or may not have known each other. So I turned to a blank page in my notebook. Yes, I use paper and pencil for this stuff. I refuse to go all digital.

I penciled in the name “Melissa Anne Blaine” on the right side, making an oval around it. Under her name, I wrote “MICA”, the acronym for the art school, pronounced “mike-ah.” On the left, I wrote “Slava Kandinsky” and drew a rectangle around that, then added the few additional names I’d squeezed out of Blaine. I put my client’s name at the top of the page and underlined it, then drew arrows between that and each of the others, noting the relationships along the lines.

With the preliminaries out of the way, I turned on the laptop and scoped out Melissa’s last-known address and social media presence. Nothing. Not finding her on Facebook wasn’t surprising, since teens and young adults are apparently fleeing the site. However, Melissa’s friend Katie Saunders was there and was identified as a graduate of Damascus High School. I next turned to Instagram—the logical place for a young artist. And Pinterest. But there was no sign of Melissa on either one.

I needed to delve deeper by using a subscription database—one of the few I can afford. I avoid using those outside my home, because I’m concerned about wi-fi security (or lack thereof). The downside is that some of these databases are often weeks or months out of date. I would have to rely on my threadbare people skills to gather the most recent intel. I set my sights on Katie Saunders first.

I looked online for all the Saunders listed in the Damascus, Maryland, area. There were only five—Damascus isn’t exactly a huge metropolis. After jotting down the numbers and addresses, I left the library, returned to my car, and dug my cell phone out of my shoulder bag.

I punched in the first number, and someone of indeterminate gender rasped a greeting.

“Hi,” I said. “Is Katie there?”

“Who? Kaley?”

“No. Katie.”

“Either way, you’ve got the wrong number.” I heard a click, and that was that.

I kept going and hit pay dirt on the fourth try. A woman who sounded like someone’s grandmother answered. When I asked for Katie, she said, “She’s away at college, dear.”

“Would you mind if I got her number, ma’am?” I chirped. “I’m putting together a contact list for the next high school reunion.” I figured the lie would protect Stuart Blaine.

“Well, I don’t know . . . I’ll need to ask her mother.”

“Is she there?” I pressed. “Can I talk to her?”

“She’s out, but she should be back soon.”

“How about if I check back in half an hour?”

“She might be back by then, although you may want to wait an hour, just to be sure.”

“Awesome,” I gushed. We exchanged brief farewells and hung up.

I had no intention of calling in an hour; I would go to the house instead.

I started the car and headed toward a shopping center I had noticed on the way to see Blaine. There was just enough time to grab a sandwich from the deli before stopping by the Saunders’ house.

I bought a Reuben on pumpernickel, which I wolfed down while I scanned my notes and planned my general strategy. I would need to visit the art school, of course, and I could swing by the coffee shop while I was there. And a

s for Mr. Kandinsky, I would deal with him in good time.

As I ate and reviewed notes, I stayed alert as always to my surroundings. Not that I expected anyone to attack me here, but old habits die hard. Fortunately, this wasn’t the bar where some drunk had tried to feel me up. I hadn’t expected that, either. And he hadn’t anticipated my fist connecting with his nose. Good thing I hadn’t connected squarely. I could have smashed his nose right into his brain.

That kind of behavior lands you in court. Which leads to court-ordered anger management therapy. Which extends into talk therapy, ad infinitum. So many words, so little progress.