Damaged Goods

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.