Damaged Goods

After inserting the key, I wiggled and smacked it lightly with my small notebook until the lock turned. I opened the door, stepped inside, and froze.

Terry sat on the sofa—the biggest piece of furniture in his sparsely-decorated living room—pointing a gun at me. He was tall and skinny, with disheveled light brown hair. In his baggy jeans and loose-fitting T-shirt, he looked like a criminal scarecrow.

A feeling of deva vu and an adrenaline rush washed through me. If Terry hadn’t been a familiar face, I might have taken serious defensive measures. Thank God I didn’t have a weapon.

He lowered the gun. “C’mon in,” he said. “Sorry about that.” He set the weapon down on the coffee table.

“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 . . . ”