Damaged Goods

“I got that much,” I said. “Does it sound like it was written by someone in the Russian mob?”

Terry peered at the screen. “Well . . . not necessarily.”

“Why do you say that?”

Terry scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. “The writing itself suggests otherwise. This isn’t written in Russian. It’s written in Georgian, which is similar, but not the same. A whole ’nuther country now. I don’t know if they have ties to the Russian mob or not.”

“Perhaps the letter was written by someone connected to the Mob who isn’t Russian,” I said.

“Good point,” Terry said. “Or maybe ‘Jerkoff’ knows Georgian.

“The letter doesn’t prove anything, really.” He lifted his long, gangly arm and let it drop.

“It’s the only lead I have right now.”

“Lead on what?” he asked.

“Better that you don’t know,” I replied. “Based on the reception you gave me when I arrived, it looks like you’ve got enough trouble already.”

I thought back to my meeting with Blaine. I didn’t recall him mentioning that Kandinsky had a drug habit or gambling debts. Not only that, but I’d run a background check on both Blaine and his partner before the meeting on Monday—a mere two days ago, although it felt like a week. I always like to know who I’m doing business with. True to their claim, the partners appeared to run a clean shop. Neither had been arrested, not counting Blaine’s previous incarceration.

“Look, I’d like to explore this Russian-Georgian or whatever angle further,” I said. “What do you know about the Russian mob?”

“Enough to steer clear of them. That’s about all.”

I must have looked terribly frustrated, because he added, “I do know someone who might know more.”

???

I left Terry’s apartment armed with a printed copy of the letter and a new contact: George Kirov, Professor of Criminology at the University of Maryland. Terry mentioned that Kirov knew first-hand about mobs (Russian and otherwise) from his time working for the FBI. I kept that in the back of my mind as I mulled over the questions I wanted to ask him.

Before I started my car, I checked the notes from my meeting with Blaine again. Just as I remembered, Blaine had simply asked me to find Kandinsky and the missing money. He never mentioned reasons why Kandinsky might have stolen it. Why would he? And how could he know?

I left the parking lot and headed home. By now, the sun was low in the sky. My interview with Professor Kirov would have to wait until tomorrow.

I’d driven no more than half a mile when my cell phone rang. One hand on the wheel, I used the other to hit the speakerphone button.

“Erica, I’m returning your call.” It was Stuart Blaine, sounding fatigued.

“Would you mind if I stopped by for a moment?” I asked. “I have a few more questions.”

“Can’t you ask me now?”

“I’d prefer that we meet. I promise it won’t take more than a few minutes.”

He let out a loud sigh. “Okay, fine .”

“Be there in about thirty.” I started to say goodbye, but Blaine had already hung up.

Much as I wanted to call it a day, I could manage to swing by Blaine’s on the way home. The trip gave me time to consider my questions, how to frame them and how much to ask. I could already tell that the kind of conversation we would be having would benefit from face-to-face contact. I was as interested in his reaction as I was in what he would say.

By the time I turned into Blaine’s driveway, the sun had disappeared behind the trees. The mini-manse appeared as dark and foreboding as a Gothic manor.

After I rang the doorbell, it only took seconds for Blaine to answer. He was dressed in a ratty T-shirt and worn jeans. Always the dapper one.

“Hi. Thanks for agreeing to see me,” I said.

“Ask your questions.” You’re welcome. Guess I’m not getting the Grand Tour this time.