Damaged Goods

I breathed in and exhaled slowly to maintain my composure. “How well did you k

now Slava Kandinsky?”

Blaine crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “Well enough to trust him as a business partner.”

“Would you say you were friends?”

“Friendly, yes. Close friends? Well . . . ” His mouth set in a firm line. “We don’t talk much about our personal lives, if that’s what you mean.”

“Was he married? Did he have a son or other children?”

“I . . . I really . . . I don’t know.” Blaine had the good grace to look ashamed. Then, his eyes widened and he asked, “Why do you keep talking about him as if he’s . . . ” His voice trailed off.

“As if he’s dead?” I looked directly at Blaine, scrutinizing him. “Because he is. I found him shot to death at his home.”

“Dear God.” He whispered the words. His look transformed to one of fear. “Did you call the police?”

“I didn’t think it advisable, given your strong preference against involving the police.”

He nodded. “Thank you.” Blaine seemed less upset than relieved.

“Now will you tell me exactly how you decided to become partners?”

Blaine stood up straight and shifted away from the door frame. “I met him at a local business mixer. We seemed to hit it off well enough, so after checking out his credentials, I asked him to meet me privately. That’s when I first proposed our partnership.”

“And, no doubt, he knew of your legal . . . escapades?” I pressed further.

Blaine gave me a look that suggested I’d lost a few marbles. “Everyone did. Does. Your point?”

I kept my eyes on him, gauging his every move and vocal intonation. “To the best of your knowledge, was Slava Kandinsky connected in any way with organized crime?”

“I found nothing in his background to suggest that.”

“Did you ever cross paths with organized criminals, during,” I paused to mentally revise my thought. “Before you were incarcerated?”

“No.” His tone was flat, his expression changing from an inquisitive squint to a scowl. “I’ve done my time, and I don’t do business with crooks.”

My questions seemed to be leading nowhere. If he was lying, I doubted that he would simply break down and confess if I kept going down this road.

“Let me ask you something,” he said, stabbing a finger at me. “Have you made any progress in finding my daughter?”

I took a moment to breathe again, for fear I might bark at him. “Mr. Blaine, you hired me all of two days ago.” God knows, it felt like forever. “I told you then, I’d devote three hours of my time toward that task. I am still in the middle of completing my entire assignment for you. And, per our contract, I’ll send you a report of my findings by week’s end.”

“OK, OK,” he said, waving a hand. All debonnaire now. “I’m just concerned about her. Like any parent would be.”

“Okay, then.” I tried my best to sound conciliatory, but I still didn’t quite trust the man. His responses seemed a bit too blasé.

“So.” Blaine spat the word out. “Are we done here?”

“Yes, thank you. We can talk later.”

I turned and left before he could slam the door in my face.

Chapter Eleven

The next day, I looked up Professor George Kirov in the university’s online directory. I called his office and made an appointment to meet him later that morning.

In the interim, I searched online for David Kandinsky. The name did not pop up in the usual phone directories. Perhaps David relied on his cell phone. Not unusual these days.