Damaged Goods

“Follow me, please.” He crooked his finger, and I trailed him toward my car.

My car

was still on the lift, and Roy beckoned for me to follow him underneath it. With the hope that it wouldn’t come crashing down, I gingerly ducked under the vehicle.

“See that?” Roy pointed a smudged finger toward what I assumed was the brake line, unblemished and completely intact. “That’s the replacement. Now here’s what I took out.”

He waved me over to a workbench strewn with tools and replacement parts. The young man plucked an identical, but dirty line from the disarray. It was smooth, except for the small break in the line.

“This line was in good shape,” he said. “Your leak wasn’t caused by a faulty line. You ask me, I’d say it was vandalism.”

???

I didn’t bother calling the cops. What would they do? Automobile vandalism wasn’t exactly a high-priority crime.

At least I knew I had someone’s attention. The questions were Why? and Who? Was it because I’d followed up on finding Kandinsky’s body or my inquiries about Melissa? Were they connected?

As I drove home from the shop, I kept a lookout for suspicious cars or people. I felt the vague tingle under my skin that came when I thought I was being watched, a side effect of my time in Afghanistan. I had something of a sixth sense when it came to trouble.

So it wasn’t a huge shock when I realized that a brown SUV a few cars behind me had been on my tail several miles after I’d left the garage. I slid over two lanes to the right and swung onto a residential side road. Doing a quick scan, I noted few hiding places. Except for one well-placed line of juniper bushes. I pulled my car over, jumped out and scurried behind the hedge. The brown SUV slowed, then sped up to pass. But not before I got a photo of the license plate.

Chapter Fourteen

I returned to my home office and logged into one of my databases. A quick search on the license plate number revealed the SUV’s owner was a guy named Brian Weis. According to the file, Weis lived in Baltimore, mere blocks from MICA. I jotted down the address and added another name to my diagram. The nature of his connection to be determined.

???

When I arrived in Weis’ neighborhood, I deliberately drove past the street he lived on. For one thing, the curb was jammed with cars. For another, I wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. If Weis had cut my brake line, parking too close to his residence would be asking for trouble.

The neighborhood was typical West Baltimore. Stone or brick rowhouses with marble steps at the entrances, some with Victorian-like facades that had lots of curlicues and scalloped trim.

I spied a parking space just big enough for my Fiesta. One benefit of driving a small car—it’s much easier to hide than a big honkin’ SUV.

After parking, I strolled toward Weis’ address. My plan was to scope out the house, find a spot for surveillance, and move the car closer to it, if possible. I had no intention of knocking on the front door. Most urban residences have peepholes. If Weis was home, what were the chances he would look through the peephole and decide not to open the door to me? I live in the suburbs, so I don’t open my door for just anyone without first doing a rudimentary check.

When I reached the intersection with Weis’ street, I didn’t immediately see the SUV. Maybe he wasn’t home or maybe he’d parked farther from his house, which was two doors from the intersection, where I stood catty-corner. I crossed Weis’s street and continued straight, until I reached an alley that extended both ways behind a long line of buildings, Weis’ stone rowhouse included. I spotted the SUV parked behind his house.

The Fiesta could fit in the small space between the street and a dumpster on my side of the alley, which provided a fine view of the SUV. I didn’t see any “No Parking” signs, so I boogied back to my car and motored to the space. I backed in, hoping no one would hassle me.

In the interest of making sure it was the same SUV, I got out of my car and walked toward the vehicle to get a closer look. The license plate matched, so I inched closer to get a quick peek through the back window. There were several crates piled up in the storage area. Interesting. I snapped a photo.

The sound of a door opening and footsteps meant that I needed to move away, so I quickly scanned the area for a hiding place. The footsteps grew louder. I hustled myself behind another dumpster.

From my hiding place, I saw a man open the back of the SUV. He moved out of view and returned with another crate, which he heaved into the vehicle. He looked to be my age or maybe younger. Rail thin, with scruffy brown hair and the hint of a goatee. I snapped another photo.

Moving toward the man, I said, “Brian Weis?”

The man peered at me. “Who’s asking?”

I extended my hand. “The woman whose car you followed earlier today. Nice to meet you.”

Weis looked nonplussed. “Huh?”

“I looked up your license plate,” I said. “Or, wait . . . let me guess. Someone borrowed your SUV?”

“No,” he declared. “And I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

Oh, a cool customer. What fun.