Damaged Goods

I pulled a pair of sunglasses out of my shoulder bag, which I donned in a somewhat lame attempt to avoid being recognized. Weis seemed hell bent on getting somewhere fast, which gave me hope that he wouldn’t turn around.

Weis reached another intersection and made a left. Scrambling to catch up, I stopped short of the edge of the building, leaned against it, and did a quick visual sweep. Half a block away, Weis was climbing steps flanked by wrought iron rails adorned with distinctive curlicues. He fished a key from his pocket, but entered the building without using it.

Interesting, I thought. His parents’ place? Or someone else’s? An apartment in this building would make an expensive storage space.

As I approached the building, I reflexively scanned for hiding places and emergency escape routes. From what I’d seen, it appeared that the building had an unlocked entryway, which would suggest the residents lived in apartments or condos. Not knowing whether Weis’s destination faced the street or not put me at a disadvantage. Nonetheless, I was too curious to turn back.

Mounting the steps, I entered what turned out to be a small vestibule with a locked door providing access to the rest of the building. A door through which my quarry had disappeared.

The wall to my right was lined with mailboxes. A phone was mounted on the wall next to them. A quick check of the mailboxes revealed . . . nothing.

Great.

Chapter Sixteen

The way I saw it, I had two choices: hang around for God knew how long waiting for Weis or move on or save him for later. For all I knew, Weis could have left already through a back door. I went back out and maneuvered through the alleys in an impromptu recon mission around the building. Didn’t see anything and didn’t figure on it.

Since I was near the art school, taking my photos there and seeking an artifacts expert seemed the better course of action. As for my throbbing back, I’d power through it.

I returned to my car and thought about Melissa Blaine’s situation as I drove toward MICA. Finding her would take more than the three hours Blaine and I had agreed upon. This was assuming her disappearance wasn’t connected to Kandinsky’s death and/or the artifacts in Weis’ SUV.

En route to the school, it hit me. Ancient artifacts are not only the purview of art experts. I’d probably need to run the photos by a museum curator, if not an archaeologist. And who knew how much they could glean from photos snapped on a cell phone?

I turned onto a side street and pulled into the first spot I saw. Once again, I tried to reach Two-Bit Terry and got his voicemail. My message was short and prefaced with a long sigh. “Erica again. Please call me.”

Time to review my options. I pulled out my makeshift flowchart and eyed it looking for previously unseen connections. A glance at Google Maps showed a few museums in the Baltimore area, but I considered taking a trip to D.C. where the Mother of all American Museums—the Smithsonian—had its headquarters.

The phone trilled. My eager gaze locked on the caller ID, only to find that it wasn’t Terry. But the number did ring a bell. After looking at it for a moment, I answered.

“Erica? Hi, it’s Nick Baxter.”

Nick Baxter? I pulled a momentary blank.

“From the support group,” he added.

Oh.

“The journalist?” I said.

“Right,” he answered. “The unemployed journalist.”

“The word is freelancer.”

“Yeah or consultant. I’ve heard all the jokes.” His voice was weary. “I wanted to see if you’d like to meet for coffee sometime,” he added. There was an inkling of suppressed hope in his voice.

That depends, I thought. Is this really about meeting for coffee or more? Don’t get me wrong. He seemed like a nice enough guy. And I could go for the coffee or even a chat with a journalist (unemployed or otherwise), but not much more. Depending on what “more” entailed.

“Wait, let me check my busy social schedule,” I said. Half a second later, I added, “Well, what do you know? I can meet you now.”

“I’m in D.C.”

“I’m in Baltimore.”

He laughed. I smiled. “How about we split the difference and meet in Laurel. Have you been to More Than Java Café on Main Street?”

“I know it. See you there in, say, half an hour?”

???