Damaged Goods

“Who is your contact?”

Weis shook his head. “He calls himself Mr. D.” He must have sensed my discontent with that answer, because he added with haste, “That’s all I know about him. The rest of the time I dealt with Mr. Kandinsky.”

“What does Melissa have to do with this?”

Weis propped his head in his hands and rubbed his face, elbows on the table. “She introduced us to Mr. Kandinsky. Oh, shit.”

I absorbed the response. If Kandinsky had stolen money, this could be where he’d spent it. “So, Slava Kandinsky paid you to make fake artifacts for his contacts? Is that how it works?”

Weis said, “Yep,” so abruptly, it sounded like a grunt.

“Who are these contacts? Buyers? Wholesalers? What?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “We just get paid and do our job.”

And whoever got the product probably figured out the scam, and Kandinsky had paid with his life. That was my guess. Oh, shit, indeed.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Digging for information bit by bit from these two was wearing me out, so I asked the $25,000 question: “Where is Melissa Blaine?”

Weis and Jen both gave me a hopeless look. “I don’t know,” Jen said.

“I thought you guys were friends,” I said.

Jen heaved a sigh. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“Did she even give a hint that she was leaving?”

Jen shook her head. Weis appeared on the verge of collapse.

“My own friend has apparently been kidnapped by your business associates,” I said. “I hope, for your sake, that neither he nor Melissa have joined Kandinsky in the hereafter.”

Weis peered at me. “Why would they kidnap your friend?”

“I was hoping you’d help me figure that out.”

Weis frowned. “No clue.” He hid his face with his hands again.

I forced a smile. “Well, we can’t always get what we want.”

???

By the time I left the house, it was dark. I strode to the car, only to find a ticket for illegal parking tucked under the right windshield wiper. Great. Charm City was not living up to its nickname right now. I snatched the thing off the windshield and tossed it into the car.

After sliding behind the wheel, I grabbed the file and fished out my notes. By the light of my cell phone, I eyed my makeshift diagram of the major players in this fiasco. Possible connections were coming into focus now, but I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. There was also the matter of finding Terry.

I put the file back together and set it on the passenger seat. As I started the car, a vehicle pulled up and blocked the alley’s closest exit. A dark limo. I threw my car into reverse and backed as fast as I dared.

My hands shook as my car swerved backwards down the alley. It was all I could do to keep from sideswiping a building in the dim light. I dared a swift glance at the limo. It hadn’t moved. In the gloom, I could make out what seemed to be an intersecting alley. I careened backwards around the corner, saw a brick wall behind me, and paused to consider my next move. Nosing forward far enough to look both directions, I detected no movement from the limo on my left. On the right, the exit was partially blocked by a dumpster on one side and a car on the other.

Part of me fumed about getting a ticket for parking in an alley while these idiots blocked it at each end ticket-free, but I didn’t have time to dwell on that. The more important question was, could I make it through the tiny exit?

Having little choice, I turned right and prayed that I could squeeze through.

I sped to the opening, then slowed to a crawl. It was a tight fit and then some. I yanked my left-side rearview mirror in to keep it from scraping the dumpster. Moving inch by inch, my car was almost halfway home, when another car appeared at the curb ahead of me.

The passenger door opened. A man emerged and approached my car, making hand motions, as if to guide me through. Yet, I felt little relief getting help from this apparent Good Samaritan. Not with that limo parked behind me.