Damaged Goods

“Good luck.” I opened the door and left.

???

By the time I reached the Virginia state line, Nick had texted me twice. I was anxious to get home, and I don’t text while driving. But when he pinged me a third time, I pulled into a rest area to reply.

Each message asked how I was doing. By the third message, something in his words, “please get back to me ASAP” hinted at panic.

I sent back “I’m fine. Mission accomplished. Coming home now.” I resisted the urge to add, “I had no idea you cared so much.” Smiley-face.

Chapter Forty-Six

Three weeks later, I was in the midst of a routine due diligence check on a potential employee. Not for me, but for an actual small client I’d managed to scrounge up through Nick’s connections. My new client was thoroughly legit and (as far as I knew) had no underworld contacts. Maybe I could manage to run my own business without having to fear for my life. Now I was glad to have met Nick the way I did. Who knew that I’d actually get a benefit out of going to those damn group therapy sessions?

When I heard the knock at my door, I rose and checked through the peephole. Maybe it was Fed Ex. Or not.

Turned out to be my pal from the FBI. Well, well.

Might as well rip this band aid off here and now. I opened up.

“Agent Phipps,” I said. “What brings you here?”

“Just need to clarify a few things, Ms. Jensen,” Phipps replied. Looked like I wasn’t the only investigator who preferred the element of surprise to phoning ahead. We exchanged a few more bullshit pleasantries before Phipps got to the point.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Phipps said. “But you don’t answer your phone.”

“You could have left a message.”

Phipps cocked his head. “I hope you’ll consider putting my number in your contacts. You still have my card?”

“Of course. At the risk of sounding defensive, why would I put an FBI agent’s number in my phone?”

Phipps shared the ghost of a smile. “We could help each other.”

Enough already. “What do you want from me?” I said.

“Any information you have about David Kandinsky or Stuart Blaine’s daughter.”

I shrugged. “Well, if that’s all you need, hang on.”

Leaving Phipps at the door, I retrieved the death certificate I’d been waving about like a flag.

Phipps looked the document over. He raised an eyebrow. “Is this all you have?”

“What more do you want? A treasure map?”

The ghost smile returned. “Is this your only copy?”

“Keep it,” I said. “My treat.”

Phipps nodded once. “Don’t forget. I have friends in law enforcement. If you ever need a reference.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Good luck with . . . whatever.”

I closed the door. Phipps’ words lingered. Were they a promise or a threat?

THE END