Damaged Goods - Page 36
Not wanting to keep my visitor waiting, I ducked into the bedroom and found my Sig P320 handgun. I keep a gun for emergencies only. It seemed like my life was becoming one long emergency. I tucked the gun into the back of my waistband, hoping I wouldn’t need to use it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Aft
er one last peek at the man outside my apartment, I made sure the chain was in place and opened up. Frankly, the chain was a joke and could easily be kicked in. Thus, the need for my gun.
“Erica Jensen?” The stranger asked. He appeared benign, but you can’t be sure of such things.
“Who are you?”
“Agent Phipps, FBI.” He reached inside his jacket.
“Careful,” I said. “Move your hands slowly.” I pulled out the gun, letting it hang at my side.
Agent Phipps held a hand palm forward, placating. “I’m just getting my ID.”
“Right. You should have had that out before you knocked.” I started to close the door on him.
Phipps pushed back. “We need to talk.”
“On a Saturday?”
“I’m sorry to ruin your weekend,” he said. “But FBI agents are like the Pinkertons. We never sleep.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“Slava Kandinsky.”
Kandinsky? This could be about his mob connections or the forged artifacts.
Curiosity got the best of me. “Let’s see that ID then.”
After the man calling himself Phipps showed me what looked like a proper FBI badge, I asked for a business card. He handed one to me. “Hang on,” I said, shutting the door in his face. I replaced the gun in my waistband and ran to my computer.
After a quick check online, I verified the number on the card as that of the local FBI office. A quick call to the number connected me with a voice mail greeting system that left little doubt that my visitor was an actual agent.
Only then did I unlock the chain and usher him into the living room, waving an invitation to sit on the sofa. I kept an eye on him as I sat on the opposite end, not bothering to offer a drink.
“I assume you know who Slava Kandinsky is?” he said.
My stomach clenched. “What makes you say that?”
“You’ve been investigating his associates.” It wasn’t a question.
“What do you need with me?” I asked, ignoring his non-question.
Phipps assumed an expression so serious his face seemed to turn to stone. “These are dangerous men you’ve become involved with. The best course of action would be for you to back off and leave this to the professionals.”
“Any progress in finding out who took a shot at me?” I struggled not to shout the words.
Phipps blinked. “Who are you working for?”
I shook my head. “Don’t you love when someone answers a question with another question?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. And I don’t have a client. I’m just trying to stay alive and figure out what happened to a friend.”
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