Damaged Goods

Chapter Eight

I extracted my cell phone from my shoulder bag and called Blaine, leaving a message to get in touch with me as soon as possible. Then, I went back inside the Kandinsky house.

The time disparity between Melissa's last phone call with her father and the day she was last seen at school worried me. Perhaps Melissa's pride kept her from revealing that she had stopped going to class. After all, her father hadn't approved of her career plans.

I considered other possibilities. Had someone taken Melissa and forced her to call her father? Toward what end? I needed to get more details from Blaine about their last conversation. Given the circumstances, I had no reason to think he would hold anything back.

Just in case, I used my cell phone to take photos of the letters and put them back their proper place with the other papers. When I tucked the bundle back into the closet, I noticed a small blue binder with the words "Cherished Memories" embossed in gold on the cover. I picked it up and flipped through the plastic-encased photos inside. In a few of them, I saw Kandinsky posed with a woman. I also found photos with Kandinsky, the woman and a boy. Probably the son, David. One picture resembled a high school yearbook headshot of the boy, now a teenager. Based on the contents, it seemed that Kandinsky had fathered only one child.

I slid the most recent photo of David from its holder, set it on the dresser, and snapped a shot of it with my cell. I did the same for one photo of the woman. The closet in which I had found the photo album contained only men's clothes. If Kandinsky and his wife or live-in girlfriend had been estranged, how hard did either of them take it? Did the presence of a woman in his life (or the lack thereof) pertain to his death?

After tucking the photo album away, I continued to search the closet and scanned the room. A brightly colored Russian nesting doll, of all things, sat on a bedside table. On a hunch, I took it apart. Inside the smallest doll, I found a key. I'd be skating on mighty thin ice if I took it. What would I do with it anyway?

For lack of other options, I tore a page from the notebook in my shoulder bag. Pressing the paper onto the key, I took a pencil and ran the point sideways, back and forth, atop it. I managed to make a very rough outline of the key's shape, ridges and indentations. Turning it over, I repeated the process. Far from perfect, but it would have to do.

I also took a photo of the key and noted the alphanumeric code engraved on it. With this information, maybe a locksmith could provide a lead on what the key opened.

I slipped out the door and hurried to my car, leaving Kandinsky's body for someone else to find.

On Route 40, one of Ellicott City's main roads, I found a Home Depot. Whether I'd find a real locksmith there was another question. I decided to take my chances, so I pulled into the shopping center's parking lot.

I had a hunch the key opened a safe deposit box. If so, then getting access could be a problem. Unless I could track down Kandinsky's son or the woman who appeared to be his wife. In any case, Kandinsky's death left someone as his heir. Maybe more than one someone.

I found an elderly man who made keys in the hardware section. Unfortunately, he had no more clue than I did about what the key would unlock, but he was able to tell me where to find the nearest locksmith—right in the heart of old town.

I left the store and headed down Route 40 to Rogers Road, which led to the county courthouses. Taking a right, then another, I ended up on Ellicott City's Main Street. This part of town had suffered a series of devastating floods over the years, but had somehow managed to endure. Whether the history of old town Ellicott City merited the residents' continued allegiance to doing business there—come flood, come whatever—had escalated into an ongoing controversy. The place was an environmental disaster area and a journalist's dream.

The narrow road was lined with historic buildings, crammed together. It plunged downhill in a set of curves, past a rocky outcropping, toward the old mill and the railroad bridge. The locksmith's shop was wedged between a tobacconist store and a place that sold used hippie clothes.

Main Street's crowded curbs left me no place to park my car. I ended up leaving it in a small lot alongside the bridge and walking down the hill toward the shop. As I approached, the stench of patchouli from the hippie store nearly knocked me on my ass.

My entrance into the locksmith's shop set the small chime-like bell hung over the door to ringing. A man in his early 20s or younger stood behind the counter, organizing stock. Was he the locksmith? He was just a kid, but then so was everyone I'd served with in Afghanistan.

The young man came to attention and said, "May I help you?"

"Hi," I said. "I'm trying to figure out what this key unlocks. Would you be able to tell me?" I showed him the photo, the outline of the key, and the information I'd noted on the key itself.

"The key to a safe," he said, with barely a look at the photo.

"How can you tell?"

"The manufacturer's number you wrote down. Hudson makes keys for standalone safes."

I squinted at him. "I'm not doubting you, but I need to be sure. Are you positive?"

"Let me take another look," he said. He glanced at it again and nodded vigorously. "The shape is right, too. Take my word for it. I can look up the specific model, if you like."

"You said it was a standalone. So it's movable?"

"Could be. Depends on who's moving it."

How about a dead Russian's wife or ex-wife? Thoughts best left unspoken. "Is it possible to make a copy of the key, using this etching?" I asked instead.

"I'm sorry. There are high-tech ways, but we don't have those here. I'd need either the key or an impression of it."

My heart sank a bit. Time to make another command decision.