Damaged Goods

Chapter Ten

"Interesting," I said. "What do you make of this?"


"Well, obviously, someone threatened the intended recipient . . . "


"I got that much," I said. "Does it sound like it was written by someone in the Russian mob?"


Terry peered at the screen. "Well . . . not necessarily."


"Why do you say that?"


Terry scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. "The writing itself suggests otherwise. This isn't written in Russian. It's written in Georgian, which is similar, but not the same. A whole 'nuther country now. I don't know if they have ties to the Russian mob or not."


"Perhaps the letter was written by someone connected to the Mob who isn't Russian," I said.


"Good point," Terry said. "Or maybe 'Jerkoff' knows Georgian.


"The letter doesn't prove anything, really." He lifted his long, gangly arm and let it drop.


"It's the only lead I have right now."


"Lead on what?" he asked.


"Better that you don't know," I replied. "Based on the reception you gave me when I arrived, it looks like you've got enough trouble already."


I thought back to my meeting with Blaine. I didn't recall him mentioning that Kandinsky had a drug habit or gambling debts. Not only that, but I'd run a background check on both Blaine and his partner before the meeting on Monday—a mere two days ago, although it felt like a week. I always like to know who I'm doing business with. True to their claim, the partners appeared to run a clean shop. Neither had been arrested, not counting Blaine's previous incarceration.


"Look, I'd like to explore this Russian-Georgian or whatever angle further," I said. "What do you know about the Russian mob?"


"Enough to steer clear of them. That's about all."


I must have looked terribly frustrated, because he added, "I do know someone who might know more."


ϕϕϕ


I left Terry's apartment armed with a printed copy of the letter and a new contact: George Kirov, Professor of Criminology at the University of Maryland. Terry mentioned that Kirov knew first-hand about mobs (Russian and otherwise) from his time working for the FBI. I kept that in the back of my mind as I mulled over the questions I wanted to ask him.


Before I started my car, I checked the notes from my meeting with Blaine again. Just as I remembered, Blaine had simply asked me to find Kandinsky and the missing money. He never mentioned reasons why Kandinsky might have stolen it. Why would he? And how could he know?


I left the parking lot and headed home. By now, the sun was low in the sky. My interview with Professor Kirov would have to wait until tomorrow.


I'd driven no more than half a mile when my cell phone rang. One hand on the wheel, I used the other to hit the speakerphone button.


"Erica, I'm returning your call." It was Stuart Blaine, sounding fatigued.


"Would you mind if I stopped by for a moment?" I asked. "I have a few more questions."


"Can't you ask me now?"


"I'd prefer that we meet. I promise it won't take more than a few minutes."


He let out a loud sigh. "Okay, fine ."


"Be there in about thirty." I started to say goodbye, but Blaine had already hung up.


Much as I wanted to call it a day, I could manage to swing by Blaine's on the way home. The trip gave me time to consider my questions, how to frame them and how much to ask. I could already tell that the kind of conversation we would be having would benefit from face-to-face contact. I was as interested in his reaction as I was in what he would say.


By the time I turned into Blaine's driveway, the sun had disappeared behind the trees. The mini-manse appeared as dark and foreboding as a Gothic manor.


After I rang the doorbell, it only took seconds for Blaine to answer. He was dressed in a ratty T-shirt and worn jeans. Always the dapper one.


"Hi. Thanks for agreeing to see me," I said.


"Ask your questions." You're welcome. Guess I'm not getting the Grand Tour this time.


I breathed in and exhaled slowly to maintain my composure. "How well did you know Slava Kandinsky?"


Blaine crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. "Well enough to trust him as a business partner."


"Would you say you were friends?"


"Friendly, yes. Close friends? Well . . . " His mouth set in a firm line. "We don't talk much about our personal lives, if that's what you mean."


"Was he married? Did he have a son or other children?"


"I . . . I really . . . I don't know." Blaine had the good grace to look ashamed. Then, his eyes widened and he asked, "Why do you keep talking about him as if he's . . . " His voice trailed off.


"As if he's dead?" I looked directly at Blaine, scrutinizing him. "Because he is. I found him shot to death at his home."


"Dear God." He whispered the words. His look transformed to one of fear. "Did you call the police?"


"I didn't think it advisable, given your strong preference against involving the police."


He nodded. "Thank you." Blaine seemed less upset than relieved.


"Now will you tell me exactly how you decided to become partners?"


Blaine stood up straight and shifted away from the door frame. "I met him at a local business mixer. We seemed to hit it off well enough, so after checking out his credentials, I asked him to meet me privately. That's when I first proposed our partnership."


"And, no doubt, he knew of your legal . . . escapades?" I pressed further.


Blaine gave me a look that suggested I'd lost a few marbles. "Everyone did. Does. Your point?"


I kept my eyes on him, gauging his every move and vocal intonation. "To the best of your knowledge, was Slava Kandinsky connected in any way with organized crime?"


"I found nothing in his background to suggest that."


"Did you ever cross paths with organized criminals, during," I paused to mentally revise my thought. "Before you were incarcerated?"


"No." His tone was flat, his expression changing from an inquisitive squint to a scowl. "I've done my time, and I don't do business with crooks."


My questions seemed to be leading nowhere. If he was lying, I doubted that he would simply break down and confess if I kept going down this road.


"Let me ask you something," he said, stabbing a finger at me. "Have you made any progress in finding my daughter?"


I took a moment to breathe again, for fear I might bark at him. "Mr. Blaine, you hired me all of two days ago." God knows, it felt like forever. "I told you then, I'd devote three hours of my time toward that task. I am still in the middle of completing my entire assignment for you. And, per our contract, I'll send you a report of my findings by week's end."


"OK, OK," he said, waving a hand. All debonnaire now. "I'm just concerned about her. Like any parent would be."


"Okay, then." I tried my best to sound conciliatory, but I still didn't quite trust the man. His responses seemed a bit too blasé.


"So." Blaine spat the word out. "Are we done here?"


"Yes, thank you. We can talk later."


I turned and left before he could slam the door in my face.