Damaged Goods

Chapter Sixteen

The way I saw it, I had two choices: hang around for God knew how long waiting for Weis or move on and save him for later. For all I knew, Weis could have left already through a back door. I went back out and maneuvered through the alleys in an impromptu recon mission around the building. Didn't see anything and didn't figure on it.

Since I was near the art school, taking my photos there and seeking an artifacts expert seemed the better course of action. As for my throbbing back, I'd power through it.

I returned to my car and thought about Melissa Blaine's situation as I drove toward MICA. Finding her would clearly take more than the three hours Blaine and I had agreed upon. This was assuming her disappearance wasn't connected to Kandinsky's death and/or the artifacts in Weis' SUV.

En route to the school, it hit me. Ancient artifacts are not only the purview of art experts. I'd probably need to run the photos by a museum curator, if not an archaeologist. And who knew how much they could glean from photos snapped on a cell phone?

I turned onto a side street and pulled into the first spot I saw. Once again, I tried to reach Two-Bit Terry and got his voicemail. My message was short and prefaced with a long sigh. "Erica again. Please call me."

Time to review my options. I pulled out my makeshift flowchart and eyed it looking for previously unseen connections. A glance at Google Maps showed a few museums in the Baltimore area, but I considered taking a trip to D.C. where the Mother of all American Museums—the Smithsonian—had its headquarters.

The phone trilled. My eager gaze locked on the caller ID, only to find that it wasn't Terry. But the number did ring a bell. After a moment's consideration, I answered.

"Erica? Hi, it's Nick Baxter."

Nick Baxter? I pulled a momentary blank.

"From the support group," he added.

Oh.

"The journalist?" I said.

"Right," he answered. "The unemployed journalist."

"The word is freelancer."

"Yeah or consultant. I've heard all the jokes." His voice was weary. "I wanted to see if you'd like to meet for coffee sometime," he added. There was an inkling of suppressed hope in his voice.

That depends, I thought. Is this really about meeting for coffee or more? Don't get me wrong. He seemed like a nice enough guy. And I could go for the coffee or even a chat with a journalist (unemployed or otherwise), but not much more. Depending on what "more" entailed.

"Wait, let me check my busy social schedule," I said. Half a second later, I added, "Well, what do you know? I can meet you now."

"I'm in D.C."

"I'm in Baltimore."

He laughed. I smiled. "How about we split the difference and meet in Laurel. Have you been to More Than Java Café on Main Street?"

"I know it. See you there in, say, half an hour?"

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Thirty-five minutes later, Nick and I sipped our coffees at one of the tables by a window. After the usual polite chitchat, Nick said, "I actually hoped to ask you . . . " A thin line between his eyes deepened.

To marry me? A sarcastic response that went unspoken.

Nick's expression smoothed. "I'm looking for a sponsor. Would you consider it?" The words rushed out of his mouth as if propelled by a gust of wind.

I cradled my coffee cup in both hands. "That depends." I leaned toward him, keeping my voice low. "Can I tell you something that's specifically not for publication?"

He nodded. "Of course."

I drew closer and murmured, "Would you be interested in assisting an unlicensed private eye, who wants to go legit?"