Damaged Goods

Chapter Seventeen

For a moment, Nick stared at me. It was an elastic moment that seemed to stretch way out.

"You mean—," he started.

"Yes, I mean me." I smiled with all requisite enthusiasm. "You asked what I did. Now you know."

Nick sipped his coffee. "Why are you unlicensed?"

"Want the long version or the short?"

He studied my face. "Whatever you feel comfortable sharing."

"Okay, here's a short one." I took another swig from my cup, taking time to decide on where to begin. "I'm a Marine. Between concussions, lower back pain from the weight of my protective armor, and a case of PTSD, I became addicted to the painkillers my doctors prescribed.

"Because my medical treatment comes through the VA, my addiction is a matter of military record. In Maryland, anyone addicted to narcotics is disqualified from obtaining an official investigator's license. I don't dare lie about this on an application. Being addicted is bad enough."

I let the words hang. I stared into my coffee cup.

When I raised my glance, he was nodding, sympathy in his eyes.

"I was embedded with a platoon in Iraq," he said. He convulsed in a brief shiver. "I'll never forget what I heard and saw there. I don't have to tell you it wasn't pretty."

"Mmm." What could I say? "Is that how you . . . ?"

"Became an addict?" He shook his head. "Between the memories and the mass layoffs, I went off the rails."

Derailed. Great description of my life. Our lives.

"So . . . you want me as your sponsor?" My tone betrayed my disbelief.

"Yes, please," Nick said. "I'll be glad to help you in return, as long as it's nothing illegal."

"No worries," I assured him. "I need help finding resources and developing contacts. Usually, this isn't a problem. Up until recently, my job has been limited to discovering assets. But now, I'm now handling a matter that involves questioning people. Frankly, my people skills are rusty. As a journalist, I suspect you're much better at dealing with other people than I am."

"And I have contacts," he added.

"Just what I hoped you would say."

I dug out my cell phone and displayed the artifact photos. "Check these out. I have no idea if anyone can authenticate them as obscure Georgian artifacts from a photo, but I wouldn't mind having an expert look at them."

Nick accepted the cell phone from my extended hand and inspected the images. "Not exactly my former beat, but I know another reporter who might know someone. I'll give her a call."

He took out his phone, punched some buttons, and, apparently, reached the source. Without going into a lot of detail, Nick said he was looking for a Soviet artifacts expert. The response seemed to please him. He pulled out a small notepad and pen, then made a hasty looping scrawl across the pad.

"Thanks. I owe you," he said, before disconnecting.

Nick pushed the notepad toward me. "A retired Russian archeologist who came here shortly after the Wall fell. The Berlin Wall."

"I know my history," I snapped. Oops. Rude. "I mean, thanks."

"No problem," he assured me.

I scanned the scrawled note, and the name Dr. Peter Amelin emerged from the looping handwriting, along with a number I could just barely make out.

"Are you still sure you want me as a sponsor?" I asked.

He nodded. "Do me a favor. Go into your recent calls."

So I did. "Save your number?" I guessed.

"Exactly," he said. "Now I have your number and you have mine."