Damaged Goods

Chapter Twenty-Two

I managed to start the car and pull out of the lot without getting shot at a second time, which was a step in the right direction. Now, I needed to figure out what in God's name to do next.

My mind spun with possibilities. Focus, focus, focus—my current mantra.

My first thought was to go to the cops. And not just to report what I saw in Terry's apartment. There was the failure to contact him, the uncharged phone under the bed, plus a sniper taking shots at me in full daylight. It had to be someone staking Terry's place out. If so, why had Gorilla Man not followed me inside? Could Gorilla Man have been looking for Terry, too? His interest in me might have been completely benign.

That's the thing about PTSD. Your senses become too acute. Even a person's shadow made me jumpy. And for all I knew, he might have had no connection to the sniper.

Did any of this have anything to do with my work for Blaine? Or ancient artifacts that might've been smuggled from Soviet Georgia (or some part thereof)?

As I drove away, my gaze darted from the rearview mirror to the road. No sign of anyone following me.

A mile or two down the road, I turned onto a side street and pulled over. I retrieved the notepad from my file and wrote down everything I remembered of the incident. If I went to the cops, they'd want a statement. Writing it now would keep the details fresh.

I felt my back twinge again. With all the excitement, adrenaline had masked the return of that blasted backache.

I considered my options. If I went to the police, what could they do if the Mob was involved? We hadn't had any serial sniper shootings in the area since 2002 when two snipers terrorized the whole DC area and beyond. And despite my concern about Terry, how likely were the cops to make any effort to find him? Was it worth defying my wealthy client's wishes to keep the police out of it?

But then there was Melissa. Did she fit into this picture anywhere? I'd already put in my three hours toward finding her and then some. But now my friend was missing, too. And the sniper made it clear that the Mob or someone wasn't just screwing around.

I knew for sure that something was off. I knew from my time in the Corps that a good sniper could have taken me out. If the intent was to kill me, I'd be dead.

One thing was clear. It was time for another meet with the client. We needed to get a few things straight.

*****

Blaine answered on the second ring with an abrupt, "Yes?"

"We need to meet as soon as possible," I said.

"Why? Any news about my daughter?"

"I haven't found her, but there are matters I need to discuss with you."

"So discuss," he snapped. "What's going on?"

"Not on the phone," I insisted. "We need to talk face-to-face."

The sound from the other end could have been either a groan or a growl. "I don't have time to waste on meetings. Talk to me."

Fine. "To put it in a nutshell, I haven't found your daughter or your money. Your partner, as you know, is . . . no longer with us. But I've come to believe that he may have been involved in an illegal activity. Your money may have gone toward that. To date, my car's brakes have been tampered with, I've been followed, and someone took a shot at me. Either you meet with me to talk about this or I go to the police."

Blaine's grunt was dismissive. "Then let me put your mind at ease. You're fired."

Ah, how different the rich are from you and me. "Mr. Blaine. Stuart," I said. "Hear me out."

Wasted words. Blaine had hung up.