Damaged Goods

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I checked the time. It was 0030. A little late to be calling anyone, but I speed-dialed Nick, my new intrepid journalist mentor, with the hope that he'd be up. Much to my relief, he answered.

"Are you okay?" he asked. Not an unreasonable question given the hour.

"I'm fine," I said. "Have you ever written about smuggling or its connections to terrorism?"

"I never had a story run, but I have done some poking around."

"To the best of your knowledge, do these smugglers use computer hackers?" I asked.

This elicited a "hmmm" from the other end. "It's likely that they do, since so much crime involves computers these days. How exactly they might use them I couldn't say."

I considered the implications. Nick eventually said, "When I saw your caller ID, I was afraid you were having a crisis."

"What makes you think this isn't one?"

"The questions you're asking—I mean, I thought you were having a mental—" Nick faltered. "You know what I mean, right?"

I nodded, like the guy could see me. "I know. It's late, but I need help and wanted to run these ideas by you while they were still fresh in my mind."

"Erica?" Nick's voice had a razor-sharp edge. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure, but I intend to find out."

ϕϕϕ

The next morning at approximately 0920, I drove back up to Baltimore to visit MICA again. I stopped in at Java Joe's first to check out one of my hunches. I didn't recognize the man behind the counter, but the woman seemed familiar. As I approached, the man moved to the register.

I ordered a medium cappuccino, and after paying the cashier, I approached the woman who would be making the drink.

"Remember me?" I asked.

She gave me a blank, I-see-a-lot-of-people look. After a moment, her eyes sparked with recognition.

"You were looking for Melissa," she said.

I nodded and checked her name tag. Elle.

"That's right, Elle," I said. "I assume you still haven't seen or heard from her."

She shook her head. "I wish I could help."

"How about this guy?" I held up my phone and displayed a photo I'd taken of Kandinsky and the young man I assumed was his son.

"Just a sec." The espresso machine roared as she fixed my cappuccino. She handed me the drink and stared at the image.

"The older one. That's the guy I told you about—Mr. Macchiato."

"How about the younger man?"

She looked at the photo again, this time more closely. "He does look familiar. May I?" She reached for the phone, and I handed it off.

Elle studied the picture. "I think I have seen him. Maybe. The guy I'm thinking of was a bit older than this."

"Could the man in this picture be the one you are thinking of when he was younger?"

She nodded and handed back my phone. "Definitely."

Now that was interesting. "Where have you seen him? Was he with Melissa by any chance?"

"I've seen him here and at the art school. Sometimes with Melissa."

Interesting. Make that very interesting. As I tucked my phone into my shoulder bag, Elle added, "I don't know if that's much help."

"More than you know," I said. Assuming my developing theories panned out.