Damaged Goods

Chapter Forty-One

I headed north on I-95 toward New York City, without a clue about where to spend the night. Traffic was the usual onslaught, but at least it wasn't a holiday. It took only four hours before the distinctive skyline of Gotham appeared in the distance.

The thought of driving into Manhattan gave me a headache, but I didn't want to leave my car. I made my way through the Lincoln Tunnel, plagued by thoughts of maneuvering through a sea of taxis and the cost of parking. Not to mention the $12.50 I paid to use the tunnel. But I was on a mission.

I had to confirm what I suspected was going on. In this case, I had to go directly to the source. Another phone call simply wasn't going to cut it. Besides, there were other matters to attend to. As long as I was in the area, I'd take care of them in person.

Before making this trip, I'd taken the precaution of looking up a few details online. I approached Columbia University's Morningside Heights campus, and there I had my pick of either on-street parking or one of several parking garages. Trying to decipher New York City's on-street parking signs wasn't worth the migraine, so I settled on a garage. I might not have a client to cover my costs, but getting to the bottom of things would be worth the expense.

From the garage, it was a pleasant walk to the campus. Autumn in New York is much nicer than its summers. Most of the trees were green, but some had leaves edged with gold and orange. The air was warm and gentle, without the previous months' intense heat and stickiness. And the campus provided an oasis of calm within the bustle of the city. I had written down the location of Katie Saunders' office, but I asked a passing student for directions, just to be sure.

I made my way through the building to Katie's office, hoping no one would stop me or ask for a student ID. No one did. Was that just dumb luck? Or can people just wander in off the street any time? When I knocked on Katie's door, a female voice invited me to come in.

I recognized her right away from her Facebook page—light brown hair, mid-twenties, hazel eyes, studious, pretty. She gave me the once over. "Are you in one of my classes?"

"No, Katie," I said. "I'm Erica Jensen."

The look on her face said, go away. Instead, I entered and closed the door behind me.

"You and I need to have a talk," I said. "About Melissa Blaine."