Damaged Goods

Chapter Forty-Two

Katie's gaze skittered about the office, as if looking for an escape hatch. I approached her desk and sat down, uninvited, in one of the guest chairs.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"I . . . I already told you. I don't know."

I leaned forward. "You're not a good liar. I think you do know. And you better start talking."

She threw me a scornful look. "Or what?"

"Or I call the cops."

Katie shifted in her desk chair. "I don't know . . . anything."

"You know enough." I rose, planted my hands on her desk, and leaned over it until my face was inches from Katie's. Yoga had done wonders for my battered back. "I've been threatened, shot at, and fired by a client who said he was looking for his daughter. That's enough to make me think there's something going on here. And, whatever it is, I think there's a reason my client wanted to keep the police out of it."

I thought about grabbing her by the shirtfront, but didn't. "You're going to tell me what you know about Melissa. Now."

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Back in Maryland, I went directly to the Blaine residence. I left my car on the street and hiked up the driveway toward the grand entrance. Three sharp raps on the door and it opened a crack. Blaine eyed me through the gap.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped.

"Where's Jeeves the Butler these days?" I asked. "He didn't answer the door the last time I was here either."

"None of your damn business," he said. "Now, unless you have a reason to see me, I suggest you leave."

"Or what?" I asked. "You'll call the cops?"

Blaine said nothing. That stumped him.

He tried to shut the door, but I slammed a hand against it and stiff-armed it open. It flew back and Blaine staggered away from me as I entered.

"You said you didn't want the police involved in your affairs," I continued. "Since we met, I've discovered why. You knew Kandinsky was skimming from the Russians. You knew, and you wanted your share."

Blaine's face contorted with rage. "You're guessing."

"Am I? You're forgetting something, Stu. I look for assets. That's what I do. If I had to, I could track down all the accounts you could create in the Caymans or any other tax-sheltered country you can name."

"Then, do it," he said. "See what you find."

"I don't have to," I said. "I've found Melissa."

The anger in his expression morphed into one of longing. Or hunger.

"Where is she? Is she all right?"

I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "Here's your answer," I said, handing it to him.

Blaine unfolded the paper and his eyes bugged out. "No!"

"Yes."

"No way." He shook his head. "No way is she dead."

"Feel free to check the records office in Broward County, Florida," I said. Then I turned to leave. "Case closed."