by Debbi Mack
It was nearly half-past midnight when I finally felt ready for bed. I had just slipped under the covers when my cell phone rang. Answer or ignore? If it was the thugs who had sent that photo, the latter might be wiser. But, then again. My brain seemed to spasm. Then it cried, you need sleep!
The ringing stopped, then started again. I reached over and turned off the phone. A few minutes ticked by. Then, my land line jangled. I roused myself enough to reach the receiver, pick it up, and slam it down. Then, I turned off the ringer. So much for that.
It took a while for sleep to come. When it did, the dreams it brought were too much like being awake to be restful. I was plagued with a bizarre kaleidoscope of imagery. Being chased through a desert by Russians firing Kalashnikov rifles at me. Sidestepping a discarded soda can, which exploded in a cloud of fragments. A child’s blood-streaked face emerging from the cloud, begging me not to shoot him. Bumping down a barely discernible road in a jeep with an aspiring pig farmer who’d end up dead right beside me.
I woke up sweating after hearing a loud bang. I stared at the ceiling in disbelief, but the banging continued. No explosions. Someone was knocking on my door.
Chapter Thirty
At first, I thought I’d been hearing things. I lay there blinking, trying to get my bearings. The knocking resumed, even louder.
The watery light of dawn oozed in around the outline of the window shade. My bedside clock read 0730.
Oddly, my first thought was to call the police. My second was to grab the nearest blunt object and greet my visitor with it.
Ignore it, I thought. But my curiosity wouldn’t let me. With everything that had happened, I should at least look through the peephole.
Even though the knocking had let up, I rolled out of bed, finger-combed my hair back, and crept to the door. I peered out and saw . . . no one.
Now awake and thinking, I ran to the window that overlooked the street in front of the building. There were no obvious signs of any of vehicles that had pestered me lately. Which is not to say they hadn’t been there. Or weren’t parked elsewhere.
Just in case, I retrieved a small pair of binoculars from my closet and my little notebook from my shoulder bag. Flipping to the page where I’d scribbled the license plate number, I returned to the window and scanned the lines of cars parked along both sides of the road. Neither the vehicles nor the plates I managed to make out were of interest.
This reminded me that I needed to look up the license plate. I’d get to that after a shower and some coffee. I let the shower pour over me for a good long while. I wanted to wash the memory of the last few days down the drain.
After finishing with my morning ablutions and throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that didn’t smell, I made some coffee and did a few back stretches while waiting for the coffee to brew. After pouring a cup, I booted up my computer and signed into the database I needed.
I typed in the plate number. What came up was a keen disappointment. There was no record of the number.
“What do you mean?” I asked the computer, as if it could hear me.
I tried again. No better luck the second time.
This could only mean that I’d written down the wrong number.
I pounded my fist on the desk. “Damn it!”
Attempting fast getaways and noticing plate numbers just don’t go together.
Chapter Thirty-One
I was tired of thinking, tired of dealing with the fallout from a case I was no longer hired to handle. It wore me out just sitting in front of my computer. With my eyes closed, my thoughts began to drift.
What I really needed to do was relax. One thing I’d learned since returning home from the war was that I needed to tune out every now and then. Taking a meditation class had helped a little bit with that, but unfortunately, I didn’t use what I had learned as often as I should. But every once in a while, I’d give it a try . . . and this seemed like the perfect time.
I closed my eyes and sat upright—not ramrod straight, as if at attention, but comfortably upright, as if my head were a balloon attached to a string. I tried to be aware of any tension, noting each body part and relaxing it. Face, eyelids, jaw, neck, shoulders, arms, hands, then downward.
After fully relaxing, I took a few deep breaths, mentally unfocused and, with the aid of a mantra, let go of conscious thoughts, or tried to. Even now, it seems a bit unnatural for me to focus on not focusing. I decided to chalk that up to my lack of regular practice.
Thing was, each attempt at meditation seemed to make the next try easier. This should’ve encouraged me to treat it as I would treat brushing my teeth—make it a habit. But some impatient inner demon insisted on spending time doing other things. And what little patience I had started with was wrung out of me by the time my last tour in Afghanistan ended. I thought about this and then tried not to think—to let those thoughts go and allow the mantra to take over.
Time passed. Maybe 15 minutes. That was about as much non-thought as my mind could handle. When I reopened my eyes, the world seemed like a better place. I was ready to return to the problems at hand—and maybe even solve them. Without any effort, one notion for a solution clicked into place.
Maybe I hadn’t gotten the license plate entirely wrong. Perhaps I was off by a letter or number. I could go through countless iterations, but it might be wise to try a few of the obvious ones.
I checked the plate number. There was one letter that could have been a “C” or a “G.” I thought it was the former, so I tried running the plate number again with the substitution. No luck.
The numbers weren’t ambiguous. A “7” wouldn’t be confused for a “4”, for instance. I focused on the letters instead. Maybe the “O” was actually a “Q”. I tried again. Nothing.
The third letter was one I doubted would be confused for another. I figured I’d try substituting both of the other two and see where it got me.
To my surprise, I got a hit. However, a look at the details revealed the car to be a Porsche owned by a 63-year-old woman who lived in a toney section of Baltimore.
In other words, I may have hit the lucky number, but the plate was probably stolen.
I figured, “Okay. It’s not the end of the world.” Knowing that the license plate may have been stolen was informative too.
I didn’t figure the Russian mob operated this way. It was much more likely that my unwanted companions were the kind of lowlifes who might have screwed around with Terry.
That reminded me about the photo. I got up and retrieved it from the coffee table. The man pictured resembled Terry, but was it him? And what about the apparent bruises and blood? A closer look was in order.
From a junk drawer in my kitchen, I dug out a magnifying glass. An old-fashioned, round magnifying glass, stuck on the end of a short, black handle. Standard issue private eye gear for Sherlocks of any era.
I studied the photo through the magnifier and looked for obvious signs of retouching and Photoshopped effects. While I can’t claim expertise in spotting faked photos, there was something a bit off about the look of this one. The bruises were a bit too monochromatic. The skin around them too smooth.
Or maybe that was just false hope talking to me.
I was still scrutinizing the picture when I heard knocking at my door again. I placed the photo and magnifier down as gently as possible, padded toward the door, and peered through the peephole. A man I didn’t recognize stood on the other side. He wore a dark suit, tie, and white shirt. He didn’t carry a clipboard, so he wasn’t here to sell magazines or proselytize for any religion. Apparently.
After a moment, he knocked again. I moved toward my bedroom and called, “Hang on.”
Not wanting to keep my visitor waiting, I ducked into the bedroom and found my Sig P320 handgun. I keep a gun for emergencies only. It seemed like my life was becoming one long emergency. I tucked the gun into the back of my waistband, hoping I wouldn’t need to use it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Aft
er one last peek at the man outside my apartment, I made sure the chain was in place and opened up. Frankly, the chain was a joke and could easily be kicked in. Thus, the need for my gun.
“Erica Jensen?” The stranger asked. He appeared benign, but you can’t be sure of such things.
“Who are you?”
“Agent Phipps, FBI.” He reached inside his jacket.
“Careful,” I said. “Move your hands slowly.” I pulled out the gun, letting it hang at my side.
Agent Phipps held a hand palm forward, placating. “I’m just getting my ID.”
“Right. You should have had that out before you knocked.” I started to close the door on him.
Phipps pushed back. “We need to talk.”
“On a Saturday?”
“I’m sorry to ruin your weekend,” he said. “But FBI agents are like the Pinkertons. We never sleep.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“Slava Kandinsky.”
Kandinsky? This could be about his mob connections or the forged artifacts.
Curiosity got the best of me. “Let’s see that ID then.”
After the man calling himself Phipps showed me what looked like a proper FBI badge, I asked for a business card. He handed one to me. “Hang on,” I said, shutting the door in his face. I replaced the gun in my waistband and ran to my computer.
After a quick check online, I verified the number on the card as that of the local FBI office. A quick call to the number connected me with a voice mail greeting system that left little doubt that my visitor was an actual agent.
Only then did I unlock the chain and usher him into the living room, waving an invitation to sit on the sofa. I kept an eye on him as I sat on the opposite end, not bothering to offer a drink.
“I assume you know who Slava Kandinsky is?” he said.
My stomach clenched. “What makes you say that?”
“You’ve been investigating his associates.” It wasn’t a question.
“What do you need with me?” I asked, ignoring his non-question.
Phipps assumed an expression so serious his face seemed to turn to stone. “These are dangerous men you’ve become involved with. The best course of action would be for you to back off and leave this to the professionals.”
“Any progress in finding out who took a shot at me?” I struggled not to shout the words.
Phipps blinked. “Who are you working for?”
I shook my head. “Don’t you love when someone answers a question with another question?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. And I don’t have a client. I’m just trying to stay alive and figure out what happened to a friend.”
Phipps rose suddenly and took a step toward me. “Listen,” he started.
He didn’t get far. The minute he rose, so did a memory from Afghanistan. The flashback came on suddenly as the blackout had occurred with Gorilla Man at Terry’s place. My current stress level was clearly eating at me. An image of a shadow that loomed during a residence check in Kandahar played like a movie. I moved back a step and chopped Phipps’ temple with the side of my hand. This stunned the man enough to let me kick out and slam my foot into his groin. He doubled over, gasping, and collapsed to the floor, grazing the coffee table as he did, snapping me from the past to my present condition, back injury and all. I’d pay for that later.
On instinct, I pulled the gun and trained it on him. “Don’t move.”
Phipps looked up at me and again raised a hand. “I’m sorry. They warned me about this. But attacking a federal agent isn’t your best choice here. But I’m aware that you served in the military. I hope that’ll give you more incentive to cooperate.”
Heat radiated up my face, as shame and embarrassment overwhelmed me.
“Have we done this before?” I asked.
Phipps shook his head. “Not us, but another agent looking for a fellow named Terry Morris.”
Another agent? I remembered Gorilla Man. Sorry, dude.
But Two-Bit Terry? “What’s your interest in him?”
“Following a lead,” he non-answered the question. “I’m more interested in Kandinsky.”
“And what’s so interesting about him?”
“He’s been linked with terrorists.”
I went from squinting to frowning. “Are you saying that Slava Kandinsky was a terrorist?”
“Not exactly. He wasn’t a terrorist, but he was dealing with them.”
“So he was supporting terrorists?”
Phipps shook his head. “Worse than that. He was ripping them off.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
I took a moment to absorb what he’d just said. If it were true, it could explain a few things.
“Mind if I get up?” Agent Phipps asked in a mildly aggrieved tone of voice.
Pulled back to reality, I tucked the gun back into my waistband and helped him to his feet.
“Have a seat.” I tried to reassure the agent with an amiable tone. Or at least a reasonable facsimile of one. “Would you like a drink?”
“This won’t take long,” he assured me. The words “assuming you let me talk” remained unspoken.
After we’d re-settled onto the sofa, Phipps continued. “Slava Kandinsky deals in smuggled artifacts for the Russian mafia. Antiquities trafficking turns profits in the billions every year. Terrorists have been tapping this market for a very long time—long before the 9/11 attacks. In fact, looted artifacts are a major funding source for fundamentalist terrorist groups.”
By now, my head was spinning with possibilities. “What was Kandinsky’s role in this business?”
“We think Kandinsky served as middleman between traffickers and interested resellers. You wouldn’t believe his client list. We’re talking everything from major auction houses and museums to ISIS and Hezbollah.”
I put two and two together. “Kandinsky was skimming from the profits made from resellers?”
Phipps nodded.
“So how can I help you?” I asked.
“You can start by telling me who you work for. Why are you investigating Kandinsky?”
I gave it a moment’s thought. What did I owe Blaine? The man had tossed me aside like a used tissue. Even so, I hesitated to simply tell all. Particularly since Blaine suspected Kandinsky of stealing from him.
“My client thought Kandinsky was embezzling from his company,” I offered. “He has since let me go.”
Phipps peered at me, as if trying to x-ray my mind. Typical cop look.
“Why did your client fire you?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Guess he felt like he wasn’t getting his money’s worth.”
“Could it have been that you were getting too close to something he didn’t want you to find out?” Phipps said.
“I doubt it,” I replied, in all honesty.
Phipps nodded, but his gaze bore into me. “I suggest you tell me the name of your client, just in case. If you’re not completely sure he wasn’t involved, it would be in your best interest.”
I had to admit the man might have a point. Especially since Blaine had been vehement about keeping the cops out the picture.
“All right. It was his partner, Stuart Blaine.”
“Hmm.” Phipps retrieved a small spiral pad and pen from his breast pocket and jotted notes. “Anything else you can tell me about Kandinsky that might help?”
“You will keep my name out of this?” This was getting nerve-racking.
“Of course, to the extent that’s possible.” His qualifier made me less than fully confident.
“Talk to Brian Weis.” I spelled the last name for him. “He lives in Baltimore near MICA—the art school in Baltimore. He and a woman named Jen Gardiner were doing business with Kandinsky.”
Phipps scribbled some more. “Anything else?”
“That’s all that comes to mind.”
Phipps rose and tucked the notebook and pen away. Apparently, our interview was over.
“Hang on,” I said before Phipps could leave. “There’s someone out there gunning for me. Is that person connected with Kandinsky, the Russians, the terrorists, or what?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there.”
“Do you mean that you don’t know or you won’t tell me?” I asked through gritted teeth.
His look of shock seemed real enough. “Of course I would tell you, if I knew. This is the first I’ve heard of anyone making an attempt on your life.”
I sighed inwardly. The sniper had taken his or her shot only yesterday. It seemed like a month ago. Only time would tell if another version of the Serial Sniper had returned to the DC area.
“I take it from your questions that you haven’t recovered the money Kandinsky allegedly embezzled?” I added.
“Not yet.” Spoken as if it were practically a done deal.
I nodded. “Okay, thanks.”
We walked to the door together. “If you think of anything else, you have my card,” Phipps said before leaving.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I returned to my computer and scanned news headlines. Nothing in there about sniper shootings, including the one aimed at me. I pondered this. Why would someone take a shot at me? Who’d be threatened by me?
The case file sat on the coffee table. I grabbed it and moved into my small kitchen. Rocky waited outside on the windowsill. I set the file on my tiny kitchen table so I could retrieve the peanut jar from its shelf and fish out his breakfast.
“Hey, Rocky.” I slid the window and screen open, then addressed him in my most squirrel-friendly tone. “Want a peanut?”
Rocky focused on the hand-delivered nut. My rodent friend grabbed it from my fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. A liberal sprinkling of nuts met the same fate, and Rocky’s cheeks were soon bulging.