Damaged Goods

Chapter Seven

I had promised Blaine three hours and no more to find Melissa. However, hearing that Kandinsky, supposedly the main focus of my investigation, had been hanging around the art school raised a red flag or at least presented the possibility that Melissa and Kandinsky knew one another better than my client thought. It could have been a coincidence, but I'm not a big believer in that. Even so, I couldn't jump to any conclusion based on what little I knew at that point.


Nonetheless, I had a name—Jen Gardiner. To save on minutes of data usage, I sought out the nearest free wi-fi connection and did a simple directory search on Gardiner's name. Couldn't even come up with a J. Gardiner, but I did find the name on Facebook. Location: Baltimore City. The avatar: a flower. That's helpful. I would need to check my subscription databases for more.


At that point, I had to make a choice. I could wander around the campus asking random bystanders about Melissa and Jen Gardiner, or I could move on to what I thought should be my priority—investigating Kandinsky. I went back to my car and checked my file for Kandinsky's home address. He lived in Ellicott City. Not exactly around the corner from Java Joe's. Talk about a red flag.


Before I drove to Kandinsky's house, I updated my research diagram with a new shape representing Jen Gardiner and added a dotted line between the symbols for Melissa and Kandinsky. If Melissa's disappearance was related to the alleged embezzlement, so much for the three-hour limit.


About half an hour later, I pulled up in front of a brick rambler set behind a lawn as lush and manicured as a putting green. I got out of the car and walked up the driveway toward a set of flat stones leading to the front door. The neighborhood was eerily quiet and the air held the musty odor of marigolds. The traffic noise from nearby Route 40 was oddly subdued. I rang the bell and waited.


After a few minutes, I rang the bell again and knocked hard on the door. My knock sent the door swinging open, so I poked my head inside. The air conditioning must have been turned up to maximum freeze, because the house was as cold as a meat locker.


I hesitated for a minute, and then went in. There were no cars in the driveway. Kandinsky could have made tracks with the money and Melissa. But why would he leave the air conditioning on and at full blast to boot?


It didn't take long to find the answer. As I moved from the foyer into the living room, I passed the kitchen and caught a glimpse of a body sprawled on the floor. Being careful not to touch anything, I approached the prone form of the man to confirm that it was, in fact, Slava Kandinsky. He'd been shot at least twice. The bullets had punched holes through the back of his shirt and the base of his skull. Blood, sticky and dark, had leaked from the head wound and congealed in a grim aureola.


I heard the sound of a passing car (sounded larger than a car—a delivery truck maybe?) and absent-mindedly catalogued it, along with the gory vision before me. A sudden loud bang made me jerk to attention. My heart raced. For a moment, I was back in the desert again. I stood stock still and took several deep breaths, trying to slow down my pounding heart. All was quiet now. Had the passing vehicle hit a pothole? Or had someone fired off an M-80? I peeked out the kitchen window, which had a view of the street. No movement. No fireworks. All clear.


I returned to the body, squatted, and studied it. Kandinsky's head faced left, as if he was turning to look at me. I spotted a third entry wound. The bullet had plunged clean through his temple, the entry wound was a small hole with no visible powder burns. His skin was waxy and bluish. I didn't dare touch his shirt, but I was willing to bet that the torso shot went through his lung or even his heart. I'm no medical examiner, but I've seen enough dead people to recognize a professional killing.


I stood up and edged around Kandinsky to check the wall for bullet holes. None that I could see. The small, white kitchen appeared otherwise undisturbed. I snatched a paper towel off the rack and, using it to prevent leaving fingerprints, checked drawers and cabinets. The kitchen wasn't likely where Kandinsky had kept receipts, but you never know what you'll find or where.


The cupboards were well-stocked, as was the fridge. I noticed butter pecan ice cream in the freezer and resisted the temptation to take it home.


After further checking the kitchen, I searched each of the other rooms. The furnishings were standard Ikea, geared toward comfort rather than style. My cursory search revealed nothing, but then the killer might have taken the money or any account records. Or not.


Apart from hoping that I could find the money, I was focused on finding clues. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but anything linking Kandinsky to Melissa would definitely be a plus.


I had a pair of leather driving gloves in my car. I mentally debated retrieving and wearing them before conducting a more thorough search of the house versus getting the hell out of there.


Duty calls, I reminded myself, and went to fetch the gloves. I could only hope that no curious neighbors shielded by window curtains were watching me.


I donned the gloves, returned to the house, and searched each room again. This time, I was more thorough, looking under the seat cushions of the living room furniture, as well as between the mattress and box springs on the bed. I shivered because the house was so cold, but I didn't dare open a window or touch the Thermostat. I knew the stink of a dead man's body would increase along with the rise in temperature.


The bathroom revealed nothing useful. Kandinsky had recently used a decongestant. An open package of nasal spray lay across the washstand. The pollen from ragweed will kill you this time of year . . . unless somebody with a gun gets you first.


I booted up the computer in what looked to be Kandinsky's home office. However, in order to access anything, I needed the password. Damn. It could take forever to guess, and I didn't want to accidentally lock myself out.


I upended waste paper baskets and pawed through the contents. Found an envelope addressed to Kandinsky, but no letter or return address. The handwriting was plain, block letter print. Very tidy.


I dug into the bedroom closet. A stack of folded papers bound with thick rubber bands hid behind a box on a shelf. Setting them on the bed, I eased one page out. It was a handwritten letter, the paper off-white and the writing neat and clear, but it appeared to have been written in Russian or some Cyrillic script.


I looked again and found one I could read. Based on the salutation and signature, it was a letter from Kandinsky's son. It was dated a month ago and consisted of three sentences.



Dear Dad,



I'm sorry, but I can't do what you've asked. I have to live my life the way I see fit. I hope you understand.



Love,
David



So, Kandinsky had a son, and apparently the father disagreed with the son's life choices. An old story, if there ever was one—my story in fact. But what had Kandinsky asked of David? Did what Kandinsky ask lead to his own murder?


It occurred to me that Kandinsky's son and Blaine's daughter both had parent issues. Mere coincidence? Had Blaine even mentioned Kandinsky's son?


Abandoning the search for the moment, I left the house. The street was as quiet and empty as when I'd gone in, but the clock was ticking. Commuters would soon be returning home from work. Even housekeepers or nannies in the neighborhood might become suspicious.


I returned to my car and checked the notes I took at Blaine's house to see if he had mentioned Kandinsky's son. Couldn't recall him doing so and saw no mention of David there, but I noticed something else. I forgot that Blaine said it had been four days since he'd heard from Melissa. Based on what Melissa's art instructor and her co-workers at Java Joe's had said, she had been absent from school roughly two weeks. Why this time discrepancy?