Damaged Goods

Chapter Fifteen

The sound of Weis charging out of his back door gave me just the surge of energy I needed to get away. I pounded down the alley away from the vehicle, with him hot on my trail and shouting at the top of his lungs.

When does a Marine run from a fight? When she's on probation and in anger management therapy. But don't get me wrong. Frankly, I ran because I was afraid I would break Weis' neck if we got into a fight.

I hadn't come with the intent to fight the guy. The last thing I needed was an assault and battery charge on top of everything else.

Rounding the corner, I scanned the street and bolted into a convenience store three doors down. From behind a shelf of chips and cookies, I peered through the plate glass front. Weis came into view and I ducked, which set off a painful twinge in my back. Great.

Bending low to avoid being seen by Weis, I ignored the pain and crept toward the rear of the store. A short, swarthy man with a pickle-shaped nose eyed the shelves and scribbled on a clipboard.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, feeling ridiculous.

Pickle Nose gave me a curious look.

"Is there a back door?" I asked, with as much desperation as I could. I jerked a thumb toward the window. "That man outside is stalking me."

The man looked like a Middle Easterner, and for that reason, I figured he probably understood what being harassed was like.

After the quickest glance out the window, Pickle Nose nodded. He gestured for me to follow him into the back. Just in time, as it happened, since Weis chose that moment to enter.

The man guided me to an exit that opened into yet another alley.

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded, moving his hands about. "No problem."

If only there'd been more of you in Afghanistan, I thought. And then appended that with, and whose fault was that?

I checked both directions, but I couldn't tell exactly where I was vis-à-vis my car. My gut told me to go left.

I checked my surroundings at the intersection. It seemed this alley led me to a point about half a block from my car. With the hope that the man at the convenience store was keeping Weis occupied, I made tracks toward my car. A glance back revealed no sign of my quarry as I approached my car.

Once safely inside, I pulled my car behind the dumpster, to make it invisible from the street but still in a good place to maintain surveillance using the right side rear-view mirror. I slouched in my seat and waited. While I was waiting, I used up a bit of my precious data to email the photos to myself . . . just in case I lost my phone. Pictures of metal icons and crucifixes engraved with intricate patterns. If those weren't pictures of valuable artifacts, I'd eat my external hard drive.

It wasn't long before Weis plodded into view. He seemed grumpy, even from a distance. Not that I could blame him. But part of me savored the feeling of escape. Amateur, I thought.

Weis meandered home and reentered the house. I moved the car back to the spot near the street. Ignoring the pain in my lower spine, I settled in for a wait. I assumed that Weis was loading the SUV with the intent of taking its precious cargo somewhere. When he left, I would follow. Turnabout is fair play.

I kept my eye on the SUV while scanning the periphery. Maintaining a constant state of awareness came easily to me now . . . a little too easily sometimes.

Unfortunately, even the best laid plans sometimes fall apart. Like the moment I saw Weis leave his house and walk toward the nearest intersection. He waited to cross the street.

I left my car and hugged the opposite wall, where I could check Weis' progress without being seen. He crossed to my side of the road and disappeared behind the building. I hustled toward the corner and cautiously peeked around it to see Weis walking really fast, now almost a block away. I followed, trying to look nonchalant while keeping an eye on him.

I could only hope he wouldn't look back and recognize me. If I were a "real private eye," I might have come better equipped to follow people out in public. Alas . . . I didn't arm myself with a bag full of wigs or even a hat. Then, I wondered if actual private eyes really did that anymore. Or ever.

I pulled a pair of sunglasses out of my shoulder bag, which I donned in a somewhat lame attempt to avoid being recognized. Weis seemed hell bent on getting somewhere fast, which gave me hope that he wouldn't turn around.

Weis reached another intersection and made a left. Scrambling to catch up, I stopped short of the edge of the building, leaned against it, and did a quick visual sweep. Half a block away, Weis was climbing steps flanked by wrought iron rails adorned with distinctive curlicues. He fished a key from his pocket, but entered the building without using it.

Interesting, I thought. His parents' place? Or someone else's? An apartment in this building would make an expensive storage space.

As I approached the building, I reflexively scanned for hiding places and emergency escape routes. From what I'd seen, it appeared that the building had an unlocked entryway, which would suggest the residents lived in apartments or condos. Not knowing whether Weis's destination faced the street or not put me at a disadvantage. Nonetheless, I was too curious to turn back.

Mounting the steps, I entered what turned out to be a small vestibule with a locked door providing access to the rest of the building. A door through which my quarry had disappeared.

The wall to my right was lined with mailboxes. A phone was mounted on the wall next to them. A quick check of the mailboxes revealed . . . nothing.

Great.