Damaged Goods

Chapter Twenty-Four

Since I was no longer working for Blaine, I spent most of the day catching up on computer research I owed another client and took occasional breaks to do yoga stretches. Stretching my back provided a small measure of relief. The research gig was small change compared with what I could've earned from Blaine, but it would pay one or two bills.

An officer named Hillerman came by—eventually—to take my report. The man was a few inches taller than me with close-cropped brown hair, well-proportioned features, and an officious manner. He also looked just old enough to get a driver's license.

As I recounted events leading up to Terry's disappearance, I was very careful not to mention Blaine, his dead partner, or his missing daughter. I did throw in the fact that someone had tried to shoot me. For all the good that would do. As for Gorilla Man, I was the one who had tossed him to the ground. Discretion being the better part of common sense, I decided not to mention it.

Hillerman scratched his nose with the blunt end of his pen. "Let me get this straight. Someone took a shot at you, but you're reporting a missing person? Do you have any reason to think those things are connected?"

I racked my brain, but couldn't dredge up a thing that wouldn't involve Blaine in some manner. "Not really" was my sole response.

Hillerman eyed me in a way that suggested he didn't quite believe that. "You do realize that the shooting may have nothing to do with your friend? And that your friend may have chosen to disappear?"

"But why would he leave his cell phone behind?" And even as my words tumbled out, I knew how Hillerman would respond.

"A cell phone can be tracked. Maybe your friend doesn't want to be contacted or tracked. No offense, ma'am."

Ma'am? Jesus. "None taken," I said, clamping my lips shut on the profanities that were too close to the surface.

Hillerman was good enough to make out a separate report of the shooting. And after assuring him multiple times that I hadn't gotten a look at the shooter or otherwise had any clue as to who he was or why he would target me, Hillerman assured me that my report would get "all due attention," which I took to mean none. Unless, of course, the gunman who set his sights on me went on a genuine shooting spree—which I doubted would happen.

After the officer left, I took a moment to grab a cup of coffee and refocus my thoughts and then returned to my computer to get in some solid work. The phone rang. The caller ID indicated a blocked number. I sighed. Answer or ignore? I reached over and picked up.

"Is this Erica Jensen?" The caller was a male with a low and husky voice.

"Who's calling please?"

"Is this Erica Jensen?" The voice intensified and became angry.

"Nope. This is Queen Elizabeth. Who's calling please?"

"Stay away from the police, Jensen," the voice intoned. "And no more trips to Baltimore. Got that?"

I had no immediate response. The silence stretched into a small eternity. "Who the hell is this?"

"Never mind." The response was immediate. "Just do as I say or your friend will be in a world of shit."