In April, I got an update from the PI I'd hired to check into Blaine, and try to find him for us. Stephen W. Brentwood, former Special Ops who worked for a while with Homeland Security, current private investigator with contacts in many police forces, had earned his money.
He sat across from me in my office in Manhattan and placed a file folder onto my desk.
"So what do you have for me on Blaine? Were you able to find traces of him? The police have been unable to locate him."
"I've summarized everything I discovered about him," Stephen said, leaning back in his chair. "There’s a section on his family background and his work history, his credit history and his record. His life spiraled down after he got out of prison, and he went through a lot of money quickly, based on my research in Oregon. As you can imagine, he had difficulties finding work, and was homeless for a while, living in a converted van. When police arrested him here after he broke the door in Ms. Carter's apartment, he was living in a rooming house, but police have been unable to track him down since he missed checking in with his parole officer after Candace was attacked on the subway platform. Since then, nothing. No sign of him. Either he's left Manhattan or he's very good at hiding."
"No news is good news, I guess," I said and shrugged. "I wish we knew where he was. The only reason I have a security detail is because of him. If I knew he was living somewhere else and was employed, I could relax a bit. Until he's in custody or we have a body, I won't be able to end the security contract. I don't like to think of Alexa having to be followed every time she wants to take the baby out for a walk in the stroller."
"Police have done everything they can to find him. Until he does something else, there's nothing anyone can do."
"Okay," I said and exhaled in frustration. "If I need you for anything else, I'll let you know. Until then, thanks for your good work."
"You're very welcome," Stephen said. "If you need me at all, for any security or intelligence purpose, you have my number."
We shook and he left the office.
John texted me with a request to meet him at the gym for a workout, and so I went to play some racquetball with him before I went home to Westhampton. I wanted to watch the game with Alexa and kick back, and a good game or two of racquetball would work off some of the stress I had due to my discouraging day, being turned down by potential business partners and the lack of success in finding Blaine.
Once I was finished at the gym, I called the limo and headed back to Westhampton and Alexa. After a f
rustrating couple of days of failing to get any interest in Astra Investments, I needed my Alexa time.
The traffic was heavy on the way out of Manhattan during rush hour, but our drive once we were back on Fire Island was routine.
Until it wasn't.
"We picked up a tail, Sir." Brian, the driver, glanced in his rear-view mirror and made eye contact with me.
I glanced back and saw a black van behind us, traveling very close.
When we got to Dune Road, the van tried to overtake us, and actually sideswiped the limo, knocking into us so that the driver had to swerve sharply, almost going into the ditch.
"Jesus," Brian said as the limo fishtailed.
The van came at us again and this time, both vehicles skidded off the road and down the embankment, but the limo had a lower center of gravity and managed to stay upright. The van, however, was top heavy and rolled onto its roof, a cloud of dust kicked up in its wake.
"Holy fuck," he shouted. "He's rolled the van. Stay in here. I'll go check to see if the driver's okay."
"I think that's Blaine," I said, my heart rate increasing. "I'll call police."
Before I could get my cell out of my pocket, the van’s driver-side door opened, and a hooded figure rolled out onto his back. I had no idea if it was Blaine. I'd seen photos of him from Stephen's file and from police reports, but without seeing his face clearly, I couldn't know if it was him. He could have hired someone to tail us, intimidate me.
I watched as Brian ran to the man's side and knelt down. He had a sidearm drawn, but when he holstered his weapon, I knew that he felt there was no real threat. I opened the window and called out to him to see what happened.
"He's drunk," Michael said. "It was an accident."
I watched as Michael rummaged through the man's pockets and came up with a wallet. I got out of the limo and walked towards the van, curious who it might have been. When I got to the man, I saw right away that it was none other than my ex-brother in law.
Eric...
"It wasn't an accident," I said and shook my head. "That's my ex-brother-in-law, Eric Williamson. He tried to run us off the road."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Marshall, but there wasn't anything about him being a threat on the background sheet in your file."
I shook my head. "There wouldn't have been. We didn't see him as a real threat. We were more concerned with my wife's ex-fiancé. You should have a full profile on him."
"We better call police," Michael said. "He's a bit banged up and might need an ambulance. I'll call."