“Nice to know we can count on at least one thing, eh, kiddo?”
Rocky gave me a quizzical look, like “What?” Ah, to be non-sentient.
I fixed myself a quick breakfast of toasted English muffin with butter and Marmite. As I polished it off, I reviewed the chart I had made while working on Blaine’s case. A vague suspicion arose in the back of my mind . . . something that might help me connect the dots on my diagram.
I reviewed the names and drew a few more lines. This showed what I knew, but something was missing. Things I couldn’t know for sure. Speculating on possibilities based on my knowledge was the next step.
Kandinsky, connected with the Russian mob and terrorists, may or may not have embezzled money from Blaine. The money was still missing. And Kandinsky had a son who refused to take part in something his father proposed.
Kandinsky used art students to create forgeries and was ripping off the Mob or terrorists or both, skimming profits from the sale of the items to museums and auction houses.
A vague suspicion was beginning to take shape, but there was a missing link in the chain of events. Kandinsky’s son. According to his letter, he wasn’t involved in his father’s business. This got me thinking.
Even if Kandinsky’s son hadn’t been involved in ripping off terrorists or mobsters, that didn’t mean he was completely out of the picture. But where did he fit, if he fit anywhere in the scheme?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Before I could delve into the matter of Kandinsky’s son, I had business to attend to.
I grabbed the Blaine file, stuffed the photo of Terry inside, and readied myself for an excursion.
By the time I hit the road, it was close to 1030 hours. I headed straight to Terry’s apartment. I needed to give it one last look to make sure I hadn’t missed a clue.
I lucked out on the weather. According to the forecast, at least three days of sunshine were in store. I cracked the windows to let the balmy early autumn breeze flow through the car. Technically, early September was still summer and it felt like it—sans the stifling humidity of a typical Maryland July or August.
The flow of air as I drove was like bath water, and its caress should’ve been relaxing, but it wasn’t. My mind still churned with thoughts of where Terry was and what had happened to him.
Keenly alert, my gaze hopped like a flea on a griddle from the road before me to the rearview and sideview mirrors. As best as I could see, no one was following me. Being hounded by too many people made me doubly cautious, especially with the destination I had in mind.
After I arrived at Terry’s place, I used my bump key to enter. There were no obvious changes. Other than the low murmur of the TV in the next apartment, the place was quiet. I started with the living room, checking for scraps of paper, address books, receipts, anything at all. As I searched, the TV upstairs was turned off and an eerie hush fell over the place. When I reached the kitchen, the refrigerator cycled on with a loud, metallic click. I jumped an inch, and my heart started to pound like crazy.
After a thorough search of the kitchen and bath, I moved to the bedroom. I peeked under the bed and did a double take. No sign of Terry’s phone. Was this a good sign or a bad one?
I continued to scour the room for clues as to Terry’s whereabouts. The exercise felt futile and repetitious. I stopped and sat on the edge of the bed. If insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, I was definitely insane.
I closed my eyes, and my mind drifted back to when Terry and I had met. It was on the boardwalk in Ocean City. A summer day, years before I enlisted, when life seemed to hold the promise of an existence better than my reality.
Images from those times floated through my head, like my flashbacks to Afghanistan, except they were pleasant. My eyes snapped open, and I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead. Could the answer be this simple?
Chapter Thirty-Six
I hurried back to my apartment to grab a few essentials—night shirt, toothbrush, and toothpaste. If I had to stay overnight, the bare essentials would do.
After hastily stuffing these items into a backpack, I added a change of underwear. That was really all the clothes I would need.
I decided against throwing in the Sig. I had no permit to carry and was already on thin ice legally by simply doing a private investigator’s job without a state-sanctioned license. Besides, where I was headed, I had no reason to think I was in danger.
I grabbed my luggage, such as it was, locked up my apartment, and hurried to the car. I headed south toward the Beltway, and made my way to Route 50. From there, it was a straight shot east to Ocean City.
???
Traffic was relatively light. No doubt a few of my fellow travelers were taking advantage of the good weather and the relative lack of crowds at the beach resort during the off-season. You could go to Ocean City as late as October and still enjoy warm weather without the irritating crush of great hordes of tourists.
Endless fields rolled by and the pungent odor of manure tinged the fragrance of soybean fields, corn stalks, and summer wheat. Driving through air perfumed by fertilizer was a small price to pay for the warm late-summer breeze.
Easton, Cambridge, Salisbury … it seemed to take forever to get there. Even though it was only a two-hour drive.
I finally reached Berlin, and from there, it was only a short distance to the water and the Route 50 bridge into the resort town. I wanted to find a parking place near the Boardwalk, and mercifully, there were plenty to choose from, lots more than during the height of tourist season. I nabbed a good one and hustled up the walkway toward the bar where Terry used to share an upstairs apartment with one of the ride operators.