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Nick’s gaze lingered on me. I mouthed, “No.”
Chapter Five
I made it through that session without slipping into a coma or getting on my knees and banging my head on my chair. Sitting and listening to other people whine on about personal shit seems like a huge waste of time, but I force myself to do it. It’s an art, listening. All good private eyes need the skill. I once mastered it as part of my mission with the Corps.
Ever since my concussion, I have found it much harder to concentrate on what people are saying. I need to cultivate that skill again if I ever hope to have a future in the information research business. For good or ill, group therapy forces me to pay attention and listen to others. Even though it feels like torment, I basically have no choice but to go to group therapy. So I attend with reluctance.
When it was Nick’s turn to share, he intimated that he’d gone through a brief period of addiction to over-the-counter drugs. He said he was off the pills and into meditation, and his story seemed genuine.
As he spoke, I sensed a bit of anxiety. There was a disarming honesty in the way he revealed his insecurity about his future prospects. I didn’t have to be an empath to understand that.
Nick asked me for my phone number after the session was over. I gave it to him with the hope that he wouldn’t turn out to be one of those douchebags who use self-help groups to meet women. Time would tell.
The next day, I drove to MICA to see if anyone there could provide a clue as to Melissa Blaine’s whereabouts. I circled through the maze of streets around the school, looking for a place to park. After about five minutes of driving around, a spot opened up just a block or so from the campus.
There were no coffee shops with the name Blaine had supplied as Melissa’s employer, but I was betting she didn’t work at Starbucks. There were, however, a a few cafes near the school. I picked one at random that was squeezed between two much larger buildings across from the campus.
Naturally, my first try was a bust. But the second was a charm.
Java Joe’s was a funky hole-in-the-wall, furnished with an overstuffed sofa and chairs, plus wooden tables and seats. Art decorated the walls, no doubt the work of promising MICA students, and a bookshelf jammed with used books sat in a corner.
Two people stood behind the counter—a young woman at a noisy espresso machine and a man behind the register. I approached the young man who was unoccupied at the moment and introduced myself. A white name tag pinned to his shirt identified him as “Steve.” I launched into the spiel I’d prepared about how I was a friend of the family and that Melissa had vanished without a trace. Steve confirmed that Melissa worked there.
“Do you remember the last time you saw her here?” I asked.
Steve thought about it for a few seconds. “Maybe a couple of weeks ago. We usually work different shifts. Maybe Elle’s seen her more recently.”
He looked over at the drink-maker. “Hey, Elle,” he called. “Have you seen Melissa Blaine lately?”
Elle shot us a puzzled look. She finished the drink she was working on, put it out on the counter, and called a name. “Who wants to know?” she asked, walking toward us as she wiped her hands on her red apron.
Steve jerked a thumb at me. “Her name’s Erica. A friend of Melissa’s family. Says she’s missing.”
Elle eyeballed me, up and down. “You a cop?”
“No, no. I’m not with the police. Melissa’s old enough so the cops won’t act unless there’s some indication that she’s in trouble.”
Elle squinted at me, then nodded. “I thought Melissa quit. Last time she was here, it sounded like she wasn’t planning to come back.”
“Do you recognize either of these men?” I asked, showing them the photo of Slava Kandinsky and Stuart Blaine.
“Yeah,” Elle said.
“Me, too,” Steve piped up.
“That guy,” Elle pointed to Kandinsky, “has been here several times. We call him Mr. Macchiato. But I haven’t seen him lately.”
“Do you remember when you last saw him? Was he with Melissa?” I asked.
Elle tilted her head. “Well, it’s been a while. But I don’t remember seeing him with Melissa.”
“How about you?” I turned to Steve, who was shaking his head.
“I haven’t seen him, but I’ve seen the other guy. Not in here, but I’ve seen him around.”
“At the art school?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him there.”
