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I’m not what you’d call a real private eye. My return from Afghanistan was hardly auspicious. I came back a phys
ical and mental wreck, thanks in part to outmoded or inappropriate gear and vehicles. The ill-fitting heavy armor had worn my spine down something fierce. As for the explosions I survived before leaving the country, let’s just say noises as threatening as a slamming door made me as jumpy as a cat in a dogs-only kennel. Back then, scenes from the war played in my head like a movie on a continuous loop. Between that and my aching back, I couldn’t sit still for even ten minutes.
A few years of physical and occupational therapy helped me manage the worst of the war’s toll on my body. As for the mental aspects, I was still in recovery. Probably for the rest of my days.
I found office work absolutely unbearable. Office politics aside, my coworkers seemed to bitch nonstop about tiny problems—which drove me nuts.
I ended up working as a freelance researcher by developing the kind of computer skills needed to track down debtors—deadbeat dads, deadbeat moms, deadbeats of all stripes. I even did a little repo work, such work as I could get. That plus pain pills and therapy—court-ordered and otherwise—kept me afloat.
The most recent call for my services came right out of the blue—on a Sunday no less. I had been referred to Stuart Blaine by one of my previous clients. All my clients are by referral most of whom are not in a position to pay the freight for a legitimate private eye.
It’s an unfortunate fact of life that one can’t obtain a private investigator’s license in Maryland if one is addicted to narcotics. According to the VA and the judicial system, I was such an addict. Advil, therapy, and yoga notwithstanding.
The fact that Blaine made more than enough money as a real estate developer should have raised at least one red flag. But he claimed it was an emergency and wanted to meet me as soon as possible. My calendar wasn’t exactly overflowing with multi-millionaire clients, so we arranged to meet the following morning.
Before leaving home, I double-checked my appearance. My dark blue suit wasn’t Nordstrom, but it placed well above Goodwill. I tugged at the jacket and fiddled with tights so sheer, they might as well have been pantyhose. I loathed dressing up to impress some big shot, but I needed the money. What a way to start a Monday. Hopefully, a few hours in this getup would be worth the inconvenience.
???
At 0900 sharp, I stood at the doorstep of a small palace in upper Montgomery County, Maryland. Me in my monkey suit, looking the part of a down-and-out relative, outside a mini-manse, totally out of my element. But money is money.
Stuart Blaine’s assistant answered when I rang the doorbell and asked me to wait in the foyer. I waited. The sound of a hushed discussion drifted down the stairs and made my skin crawl—as if there were ghosts up there. Then footsteps. Blaine appeared, descending the grand staircase curving from the second floor.
Blaine couldn’t have been taller than four foot ten, a good half-foot shorter than me. In his mid-fifties, he was a stick figure with pasty skin and green eyes made huge by the Coke bottle lenses in his glasses. Even with the wealth of a modern-day Midas, he sported cheap eyewear. Maybe penny-pinching was the secret of his success. He wore jeans and a plaid flannel work shirt that had worked so hard, its sleeves fell off. Blaine’s scrawny upper arms bore an elaborate blue and purple skull-and-flowers tattoo. Here I was, the hired help, dressed to the nines, while Blaine looked like an overage slacker. The vibes from this scene were totally unnerving.
He extended a hand as he approached. “Thanks for coming to see me, Ms. Jensen.”
“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Blaine.” As we shook, he held onto my hand, as if for dear life.
“Please . . . call me Stu.”
“Yes, sir. Stu. I’m Erica.”
Blaine led me through an area decorated in classic Ethan Allan. “This is the family room,” he said over his shoulder. “Not my style, but it’ll do until I can update the look.”
“Here’s the kitchen.” He waved toward the small room. “It needs to be expanded and upgraded.” Blaine’s compulsion to provide these explanations made me wonder if he mistook me for an interior decorator. We took a short hall to a room lined with bookshelves. A sleek Danish modern desk sat near the picture window.
I quickly scanned the heavy dark wood bookshelves, which held a mix of hardcovers and paperbacks, informal popular titles.
“This is the library.” Blaine stopped and swept his hand in a sideways arc. No shit.
“Please have a seat.” He nodded toward a guest chair. Apparently, the house tour was over, so we could get down to business.
Blaine dropped into his high-backed leather chair, and judging from his not being completely dwarfed by it, I could’ve sworn the tiny man was using a booster seat. He propped his elbows on the desk and gazed at me over steepled fingers. “My daughter is missing,” Blaine said without preamble. “I’m willing to pay whatever you ask to find her.”
Odd. During our phone call, Blaine had given another reason for hiring me.
“You told me your former partner may have embezzled from you,” I said. “Now you tell me your daughter is missing. Have you called the cops to report her missing?” He looked confused, so I added, “How old is your daughter?”
“She’s twenty-two, single, and going to art school in Baltimore. She hangs around with losers who borrow money and party all night.” Blaine raised a hand, palm forward, silencing me. “I also have the problem I mentioned on the phone, but that’s a separate issue.”
Really? Despite the money I stood to earn, this wasn’t the best start to a potential business relationship.
“Your daughter isn’t a minor, so she can go where she wants,” I said.
Blaine glared at me. “Did you not hear me? She’s hanging out with a bad crowd. I haven’t been able to reach her, and that’s unusual. I’m worried.”
You want to control her life. Tell her who and what to be. Is it any wonder she’s dropped off your radar? Too much like my own parents.
