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“My client thought Kandinsky was embezzling from his company,” I offered. “He has since let me go.”
Phipps peered at me, as if trying to x-ray my mind. Typical cop look.
“Why did your client fire you?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Guess he felt like he wasn’t getting his money’s worth.”
“Could it have been that you were getting too close to something he didn’t want you to find out?” Phipps said.
“I doubt it,” I replied, in all honesty.
Phipps nodded, but his gaze bore into me. “I suggest you tell me the name of your client, just in case. If you’re not completely sure he wasn’t involved, it would be in your best interest.”
I had to admit the man might have a point. Especially since Blaine had been vehement about keeping the cops out the picture.
“All right. It was his partner, Stuart Blaine.”
“Hmm.” Phipps retrieved a small spiral pad and pen from his breast pocket and jotted notes. “Anything else you can tell me about Kandinsky that might help?”
“You will keep my name out of this?” This was getting nerve-racking.
“Of course, to the extent that’s possible.” His qualifier made me less than fully confident.
“Talk to Brian Weis.” I spelled the last name for him. “He lives in Baltimore near MICA—the art school in Baltimore. He and a woman named Jen Gardiner were doing business with Kandinsky.”
Phipps scribbled some more. “Anything else?”
“That’s all that comes to mind.”
Phipps rose and tucked the notebook and pen away. Apparently, our interview was over.
“Hang on,” I said before Phipps could leave. “There’s someone out there gunning for me. Is that person connected with Kandinsky, the Russians, the terrorists, or what?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there.”
“Do you mean that you don’t know or you won’t tell me?” I asked through gritted teeth.
His look of shock seemed real enough. “Of course I would tell you, if I knew. This is the first I’ve heard of anyone making an attempt on your life.”
I sighed inwardly. The sniper had taken his or her shot only yesterday. It seemed like a month ago. Only time would tell if another version of the Serial Sniper had returned to the DC area.
“I take it from your questions that you haven’t recovered the money Kandinsky allegedly embezzled?” I added.
“Not yet.” Spoken as if it were practically a done deal.
I nodded. “Okay, thanks.”
We walked to the door together. “If you think of anything else, you have my card,” Phipps said before leaving.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I returned to my computer and scanned news headlines. Nothing in there about sniper shootings, including the one aimed at me. I pondered this. Why would someone take a shot at me? Who’d be threatened by me?
The case file sat on the coffee table. I grabbed it and moved into my small kitchen. Rocky waited outside on the windowsill. I set the file on my tiny kitchen table so I could retrieve the peanut jar from its shelf and fish out his breakfast.
“Hey, Rocky.” I slid the window and screen open, then addressed him in my most squirrel-friendly tone. “Want a peanut?”
Rocky focused on the hand-delivered nut. My rodent friend grabbed it from my fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. A liberal sprinkling of nuts met the same fate, and Rocky’s cheeks were soon bulging.
