Damaged Goods

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Dell's place was located on a side street off the north end of Ocean Highway. Little more than a shack, the small building cowered behind a row of tall marsh grasses. In an apparent attempt to make the place look more like a California or Florida resort, the owner had planted a hapless palm tree in the yard. The plant thrust its way upward, but it was dying, its dry brown fronds drooping listlessly despite the breeze.

A small walkway poked through a gap in the overgrown grass. I plunged through and approached the door.

A few seconds after a quick knock, the door opened a crack. A rheumy eye peered out. "Yeah?"

"Hi, my name's Erica. Are you Dell?"

The eye squinted. "Whatever it is, I'm not buying."

"Good, because I'm not here to sell anything. I'm looking for Terry."

"What?" It came out like a bark. "What's your game, girlie? How did you get this address?"

I gave him my hardest look. "I'm an old friend of Terry's. You used to live with him, back in the day. Frankly, I'm worried about him." I held up the photo. "Can I assume that you are Dell? If you are, this should worry you, too."

The eye widened. It's gaze darted between me and the photo. "Hang on." The door closed.

Be patient, I told myself. Either he's here or Dell's going to call him.

I was counting the limp fronds on the doomed palm when the door opened wide. A man about my height and three times my age faced me. Slightly stooped with thinning gray hair, the man waved an invitation to enter.

"I'm Dell. Come on in," he said. "Sorry about the wait, but you can't be too careful these days."

The entrance led directly to the living room, furnished like the stereotypical man cave. A worn, stained sofa stretched against one wall opposite a flat-screen TV. A recliner and a coffee table strewn with magazines and remotes finished off the ensemble. On the right, I spied part of the kitchen, the rest of which hid behind a wall.

"Have a seat," Dell said. "Terry will be here in just a minute. He was asleep. Would you like some coffee?"

"Sure," I said, eyeing the sofa stains before I perched on the edge of a cushion. "With a little milk, if you have it." I usually take my coffee black. And fresh. But based on my first impression, I figured the coffee would not be top quality.

Terry emerged from a hallway on the left that no doubt led to the bedrooms. To my relief and amazement, he looked unharmed.

I leapt from the sofa and practically tripped over the coffee table running toward him. "I've been worried sick about you. Ever since I got this." I gave him the photo. "Even before that. Since I found your cell phone under your bed at home, dead."

Terry's eyes telegraphed regret. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to tell you, but those computer geeks I told you about. They were getting seriously annoying. I needed to hide out."

"Did you consider calling the police?"

He shook his head. "That wouldn't have been in anyone's interest. Get my drift?"

Loud and clear, I thought. "And you didn't take your phone, because you didn't want . . . "

"I didn't want them to track me."

I thought about that for a few seconds. "How the hell did it end up under your bed?"

Terry shrugged. "It was kind of my joke on them. I figured if they tried to track my phone it would simply lead to my place. And if they searched my place, all they'd find is my phone."

"Looks like the joke was on me," I said, snatching the photo back from him. "Would your angry geek clients know anything about this?" I added, waving the picture around.

He frowned. "Doubtful. More likely someone else took advantage of my absence to play head games with you."