Greywalker (7 page)

Screwed, big-time. The car was a blur of headlights in motion toward me, safety just too far away. My fingers, under my jacket, hooked round the pistol grips. I pushed myself sideways, through thickened air... through fear, with a runaway-elevator sensation as I dropped... dropped... and fell... through coiling fog stinking of rot... and landed rolling. A hot gust, like the breath of a monster, blasted into my face and body, shoving against me as the car churned past. Wet gravel slashed my leather jacket, stung my cheek. I dug my toes in and crouched, leveling the pistol. No safe, clear shot. The car fishtailed out of the lot and turned onto the access road. I spun, lunging to my feet, slamming the gun back into the holster, snatching truck keys from my pocket. I dashed to the Rover, fumbled the lock. By the time I was in the driver's seat, the sedan was out of sight... last seen joining the stream of head-lights on Aurora Avenue North.

I yelled and pounded the steering wheel. "Damn it! Damn it!"

I slumped back into the seat, shoved my hand through my hair, and vibrated for a minute or so as the adrenaline dispersed. Then I got back out of the Rover and went to retrieve my bag. I felt like I'd had too much to drink or not enough, shaking a little and shuddery in the knees. I stuffed spilled items into the bag and trudged back to the Rover.

At 7:34, William Novak came out of the warehouse. I was still trying to reengage my brain. He started toward the lonely pickup truck, then changed direction, coming toward me through the drizzle. He tapped on my window.

I rolled the window down and he asked, "Problem?"

"Not now."

"Sure? You've got blood on your cheek."

"Yeah, well. Somebody tried to run me down."

"And that's not a problem?"

"Not at the moment. I'm still alive and he's long gone. But I didn't get the license number. And I really want a drink."

"There's a decent Italian place nearby that's open until ten. They serve drinks, but their bar's the size of a French provincial commode. I was going to get a little supper myself. I'd be glad to take you."

I hesitated. My innards were still jumping in syncopation with my nerves. "What about your youthful assistant?"

"Mikey? He's got some work to do and he knows how to forage. See, there he goes." He pointed toward the warehouse.

A small motorcycle grumbled out from the building's shadow. The slender, helmeted figure on the back waved to us and went slowly out the gate. The machine whining and coughing, the unsteady firefly of the taillight jounced away. We watched it until it vanished into a curve.

"So, you coming with me or you prefer to follow?" Novak asked.

I sighed. "I'll follow."

He grinned. "You shouldn't have any trouble—I give great signal."

I had to roll my eyes. "You'd better."

I followed him around the perimeter of the lake to a scruffy-looking little building just off the lakefront industrial area. The rents are affordable and so was the food. If we leaned our heads a bit, we could still see the lake in all its famous nighttime beauty. The water looked like polished obsidian, reflecting the lights of the city and the boats. I could just glimpse the Space Needle pointing its green-glowing crown at the clouds.

The scent of food reminded me that I hadn't eaten since lunch with RC, and that was mostly coffee.

As soon as we were seated, Novak ordered antipasto and then looked at me for my drink order. "Can I guess?" he asked.

"What I drink? Sure, give it a shot," I allowed, leaning back on the padded bench.

"I'll bet you used to drink white wine, but switched to something more interesting... Scotch?"

I made a face. "Irish. I don't like peat smoke."

He looked at the waitress who had one eyebrow raised and a cynical crook to her mouth. "Bushmills?"

"Double?" she shot back.

I just nodded. Novak ordered a local beer and the waitress stalked off.

He glanced at me and gave an embarrassed smile. "The service here stinks. Luckily you only pay for the food."

"So long as she doesn't put ice in my drink, I don't care."

"She wont—that would be extra effort. Can I ask what happened?"

"Back at the warehouse?" I clarified, and he nodded. "Not much, really. Some jerk tried to run me down. I jumped. He missed. He fled. Pretty much the whole tale."

"Not the first time, I suspect."

"You think weirdos in light-colored sedans chase me down every day of the week?"

"No," he said. "But I also don't think most women wear makeup that looks like bruises, so I'd assume that the marks on your neck and cheek are the real thing. Since you're not wearing a wedding ring, I assume they aren't there because your husband beats you."

"No husband. I can't believe you can still see the bruises."

"Faintly. I thought it was the lighting in the warehouse. Same guy?"

"No." I didn't volunteer any more and turned my eyes to the menu instead. Novak did the same.

The waitress returned and put down our drinks. She nearly spilled Novak's into his lap and gave him a curt little "Sorry" and an insincere hitch of the mouth before she handed me my drink. No ice. We ordered food and I asked where the restroom was.

"I'll show you," she offered.

We were crossing the tiny foyer when she said, "If some guy smacked me around I'd serve him one to the crotch and scram. You don't have to put up with that, you know."

" 'Scuse me?" I asked, catching her arm. "You think that guy back there hit me?"

She faced me square-on and crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, look at ya. Face all scraped up, bruises, he bullies you... Think I'm blind? You don't deserve it, you know. Don't have to take it just 'cause he's got the dangly bits and you don't."

"Hold on," I said, digging around in my pockets. I found a business card and handed it to her. "I'm a private investigator. I got these bruises at work. That man had nothing to do with it and if he did, he would be suffering a lot worse than a beer in his lap."

She stared at my card, then peered at my face. "Really? You're not just trying to cover up?"

I nodded. "Really."

Our gazes locked and her mouth formed a little O, but no sound came out. Memories leave a light in the eyes, just as plain as scars.

I shifted expression and smiled. "Now, where's the restroom? I really need to pee." She pointed and I headed for the door.

I looked at my face in the restroom mirror. The bruising wasn't that bad, but I'd acquired a new graze on my left cheek. My jacket was roughed up and stained with mud. My hair stuck out in tufts. I looked like Ophelia three days after the river. No wonder the waitress thought someone had hit me. I'd have been indignant, too, if it happened to be true. I straightened myself up before I headed back to the table, much cleaner and looking a little less like a tragic heroine.

I slipped back into my seat and reached for the plate of appetizers. I snarfed down three in short order and caught Novak grinning at me.

"What?" I demanded.

"I never expect skinny things like you to eat like that."

"It's not every day you cross the line between life and death, you know," I said. "You should dive in. You ordered this stuff and you're not exactly hefty yourself."

"You have a point, Ms. Blaine," he conceded, digging in.

But I had stopped talking or listening. The angle of the car, the speed... it could not have missed me. At the very least it should have clipped my hip, my leg, my foot... I shivered and felt gravity drop out from under me. It had been drizzling thin, wet drops with the brackish smell of the lake. But I had stepped sideways through stinking fog and back into rain. Somehow. Through the Grey to avoid the car.

"You OK?" Novak asked. "You seem to be drifting off."

I shook myself. "I'm fine. Just getting ideas about... various things."

"Work related?"

"Yes."

"Were those bruises work related, too?"

"Yes, but that's not a normal occupational hazard. Most of what I do is pretty low-key paperwork chasing."

"Mind if I ask, anyway?"

I was rattled. With the whiskey and the warm room and a man not hard to look at giving me puppy eyes, the urge to talk was overwhelming. I told him how I got the bruises. He looked horrified.

"And you say that's not an occupational hazard?" he asked.

"I said not a normal one. People go off the deep end sometimes.

You just push the right button and that's all you get. You must know people like that."

He nodded. "My boss is like that, lately. Irrational about the oddest things."

"Like what?"

"Oh, business things. Doesn't like me to touch things one day, demands that I do all the cataloging, tagging, and hauling the next, while he schmoozes up the clients. Shows up late, then chews me out for taking an extra break. Other days, he just sends me home with no explanation. I've been putting money into the company for a couple of years, but stupid things like this make me wonder if I'm doing the right thing. Are you going to eat that, Ms. Blaine?" he added, pointing his fork at a lonely hors d'oeuvre.

I sat back to allow the waitress to put my dinner in front of me. "Are we still on a formal basis here, Mr. Novak?" Novak stabbed the last antipasto. "Don't we get to graduate to first names once we've shared a drink, salami, and garlic breath?"

He laughed. "On the first date?"

"If you're not prepared for any eventuality, don't take a date to an Italian restaurant. Something about all that marinara sauce and finger food just leads to trouble."

"All right, then—my friends call me Will." He extended his hand to me as if we were meeting for the first time.

I took it. "I'm Harper."

"Funny name."

"My mother has funny ideas. She wanted me to be a dancer or an actress—pushed me into it straight from the cradle. She thought that if I had a movie-star name, I'd have a movie-star life. The road to obscurity is paved with classy names."

"And she named you Harper? Not Marlene or Jean or Rita?"

"Do I look like Rita Moreno?"

"I was thinking of Rita Hayworth."

"I don't look like her, either, but they were both dancers."

"So was Gene Kelly, but you don't look like him, either."

"Thank the gods. He had a cute butt, though." The booze was talking... I hoped.

"Never before have I been envious of Gene Kelly's butt."

I sprayed whiskey, fluffing a laugh, and started to choke. Will reached over and pounded on my back—the advantage to long arms. I managed to swallow and catch my breath. He stayed leaning for-ward, peering at me with anxiety.

"You OK?"

"Fine. I'm fine. You shouldn't say things like that to a woman with a mouthful of whiskey."

"Yeah, with these rotten candles and the way you spit, we might have set the place on fire."

I broke down, giggling. Shadows and shapes flickered in the corners of the room, but I was laughing too hard to do anything about it, or care.

Will looked mock grave. "I can see that my flirting technique is rusty. I've reduced you to painful laughter and choking. Can you breathe? Are you going to expire? Should I call a doctor?"

"No, no. I'm fine," I gasped. "I'm not even wearing my dinner yet. Everything's fine."

"Good," he said, sitting back. "I'd be embarrassed if you choked to death."

"Imagine how I'd feel."

He looked at me and a wicked grin spread across his face; then he slowly turned red and looked away. "Umm... maybe I'd better not." He got very busy with his dinner and didn't look up to see me

No one had flirted with me—real, serious flirting—in a very long time. Maybe both of us were rusty, but I had to admit, I liked it.

"Another stupid question," he said, watching his knife diligently as he cut through a chicken breast which would have surrendered whorishly to a spoon. "Why private investigator?"

"I'm a mystery freak. And it was as different from my mother's ideas as I could get, which pisses her off to this day. I danced all the way through college to keep her off my back, but I ditched my jazz shoes the minute I had my diploma in my hand."

He looked up. "You entered a potentially dangerous profession to spite your mother?"

"No. But it does have that satisfying side effect," I explained. "I suppose, if I was less of a loner, I might have been a cop. But I'm the solitary puzzle-solver. I don't really care about street patrols and drug busts and gang shootings and traffic duty—all that necessary and cooperative community stuff that cops do. I like figuring out the puzzle. If it's interesting enough, I'll work a problem twenty-four hours a day. I get to exercise my obsessive-compulsive streak that way. Want to guess what my favorite movie is?"

"The Maltese Falcon."

"To Have and Have Not."

"That's not a mystery."

"I know, but I still like it better. I adore Lauren Bacall. Falcon comes in second, though, closely trailed by The Big Sleep."