Greywalker (9 page)

"Well... there must be some papers, so I suppose so. It will give me something to do. Shall I call you when I find out?"

"I'd appreciate that." I found one of my business cards and scribbled my home number on it as well before handing it to her. "You can call me anytime."

She tucked it into her jacket pocket. "Thank you, dear. I'll let you know what I find."

We finished our lunch and drove back to the warehouse.

I offered her my hand before leaving her in the care of Michael and the mourners. "Thank you again for your help, Mrs. Ingstrom."

This time, she squeezed my hand as if we were conspiring together. She smiled a bit, her face pleating suddenly into once-familiar lines. "I'll do my best," she whispered.

I returned to the auction floor. A different man was at the podium. He was older than Will, sleek as a salmon-gorged sea lion, but not much fun. He took himself too seriously to get the crowd whipped up and his performance was distracted and sloppy, closing a beautiful mahogany console far too fast. He shrugged the grumbles off, then turned the microphone and gavel back over to Will. The paddles began to fly again.

Will took another short break just before the surgeon's cabinet came up and resumed the podium a couple of lots afterward. No one was interested in the crusty thing but me, and I got it for twenty dollars.

About six thirty, the final gavel rang down on a massive bronze propeller and the auction was over. I'd acquired a client's chair with rotted upholstery as well as the surgeon's cabinet. I wandered over to the table at the back to pay for my lots and wait for a word with Will. A man in a raincoat got into line behind me.

Will had just stopped by the table when the lady who'd bought the deck prisms stormed up and shoved her way to him.

Her voice was carbide-tipped. "I'd like a word with you, Mr. Novak!"

Michael took my check and looked up at her. "Which word would you like?"

She shot him a withering look. "Not you! That one!" she spat, jabbing a red-tipped finger at Will.

Will stepped forward but kept the table between them. "Is there a problem, Mrs. Fell?"

"You know there is, William Novak! You know I was tricked into overbidding on that glass," she shouted. "And you did it! You—you massaged me into going that last bid!"

The raincoated man tried to butt in. "Excuse me, I think I'm next..."

Will shot him a pleading look but stayed with the woman. "Mrs. Fell, no one forced you to bid. You know it's part of my job as the auctioneer to get the best price I can for the client, and encouraging faltering bidders is part of that job. If you felt the bid was too high, you should have dropped out whenever you wanted. Now, we have other customers to—"

"I was going to drop out! You tricked me! You, you tantalized me, like a fish on a hook!"

Will started to asnwer, but the main in the raincoat leaned forward.

"I believe I am next!"

"Sir, I know you are, but..."

The second auctioneer stepped up behind Will. Up close, he had broad shoulders and an incipient paunch. He was approaching sixty, not entirely without grace, but his dark gray eyes were chips of flint over his Irish nose and tight mouth. His voice was much less bland now. "What's going on over here, Novak?"

Will spread his hands. "A small misunderstanding, Brandon. Mrs. Fell is unhappy about her bid..."

"I can see that." He looked at the man in the raincoat, who pouted and began his lament again.

"I am next!"

"Of course, sir. Mr. Novak will assist you."

Brandon shot a black glare at Will, then turned to face Mrs. Fell. As he turned, his face flicked into a soft smile and his voice dropped half an octave and several decibels. Downright Svengali of him. He slipped his hand under her elbow, easing her close to him and away from the table. "Hello, Jean. Always a pleasure to see you. What’s the trouble?" He bent his head down over hers, looking straight into her eyes with warm sincerity.

She whimpered like a puppy. "Well, I... I think Mr. Novak finessed me into overbidding. I'm very upset. It just isn't fair." She didn't seem to notice that Brandon was moving her to the end of the table, out of the traffic flow. I looked at Will and Michael with an incredulous expression. They made identical shrugs and Will turned to the main in the raincoat. Two more customers had come and gone before Brandon returned. Mrs. Fell was nowhere to be seen. Brandon hooked Will's arm with a much rougher grip than he'd used on Jean Fell.

A few feet from my end of the table, the men stopped. Being a professional eavesdropper, I listened. Brandon's profile had no trace of warmth or charm now.

He growled at Will. "Do not—ever—argue with a customer like that, Novak. What do I pay you for? And when I tell you to take over a customer, you do so! You are not a customer here. You are not a partner here. You are an employee, and when I say 'Do this,' you do it! Do you understand me?"

Will remained cool. "We have an agreement, Brandon—"

"That agreement doesn't mean squat if I say it doesn't! Get it?" He glowered at Will.

Will said nothing. I could see his jaw tighten as Brandon continued to bore his furious gaze through him. "Yes."

"Good." Brandon turned and stalked back to a glossy blond woman someone had told me was the younger Mrs. Ingstrom. The smile was back by the time he reached her, and he strolled off with her arm through his, his head bent to her every word and a fond laugh trailing behind them.

I leaned over and whispered to Will, "What a piece of work."

He gave an embarrassed shrug. "I'd better get back to work. Then we can talk after."

He moved behind the table. He had a genuine smile for every bidder, and I could see that people liked William Novak. They stopped to chat for a moment as they paid; they smiled back when he smiled at them. He even looked good as he got increasingly dust-covered and dirty, with his hair falling down over his glasses as he carried out boxes and furniture.

He worked well with Michael, too. They joked around and laughed and took turns with the computer and carrying out the stuff. They acted more like buddies than father and son. Finally, the last of the customers was taken care of. Mikey returned from carting out some boxes and offered to help me with my chair and cabinet.

Will forestalled him. "Why don't you finish up your paperwork, Michael? I'll help Harper and then I'll come back and help you and Brandon close up. OK?"

Michael gave a knowing grin and turned back to his laptop computer. Will picked up the chair and I grabbed the cabinet. He followed me out to my truck. We shoved the two pieces into the back.

He looked around the almost empty lot. "Well, looks like there's no one waiting in ambush for you today."

"It makes a pleasant change. Oh, and thanks for introducing me to Ann Ingstrom. She remembers the parlor organ and is going to look for some papers that may give the name of the current owner. I could be only one step away from finding the benighted thing."

"That would be great." He looked around and his face turned pink. "I was wondering..."

I raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I was wondering if I could... if you would like to have dinner with me."

"Tonight?" I asked.

"Yes, tonight. After I finish up here. It shouldn't take long."

I sagged with disappointment. "I'd love to, but I can't tonight. I've got some momentum on a missing person and I need to take advantage of it while I can. Could I take a rain check?"

"Does that mean I'm on for dinner the next time it rains?"

"Even sooner, if I can manage it. Can I have your phone number?" I felt like a teenager asking such a question.

He fished a card out of his pants pocket and wrote something on the back, then handed it to me. "My home phone's on the other side. Call me when you can."

"I will."

"No. I, Will—you, Harper," he said and winked at me before jogging back into the warehouse.

Well, that was interesting. Maybe Mr. Novak found me as sexy as I found him. I'd just have to wait and see, wouldn't I? Damn, but he looked good in jeans and a sweater. I wondered what he looked like first thing in the morning...

I drove back home and hauled the chair—it seemed to weigh a short ton—and the cabinet up to my living room. I debated letting Chaos out to run around, but decided that the chair was far too attractive a hazard. Unsupervised romps would have to be put on hold until I could fix it. I took a shower and put on fresh clothes more appropriate-ate to my evening's plan.

First I drove around a bit while it was still light and located the ATMs Cameron had been using. They were all within a dozen blocks of the historic district. Then I drove to my office to pick up copies of Cameron's photograph. My pager started jiggling at my waist as I unlocked the door. Quinton's alarm system was working, though it took me a little while to remember how to disarm it. Nothing more drastic than pager palsy occurred.

I walked down to the Dome Burger for a bite of dinner. While I munched through a burger big enough to choke a Doberman, I asked the young Asian woman behind the counter if she'd seen Cameron.

She looked at the picture but shook her head. "I don't think so." She sang out in Vietnamese to her husband behind the grill.

He came out and looked at the picture while she ran off my story to him. He also shook his head.

That's the way this sort of operation goes: six hours on your feet for a return rate of one yes for every seventy-five to one hundred nos. Still, one positive can be all it takes.

I thanked the couple, finished as much of the burger as I could manage, and started onto the slow work of the evening.

Saturday night in the Square was hopping, but as I worked, I had that observed feeling again, though I couldn't spot a watcher in the crowd. But so what? It's not like this job was going to be exciting. I figured they could watch me work all they liked, so long as they stayed nut of my way.

I canvassed the bouncers and bartenders at every club in Pioneer Square and every night clerk in every late-closing restaurant and shop I could find. Most gave me a no. From a few I got a maybe. Several took my card and agreed to contact me if they saw Cameron. Then a bouncer at one of the clubs said, "Yes."

His name was Steve, and he was sitting on a stool just inside the door to Dominic's. He looked at the photo, then raised his eyes to scan for obnoxious drunks and under-age partyers. "Yeah. I think I've seen this kid. Not in a while, though. Came in a couple-few times." "When was this?"

Steve shrugged. "January, February, like." "You card him?"

"Musta done. He don't look legal." "He wasn't. Birthday was March seventh."

"Damn it, don't tell me that. My boss'll kill me. Card said he was good. He was good. OK?"

My turn to shrug. "Why do you remember him if it was so long ago?" I asked.

"Patterns. That's what you look for. You know—certain panhandlers always always hang on the same corners, certain guys always get real quiet just before they try to bust somebody in the chops. Can't watch everybody in a crowd like this, so you get to know the signs, look for the disruption in the patterns. This kid, he was a pattern breaker. Didn't fit. Slow time of year—shoulda known he was a freakin' minor. Showed up, like, two or three nights a week. Come in right after dark, stay a while waiting for some people, then leave, usually alone. Then he stopped coming around. Haven't seen him in a while."

"Who were the people he waited for?"

"Harder to say. They were more like a type. Not so much regulars as clubbers—you know, the ones who hit the circuit every night or every Friday and make the rounds. Not really anybody's regulars and not really anybody's friends, but they're there all the time and you sort of know who they are."

"Be more specific—what type?"

"Uh-huh—hey, you! ID, please." He broke off to block a young guy and his twitchy date at the door. He stuck out his hand, snapping his fingers and giving the "come on" wave.

Nervous, the guy handed the bouncer his driver's license.

Steve glared at it. "According to this, you won't be legal until after midnight."

The kid shifted and whined. "Aw, come on, man. It's my birthday! Show some class."

"Hey, you're still underage until twelve-oh-one a.m., man. So why don't you show a little class and take this pretty lady out to a nice dinner and come back after midnight?"

The birthday boy slumped and led his date away.

The bouncer turned back to me. "What type, huh? Gothies. The black hair and white makeup crowd. But there's a couple of 'em always scare the crap out of me—though, you say so and I'll deny it. You know, kind of guys look at you like they're looking through you, but not like they're ignoring you. Like you're nothing but meat to them. Be just as glad to hack you up." He gave a hard nod. "That kind."

A shiver rushed over me. "Any names you could give me?"

He shrugged. "Don't know any of 'em personally. Don't want to either, you know? But I'll keep my eyes peeled and my ears open. Give you a call if I find out anything, OK?"

I handed him my card. "Good enough."

I hit several more places before calling it a night. My feet were complaining, and I wanted a drink myself, but I headed back toward my office instead, too tired to worry about anyone who might be trailing me. But I stuck to well-lit streets, rather than crossing through the alleys.

The ghosts were thick around the Square, and being tired and distracted, I had a hard time remembering to dodge only the normal traffic. Pushing the Grey edge away constantly was exhausting, and I wasn't very good at, anyway. I almost got hit by a car while trying to avoid a sudden ghostly gap in the sidewalk. I paused under the pergola on the Square to read my watch. It was 11:22. I knew I'd missed some places, but at that point, I didn't care.

"Hi, Harper. You out partying, or working?"

I glanced up and around. Quinton was standing beneath the next iron arch, grinning at me from under a much-battered drover's hat.

"I was working, but I'm quitting for the night. What about you?"

"Just goofing off. Can I buy you a drink?"

"If you know someplace quiet where no one will complain if I take my shoes off," I replied.

"You bet I do. Come with me, fair maiden," he added, motioning me along.

Quinton struck off east, then turned and led me into a saloon along the angled block of rather disreputable buildings on Second Avenue Extension. The name of the place seemed to be some kind of double entendre that I was too tired to puzzle out.

From the outside, I expected low, dim, and smoky, but it wasn't. Broad, deep, and high-ceilinged, the original carved turn-of-the-century backbar and brass-railed front bar still dominated the room. The place was pretty empty. Of the three men at the bar, one was the bartender. A couple sat at a front table and conversed with the guys at the bar. Across the room, another couple shot pool, observed by two single men seated on high stools, bantering and kibitzing. The place hadn't changed since it was built.Quinton noticed my assessment. "It's a dive, all right, but it's quiet, decent and the owner"—he pointed to the bartender—"doesn't care if you take your shoes off, so long as you keep your socks on. What would you like to drink?"

"Whatever you're having. Oh, and ask the owner if he's ever seen this guy," I added, shoving a copy of Cameron's picture into his hands.

Quinton returned with two large glasses of beer. He handed me the photo. "He said he doesn't recognize him."

"Thanks. Hey, you never left me your bill," I reminded him.

"Haven't gotten around to writing it up yet. I'll drop it off Mon-day. In the meantime, I got my own pager, so if you need me, you can page me." He handed me a card with his first name and number printed on it. "Do you shoot pool?"

I blinked at the non sequitur and shook my head. "Never learned how."

"Come on, I'll show you."

He wasn't a great teacher, but I wasn't a great student, so we had fun making mistakes and sending pool balls everywhere but where intended. I was a little tired and a little lit. I giggled a lot and forgot to worry about ghoulies and ghosties, and they seemed to forget about me.

I lined up a doomed shot. "What do you do, Quinton? I mean besides rescuing damsels in distress?"

He watched me miss completely. "I pretty much do whatever comes up. Jack of all trades and master of none, and all that crud. Got an electronics degree once, hung around college, did some programming, worked on cars, did a little wiring and construction, whatever was available."

"So, no steady job?"

"Nah. Steady jobs are for slaves. You just trade hours for dollars. I don't like that. So I don't do it." He bent over the table and muffed a long shot. "There's always someone around who just needs something quick and dirty and I'm the quick-and-dirty expert."

I sank the wrong ball. "Sounds criminal."

"Heck, no. All aboveboard and honest, I swear. Sometimes I get a bit of contract work, sometimes things come up that are a little longer term, but I never let myself become a cog, you know?"

I sat down and drank beer and watched him make a run of three balls.

"Freelance troubleshooter?"

He tipped his head and smiled thoughtfully. "Pretty much. Got a lot of esoteric information stuffed in my head, so I'm often a better guy for a small but complex problem than a guy with a specialized degree and a ton of specialized experience. Flexible. That's the best thing to be."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Flexible is good."

"Yep. Rigidity is death. Hey, you doing OK? You look about to fall over."

"I'm getting drunk, I think. And I'm tired. I'd better quit and head for home."

"All right." He took the cues and put them away in the wall rack. "Want an escort back to your car?"

"Sure."

I was grateful for the company. I was so wiped out I could hardly tell normal from paranormal, but walking with Quinton to blaze the trail, I just let it wash over me.

We stopped at the Rover. "Are you sure you're OK to drive home?"

"Yeah. I'm just tired, so I'd better get going before I get worse. This was nice. Thanks. Do you need a lift?" No, I just live a few blocks away." For a second he seemed poised something, then settled back. "I'll see you Monday, all right?"

"OK," I agreed, wondering what he'd almost said or done.

He watched me drive out of the parking lot, waving before he turned and walked off.

It seemed like a very long drive home.

I woke up in a mean mood. The bells of the Catholic church next door were bunging away like Quasimodo was having a heart attack.

Down the road, the Baptist and Lutheran electronic pseudo-carillons were giving forth with Protestant zeal. Most Sundays I find the sounds pleasant. This morning I was ready to hunt down the men in charge and tie them beneath their own thunderous devices.

I did the morning thing with bad grace and grumbling and let the ferret out to play while my hair dried. There was only one name left on Colleen Shadley's list, and it had no phone number. I'd be making another drive to the Eastside.

I felt a little guilty for having left Chaos in the cage all day, so I packed up the ferret's traveling kit and took her along for the ride to Bellevue.

There was a mild, intermittent drizzle as we crossed the lake, but traffic was light, so we made good time to the 405. I had to consult a map to locate the address Colleen had provided for her daughter. It was not far from the mall, located in an unexpected fold of land that cut the area off from the business and light-industrial development nearby. The houses were mostly from the early 1950s: small bricks, wide cedar-stained clapboards, and crank-out windows. Sarah's had a small, weedy yard in front. I transferred the sleeping ferret into my purse and started to pick my way up the driveway, around scattered parts of a dismembered motorcycle, to the front door. I heard distant music. I knocked.

Steps sounded inside and the peephole darkened. The door opened to the depth of the safety chain.

"What do you want?" Her voice was bland, wafting to me on the sup-porting strains of classical music. She didn't show her face in the gap.

"I'm looking for Cameron Shadley."

She scoffed. "He doesn't live here. Who sent you?"

"I know he doesn't live here. I want to talk to his sister. Are you Sarah Shadley?" I asked.

The door closed and the chain rattled against it. Then the door opened again. A thin slice of a thin face peered around the edge. "Why do you want to talk to me? Is Cam in trouble?"

"Cam is missing. Are you Sarah?" I repeated.

She opened the door all the way and stared at me. She could have been a Charles Addams sketch. A little shorter than me, she was skeleton thin. Her dyed-black hair was lank and faded below two inches of blond roots. Even without makeup, her face was glow-in-the-dark white with lavender circles of sleeplessness deepening her eye sockets into pits. But her eyes, unlike her brothers and mother's, were hazel green. She wore a black-and-white-striped tunic over black leggings and bare feet.

She mulled her answer. "I'm Sarah. Who are you?"

"My name is Harper Blaine. I'm a private investigator, and your mother hired me to find your brother. He's been missing for about six weeks. I thought you might be able to help me. May I come inside?"

She stood aside and I walked in. She closed and locked the door behind me and led the way into the kitchen, then pointed to the tiny drop-down table mounted to the wall opposite the fridge. The dried-blood red varnish on her short nails was chipped and bitten. I headed for one of the two chairs by the table and settled myself with my bag in my lap.

She looked at me a moment, gnawing her lower lip, then said, "I was making coffee. You want some?" She went to the sink, pulled the plug and water gurgled away down the drain. The garbage disposal growled, cutting off my reply. She glanced over her shoulder at me, drying her hands on a cotton dish towel.

"Sure. Thanks," I replied.

She reached across the sink and pushed a button on the small stereo on the counter; Vivaldi's Gloria swelled. In a minute, she came back with a small, painted tin tray and dipped like a cocktail waitress to unload it. A garish picture of the Space Needle from 1962 was painted on the inside. Sarah returned the tray to the counter before she sat down across from me. She wouldn't meet my eyes. She took a book off her half of the table and placed it on the floor; then she pushed a mug of coffee in front of me and arranged a neat little barrier of milk jug and sugar bowl between us. She dawdled over mixing her coffee, keeping her head down.

I sipped my coffee black. It tasted like brackish water run through oil-soaked sawdust.

Sarah swished her spoon around in her cup. "So, you wanted to talk to me...?"

"Your mother hired me to find Cameron. I've got some ideas about where he might be, but not why. I was hoping you could help me out with that."

She raised her head and glared at me. "Oh, so 'Mummy' thinks that if something bad has happened it must be Sarah's fault, huh?"

I stared back in silence until she blushed and lowered her eyes. "No. Cam's roommate mentioned that you called a few times and that you two seemed to be close." I let that hang.

She poked at her mug.

"When was the last time you talked to him?"

She heaved her skinny shoulders, defensive and sullen. "I don't know. Sometime in March, I guess. Haven't seen him or talked to him since, so I don't know where he is."