I used the ladies' lounge at the department store to clean up, then started toward the Paramount Theater.
The condo was in a swanky building. It had started out as a hotel in the thirties and been converted into expensive condominiums in the late eighties. The lobby had an electronic security lock and call system at the door and a husky majordomo at the desk inside. I pushed the call button.
"May I help you?" came out of the speaker. I could see the man behind the desk talking into a white telephone handset. His mouth moved just ahead of the voice from the speaker. The effect was a bit like a poorly dubbed film.
"Yes," I replied. "I was wondering who the leasing agent for this building is."
"There aren't any vacancies in the building at the present time."
"I'm not interested in leasing. I just want to talk to the agent about something related to the building."
There was a pause. "Stanford-Davis Properties."
I'd never heard of them. "Would you mind giving me the phone number?"
The man hung up. I was just thinking up nasty words to call him when he marched over to the door and opened it. He was huge. He was not any taller than me, but he filled the doorway. On purpose. He held out a business card that looked like a chewing gum wrapper in his massive paw. I took it.
I looked at it. Stanford-Davis Properties information card. "Thanks."
"It's nothing," the man replied. Then he stepped back and closed the door between us. He stood there to watch me go. His steady, remote gaze set off a feeling like ants crawling up and down my spine. I backed from the door, then turned to go down the steps.
I tucked the card in my jeans pocket and walked back to my office. I wanted a cup of coffee, but what I got was a message from Mrs. Ingstrom.
"Miss Blaine, I found a bill of sale for that organ. If you'll call me back, I'll give you all the information I have."
I wrote down the number and listened through the rest of my messages, including my landlord complaining about the charge to change the locks. The bliss of the painfully mundane. I made a note to call him back, then dialed the number for Stanford-Davis.
A perky receptionist answered. "Stanford-Davis Properties. How can I help you?"
"I'd like to talk to the agent who manages the Para-Wood condominiums, please."
"That's Mr. Foster, but he's not in today. However, I do know that the building is fully leased and no new leases are expected to come available before 2010."
"I'm not interested in leasing myself, but I am trying to discover who is leasing a specific unit in the building. This may pertain to a future criminal investigation." I let it be ugly.
She squeaked. "I… I just don't know. I'll have to have Mr. Foster call you back tomorrow."
"I need the information as soon as possible. Is there someone who can look up the file for Mr. Foster? His secretary? I could come to the office for the information."
"Oh no. That won't be necessary. Give me your name, phone number, and the unit number, and I'll have Mr. Foster's secretary call you."
"All right." I gave her the information and she assured me she would have the secretary return my call before close of business. The surfeit of butt kissing was discomfiting.
Secretaries know everything and run everything, but they are often clueless about the import of what they do. They are also great sources of information, if you can get one to talk. I hoped Mr. Foster's secretary would be a talker, but I wasn't expecting it. I stood and stretched and left my office to get a large cup of coffee.
When I returned, I set down my coffee and called my landlord. He wanted to argue about the cost of the new locks. I told him he was being a skinflint. He'd never heard the term before. We were in mutual mid-harangue when the call-waiting beep interrupted. I switched calls.
"Harper Blaine."
"Hey, it's Steve. From Dominic's. Remember me? Couple of nights ago you were looking for a blond kid? Well, I think I saw him last night."
"Hang on a second, Steve, I've got a call on the other line. Be right back." I popped over to my landlord. "Look, the lock was broken and I couldn't go off and leave my office unlocked, so bill me. OK?"
He muttered, but I ignored him. I was afraid Steve would have hung up, but he was still on the line when I toggled back to him.
"Thanks for waiting, Steve."
"No problem. So, that kid you were looking for? I think—no, I'm sure—I saw him last night."
"Where?"
"Outside the club."
"Why were you at the club on a Sunday?"
"Moving stuff around, just helping out. It was just getting dark when we knocked off. So I went out into the alley to throw some garbage in the Dumpster. And I see somebody out there. So I look around and then I see him kind of way in the back, in the dark."
"How did you recognize him? Did you get a good look?"
"Pretty good, yeah. You know that feeling you get when somebody's staring at you? Well, I got it, and I turned and there he was. So I stared back at him."
"Why?"
"Usually works. Sometimes we get junkies hanging around the alley and if you just stare hard, right at 'em, they go away. Or they jump you. But either way, it's something. So I stared at him and he took a step toward me. Then he just kind of faded back into the alley and ran away."
"You're sure it was him?"
"Or some other cupid-faced kid with yard-long blond hair, yeah."
"About what time?"
"About… seven thirty, eight o'clock."
"Why didn't you call me right away?"
"Didn't have your card with me."
It was more than I'd known an hour earlier. "Thanks. By the way, I was told he might have gotten tangled up with a guy called Edward who hangs around the clubs. Sounds like an aging Goth, from the description. Ring any bells?"
"Uh… no. Can't come up with any matches from that description. Sorry I can't give you any more."
"What you've given me is great. Oh, hey, how'd he look?"
"Look? The kid? Not good. Kinda gave me the willies, you want the truth."
That raised my eyebrows. "I do. Thanks again, Steve. There's ever anything I can do… that's legal…."
"Round about midnight on a Tuesday I could really use a triple skinny."
I laughed. "I'll remember that."
I hung up the phone and sat for a minute. My guesses had been good: Cameron Shadley was in the Pioneer Square district and something was wrong. Now I just had to bring us together. That might be hard.
Someone had told me once that the Pioneer Square historic district completely covered the original downtown of the early 1880s— small by modern standards, but still a city within the modern city, stretching from the new baseball stadium to the Cherry Street bend and from the waterfront to the train stations flanking Seventh Avenue. About fifty square blocks, and every inch of it crammed full of nooks and niches, basements and alleys. You'd need two hundred cops sweeping through with elbows linked to stand a decent chance of flushing one individual. Luck and shoe leather wouldn't be enough; I needed something specific to catch Cameron. But my brain resisted working. I sighed and put the problem on my mental back burner, trusting my subconscious to boil up an idea.
While that cooked, I'd concentrate on Sergeyev's missing parlor organ. I returned Ann Ingstrom's call.
Mrs. Ingstrom sounded stronger and more confident than she had on Saturday. "You know, it seems we got rid of the wretched thing more recently than I thought. It was 1990."
"Who bought it?"
"A man named Philip Stakis. It's not someone I know, so there's not much else I can tell you. Let me give you his phone number."
She rattled off the number and I wrote it down. "Thanks, Mrs. Ingstrom. Could I get a copy of the receipt from you, just to be thorough?"
"Oh, certainly. Should I mail it to you?"
"I'd rather come pick it up, if that's OK."
"Oh, fine! Today? When would you like to come?" She sounded as if she were inviting
me for tea.
I glanced at my watch. It was just about one o'clock. I doubted I'd hear from Stanford-Davis before four. "I could be there by two, if that's all right."
"That will be just fine." She gave me her address and directions. I had just enough time to grab a bite to eat. I snatched up my stuff and locked up, then went out for food and lots more coffee.
The amount of coffee may have been a mistake because, while it helped perk me up, I was nearly cross-eyed with the need to find a restroom by the time I got to the Ingstrom house in north Ballard.
It was a pleasant Victorian, the kind in which families raised generations. Mrs. Ingstrom answered the door herself at my knock. She asked me in and I requested the use of her bathroom.
"Oh, the one down here is a mess. Go to the top of the stairs and turn right. It's at the end of the hall. Watch out for all the boxes and don't mind the cat, he likes to sleep on the heat register there," she explained.
I shot up the stairs past a row of packing boxes and into the large bathroom, where I was greeted by the beady glare of a single yellow eye.
" 'Scuse me," I said to the three-foot mound of white fur. It huffed and tucked away its eye for a few more winks of catnap.
The bathroom was clean and depersonalized. Only a small bottle of aspirin and a cardboard box of adhesive bandages still sat in the open medicine cabinet. Rust marks on the metal shelves showed where other things had been not long ago. The room was silent on the matter of the lives which had passed through it.
I was leaving when the cat rose like a thunderhead and stretched with a head-splitting pink yawn. I looked back toward it as, with no apparent acceleration, the cat sailed out of the room past me, waving its plume of a tail. A cat-shaped shadow, fluttering Grey, remained lurking on the heat register. I shook myself and went back down-stairs.
Mrs. Ingstrom was in the kitchen at the rear, making coffee in an old drip Melitta. She glanced at me as she picked up the pot and a couple of thick-sided white mugs and started out of the kitchen. "We'll have our coffee in the front room. I've got all the other things out there. Everything else is packed or tagged for the auction this weekend."
I regretted the lunchtime coffee more than ever. I'd be vibrating by the time I got back to the office, at this rate of consumption.
I followed her out to the living room—"the parlor" when the house was new, I supposed. She waved me to a seat in front of the unlit fire-place. All the knickknacks and personal bits were either gone or sported prominent lot tags. Most of the furniture had been shoved to one side.
She started pouring coffee. "Help yourself to the shortbread."
I picked up a small piece and I could smell the butter at arm's length. I could gain weight just breathing near it. I nibbled.
Mrs. Ingstrom put a mug of coffee down in front of me and pushed forward a sugar bowl and matching creamer. She gave me a small, strained smile. "It's a good thing I hadn't packed up the sugar, yet."
Sneaking up on the scalding coffee, I asked her about the organ.
"I was surprised at how easy it was to find," she said. "Chet had quite a few papers on his desk and I had to sort through them first. I thank God he was such an organized record keeper. But I just… If I had to go through every piece of paper, I'd never make it. It's been awful, just… awful," she quavered, and then began to cry. "Oh, why? Why, why?" She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
I froze and sat there a moment. Self-conscious, I scootched along the sofa next to her and put my arm around her shoulders.
I patted her arm and murmured automatically, "Please don't cry. It's all right."
She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the hem of her skirt and hiccupped, "No, it's not."
I handed her a napkin from among the coffee things. She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes again, talking while she covered her discomfort with pats of the napkin.
"It's just terrible, is what it is. The company always seemed to be doing so well, and we're not extravagant people. We never lived above our income. Chet was always frugal. It ran in the family, I suppose. And then so many things went wrong all at once and, somehow, the company just couldn't stay afloat. All the bills and the creditors and the contractors with their lawyers and lawsuits, and then the tax men. It was a nightmare. It's still a nightmare—it's worse! If Chet had just died, then the company would have been sold all as a piece, but instead, this horrible bankruptcy was already tearing the company into shreds. And then this! Well, all I can say is thank God Chet had a will or we'd be in a dreadful mess…" She sniffled again and shook her head.
She mumbled past the napkin, "I'm afraid I'm making a spectacle, of myself. I'm just overwhelmed… At suppertime I keep expecting to hear them coming up the back stairs and into the kitchen, stealing a taste out of the pots, their clothes smelling like bilge water and diesel oil, laughing and teasing me for complaining about them. And do you know what's worst?" she asked, turning toward me.
Her eyes seemed to look into someplace I'd been too recently. I was startled and stammered, "No, what?"
"I'm afraid they will! It's not that I don't believe they're gone—I can never, for a moment, forget—it's that the house can't seem to forget them… like the shape of them is worn into it, the same way walking up and down wears away the front step."
She leaned forward, glancing about as if she thought someone watched us, and whispered, "I'm almost glad I'll be selling the house. What would I need it for, except to plague me with these awful ideas?"
She sat back. "There. Now you think I'm a crazy old woman."
I remembered the shape of the cat upstairs, and shook my head. "No, I don't. Is it safe to guess that Tommy and your husband were both born in this house?"
She nodded and sniffed.
"I'd probably leave, too, if I were you. It's hard to live with ghosts."
She sighed. Her shoulders loosened. "Thank you. I'm glad someone understands. I'm afraid to tell my friends and family. I'm afraid they'll think I'm trying to make Chet and Tommy disappear. They all think it's the bills that are making me sell, or the sheer size of the place.
"Let them believe what they want. It doesn't hurt you," I suggested.
Mrs. Ingstrom nodded, then straightened her skirt and sniffed one last time, seeming to shift a weight off her shoulders. "Well, now you've put up with me acting like a watering pot, let's see what I can do for you."
She picked up a manila file folder that had been lying on the table and handed it to me. "The bill of sale is in here and a copy of the original bill of lading for the lien that was attached to it. I thought you might want that, too. I don't need it, since it's so old and long gone that not even the tax men are interested in it."
I flipped open the folder and scanned the papers within, then smiled at her. "Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Ingstrom. I'm sorry about what you're going through and I appreciate your digging into your husband's records for me at a time like this."
"It was pleasant to be doing something that wasn't for an estate lawyer or a bankruptcy lawyer or a tax accountant, for a change. I hope it helps you."
"I'm sure it will," I said, rising. "Thanks again and thanks for the coffee, also."
She rose to escort me to the door. "It's the least I could do. And it was so nice to see you again." She saw me out, acting the part of hostess on autopilot.
Once back in the Rover, I sat in the driver's seat and fiddled with the seat belt, tired. From the corner of my eye, the Grey flickered, giving the house a writhing patchiness—its own personal fogbank. The cat, who now sat on the porch, was solid as a stone and staring at me with malevolent yellow eyes. Mrs. Ingstrom waved to me. I waved back and drove away.
I just drove for a few blocks and let everything in my mind drift. I felt a bit out of sync with something I couldn't place and still under the weather. Maybe I had the famous flu RC had gone on about. Frowning, I headed back to the office. It wasn't a solution to the problem of Cameron Shadley, but all I could think of was to call
this Philip Stakis and try to make some ground on that case while I could.
No further depredations had been attempted on my office and no shady characters lurked in the alley or my hallway. I flopped into my desk chair and tried the phone number I'd got from Mrs. Ingstrom. No answer, no voice mail. I would try again after six. I typed up my notes, poked around my computer a bit, then checked my messages.
"Hi, Harper, it's Mara." She sounded more Irish than usual and rather hesitant. "I'm after wanting to mend our row this morning. I've been more the head teacher than the friend, I'm afraid. Anyhow, the little one's at Granna's and Ben and I were hoping you'd come for dinner this evening. A nice, grown-ups' evening with no dirty nappies. I do hope you can come."
Interesting. I couldn't say I was angry at Mara. It wasn't her fault I'd freaked. OK, yes, she pushed, but… what could I expect?
I looked at the phone and thought a while. Stanford-Davis hadn't called and none of my other messages included dinner invites. I wanted to talk to the Danzigers, anyway. I picked up the phone and dialed.
"Hello?"
"Mara?" I checked.
"Harper! I'm so glad you called. Did you get my message?"
"Umm… yeah, I did. Look. This morning… sucked, but it's not your fault. And dinner would be nice."
She let out her breath. "Good. Food will be ready about six or six thirty. Ben's on for lecture until five and I thought—that is, I was hoping you might come just a touch early so you and I could get in a chat before Ben's oratorical powers are fully recharged. Sound all right?"
"Fine," I answered. "Should I bring a bottle of wine or something?"
"Ooo, that would be lovely!"
"Red, white… green?"
She whooped her wild laugh. "Green sounds brilliant! But I'd settle for white or a nice light red. OK?"
"OK. I'll probably get there between four and five."
"Grand! We'll see you then. Bye."
And so I found myself on the hook for a bottle of green wine. I was trying to imagine where I could find some when the phone rang.
"Harper Blaine."
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