"Could the man on the phone have any connection to Cameron's disappearance?"
RC shrugged his beefy shoulders and dug into his souvlaki. He hunched over the food, eating as if the plate was going to be jerked away any second. He talked with his cheek stuffed with food. "I don't know. Wouldn't think so. Cam had the flu about then, so he was sleeping all the time. Could have been someone from the U, I guess. The guy sounded older-forty or fifty, maybe. Hard to tell, y'know, and it wasn't any of my business anyway."
"Do you remember the man's name? Did he give it?" He took a swig of his soda before answering. "I can't remember. I think he told me, once… Everett. Something like that. Something snooty. Just can't remember."
"If it comes back to you, let me know. You said Cameron had the flu. How could you tell?"
"It's pretty easy when the guy's been puking his guts up for a week. He was really white when I did see him—pasty, y'know—and kind of thin and wasted-looking. If he hadn't been worshipping the porcelain god, I'd have thought he was on drugs or something. He looked like, y'know, in those old movies when someone's got a terminal disease-all white with big eyes. Couldn't keep anything down. Actually, I don't think he was eating at all for a while, just drinking water and some kind of nasty-smelling soup." He looked up at me and noticed I wasn't eating much myself.
"Did I gross you out? Sorry. Nothing makes me queasy anymore. I'm premed. He was starting to look a little better about the time he took off, but he was still pretty pale, y'know?"
"You're pretty sure it was the flu, then, not some other disease or drugs?" I asked, sipping my coffee.
He shrugged again. "Could have been something else, I guess—I mean, I'm not a doctor yet, so what do I really know? but flu can be pretty nasty. People think it's, like, just a little thing, but it can kill you, y'know. And there really isn't such a thing as a twenty-four-hour flu. That's usually mild food poisoning. Real all-out, balls-to-the-wall flu is a killer. The Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918 killed millions, and it's just a different strain of the same old bug that makes the rest of us answer the call of the great white telephone. Pretty disgusting, huh?"
I agreed, nodding. "Disgusting. Did anyone come to see Cameron while he was sick? Girlfriend drop by, classmates, anything like that?"
"Nope. Didn't have a girlfriend that I ever heard of—except for the sister thing, like I said. Nobody came around except a couple of my buds and the landlord. Nobody's been around since, either." RC shoveled a last bite of rice pilaf into his mouth and chased it down with a swallow of soda. "You just gonna leave that spanakopita?"
I looked down at my untouched plate. "Uh, I'm not that hungry. Why don't you have it?" I offered, pushing the plate toward him.
He nodded his thanks and forked up a large bite. I watched him, bemused, as I sipped my coffee. I'd read a newspaper article once that claimed interns often suffered from malnutrition and sleep deprivation. Obviously, Richard Calvin was determined to get ahead before the medical profession had a chance to break him down. I wondered if he spent his days off sleeping.
"So you've never heard from Cameron again?" I asked.
"Nuh-uh. Not a word."
"What did you do with the rest of his stuff, and what about the rent?"
"Well, his mom paid the back rent and bills, and she asked me to pack up his stuff and store it till he came back. In the meantime, I'm going to see if I can get another roommate, 'cause I can't meet the rent by myself. Cam's mom said that was OK with her."
"You talked to her on the phone recently?"
"Yeah, I called her and I told her I was going to be talking to you, 'cause, y'know, I didn't know if you were really legit or not. But she told me I should tell you everything I knew, so, like, I guess I have. I mean, I don't know very much about Cam, really. Is there anything else you want to ask me?"
"Not much. Was there anyplace he hung out, where he might have headed, or anyplace where he might talk to people about where he was going?"
RC grunted. I couldn't tell if it was a thinking noise or appreciation of the food. "I don't know exactly, but I do know he was kind of into music, and I think he said he was going to meet his sister down-town once, but other than that, I don't know."
"OK," I said. "Let me give you my business card, and if you think of anything—like that guy's name—or if something comes up, give me a call, OK?"
"OK," he said, swallowing the last of the spanakopita. He ran his tongue over his teeth, eliminating any wayward bits of spinach, and guzzled down the last of his soda as I fished a business card out of my bag.
I handed him the card. "You've been a lot of help, RC."
"I have? Cool." He tucked it into the pocket of his shirt, grabbed his bag and headed for the door. "Hey, thanks for the food."
I watched him go; then I headed down to the administration buildings. I rounded up a list of offices for Cameron's instructors, then walked to the engineering building.
Only one of Cameron's instructors was available. In answer to my question, he blinked and snapped at me, "No. I haven't seen him in class or elsewhere. Haven't heard from him, either. He's failing, at this point. Hasn't shown up in…" He flipped through a notebook. "At least a month. If he doesn't make some kind of arrangement with me, he will not pass. I don't give NCs. What he will get is an F. And you can tell him that."
"When I see him, I'll be sure to let him know. Thank you."
I left his office grateful I was no longer in college.
I was walking across one of the many quads when my pager went off. I couldn't see any phone booths around, so I entered the nearest building and found a pay phone near the math department office. Someday, I swear, I am going to get a cell phone. I called my pager number and listened to the voice message.
"Hi, Harper, this is Quinton. I've got the stuff to set up your alarm system, though I've still got a couple of questions before I install some of it. I'd like to get onto it today, if that's convenient for you. Give me a call," he added, rattling off a phone number, "but do it before two, if you can, because I'll be leaving this location then, and may not get near a phone for a couple of hours after that. Thanks."
I checked my watch. "Ah, hell…" It was 1:55. I punched the number and waited through the rings.
Through the noise in the background, I just made out a male voice saying, "…garage."
"Is Quinton there?" I asked, raising my voice.
Hang on.
In a second, a slightly quieter environment reigned as Quinton answered the phone. "This is Quinton. How can I help you?"
"This is Harper Blaine. I'm returning your call."
"Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Harper. I can go ahead with your project whenever you can get me access. When would be convenient?"
Was I talking to the right guy? I could almost hear the necktie strangling him. "Are you at work?" I asked.
"Not precisely, but that's a good suggestion. Three o'clock would be fine."
"Actually, I was going to head downtown to do some research, so I might be a little late back to my office. Could you wait a few minutes if I'm not there?"
"Certainly. I'll be seeing you then. Thanks for calling." The connection cut off with a click.
I went back and climbed into the Rover, trying to concentrate on what I planned to do next, rather than obsessing about Quinton's odd behavior and odder job. He was just not in the same game as the rest of us.
I turned onto the freeway and headed back downtown. I thought about the job, the job… but phantom images seemed to press in harder than before, trailing their cold mist and rushing around the truck. When I got off the freeway downtown, I was firmly back in Ghostville. I parked the car and shouldered my way, shivering and queasy, through a thin fog of shadow-things, toward the main records repository in the county building.
A cold gust blew through me. I shuddered and leaned against the Metro tunnel facade to catch my breath. Several scruffy panhandlers cast suspicious glances at me. I figured I'd better move on b
efore they took exception to my sullying the tone of the neighborhood.
Once in the records room, where even ghosts fear terminal boredom, I started searching for any sign of a furniture company, importer, or freight handler doing business under the name Ingstrom in the last twenty-five years. The list was short, but discouraging: a shipwright, a real estate office, and a bakery. The residential listings were more daunting. There were a lot more private citizens named Ingstrom, since one-fifth of what is now the city of Seattle had been settled by Norwegians and Swedes. I paid for photocopies of the listings.
By the time I'd finished, it was nearly three fifteen. I trudged back toward my office. I'd taken Sergeyev's money but done almost nothing so far, and that rankled. I hadn't done more than glance at the papers he'd sent. The hour-plus I'd just spent could be a washout. Maybe the Ingstrom he wanted wasn't even in King County. Seattle may have been just an unloading point for a pickup. The guy could have driven from Pullman, for all I knew, and then taken the parlor organ away again. I didn't even know for certain what a parlor organ was.
Quinton was sitting on the floor just down from my door, leaning against the wall, reading a paperback copy of de Tocqueville. He was wearing a button-down shirt and trousers under his jacket. No sign of a tie. Without even glancing up, he got to his feet and fell in beside me. Finishing his paragraph, he marked his place with a ticket agency stub for the Paramount Theater and stuffed the book into his backpack.
"Hi," he said. "I was starting to get worried. There were a couple of two-legged rats scratching around your door when I came up, about half an hour ago. When they figured out I wasn't going to leave, they slunk off, but I thought they might have been waiting for you downstairs. Did you see them?"
"No," I answered. "What did they look like?"
"One nondescript in a very concentrated sort of way. Very beige, very bland. Very spooky. The other was scruffier, but nothing unusual for this neighborhood," he added as I unlocked my door.
I nodded. "Probably the same guys who tossed my office. Either that or tax collectors."
He nodded. "Yeah, I thought they were thugs."
I raised an eyebrow at him. He grinned back.
"I've got everything I should need to get this job done in a couple of hours at the most," he said, putting his pack down carefully by the file cabinet.
"I've still got some work to do," I warned. "You're not going to need me to leave or anything, are you?"
"I don't think so. I need to drill a couple of holes and I'll need to work on your phone line at some point, but I should be able to do the installation without much noise or mess. Oh, I'll need to load some software onto your computer, too, but that'll only take a minute, right at the end."
"Let me know when you need the phone line. I need to make calls."
"No problem," he agreed and began to scramble around in his pack.
I settled myself behind the desk and called the Shadleys' bank. It took a few minutes after I introduced myself and explained my business to get me connected to the person with the lowdown on ATMs.
The ATM expert asked me for the numbers. I read them to her and she clacked away on her computer.
"Hmm… some of these are other companies' machines, so I can't you any more information than I have right here. They all appear to be in Seattle, looks like downtown. Of the ones that belong to us—let me see—there's the First and Cherry location, Main, Pine and Seventh, and the South Industrial."
"Where are the Main and South Industrial ATMs, exactly?" I asked.
"Main is around the corner from the Pioneer Square branch at 300 Occidental, and the other is First Avenue South at South Forest, just down from the baseball stadium."
I thanked her and wrote the information down. Then I pulled out my laminated map of Seattle and dotted all the known locations on it in whiteboard marker.
I got out of Quinton's way for a moment while he did something to my desk; then I called a few more major banks and got the same information from them, adding more dots to my map. Most of the dots were in downtown, clustering around Pioneer Square. If I could figure out what Cameron was up to, or get a line on his car, I'd stand a chance of finding him soon.
"I'm going to be working on the phone line now for a minute or so," Quinton said from somewhere near the floor in front of the desk. "If your computer hiccups, let me know." His head popped up for a moment, adorned with a pair of headphones and some dust kitties. "OK?"
I pulled out the papers Sergeyev had sent. "OK. I'll be reading. Let me know when the lines are back up."
He nodded and disappeared again.
I read. The parlor organ was about six feet tall and three wide, made from carved European walnut, according to the description. Built by the Tracher Company of Bavaria in 1905, it had a lot of bits and stops and railings with ivory and gilt decoration, a built-in cabinet for storage behind the music desk with a plate glass mirror, and red and blue tapestry covers over the pipes, which matched the mats on the pedals. Sounded pretty garish.
An incomplete shipping bill was included with the description. The date had been torn off and some lines of information were too blotched and stained to read. It looked as if the organ had been shipped to Seattle by boat from Oslo, along with other household and office furniture. How it had gotten to Oslo wasn't documented. There was a partial ship's registry number, a bit of letterhead that read «-gst-» and the signature, "Ingstrom." There was a little squiggle in front of the last name, but it could have been an e as easily as an n, a u, or a w, maybe even an i.
As information, it gave only hints. The shipping bill seemed to originate with the shipper in Oslo. If Sergeyev was wrong, Ingstrom could be the sender, not the recipient. I didn't relish trying to find a shipping company in Oslo that had employed someone named Ingstrom over thirty years ago.
I picked up the phone, absently thinking I should call the port authority or the coast guard about ship registries, but it was dead. Then it hiccupped as if on call-waiting and I jiggled the cradle switch.
"Hello?"
"Miss Blaine?"
"Yes." Quinton must have finished with the line.
"Grigori Sergeyev. I am calling as I said."
"Yeah, I was just looking over the information you sent. It's still a bit thin."
"I have forgotten some small information. Also, I have a phone number that you may leave me messages."
"All right. What's the number?"
It sounded like a Tacoma prefix.
"You have questions?"
"Yes. This information you sent includes the name Ingstrom, but it doesn't indicate if he was the shipper or the recipient of the shipment. He could have been an agent in Oslo. There's not enough information here to be sure."
"Ah. The ship was damaged. The paper is listing cargo for salvage to pay the repairs. This Ingstrom, he takes the cargo, for the ship repairs," Sergeyev explained.
"I see. Well, there was or is an Ingstrom Shipwrights in Seattle."
"Excellent to start. I must go. Leave me message of your progress."
And I was holding a dead line.
"Quinton!" I barked. "What are you doing to my phones?"
Quinton's head emerged above the desktop with the headphones half off. "I just spliced in the components. Your lines should be just fine now."
"Now, yes. What about thirty seconds ago?"
"Out of commission."
"Well, the phone line worked just fine."
He shrugged. "Huh… should have been dead. Doesn't matter, though. The automatic sender is on the modem line, anyhow."
"Can I use the phone now without getting cut off?" I asked.
"Sure. I'm going to run a quick electrical test, but it shouldn't affect your call." He vanished back to his station on the floor in front of the desk and I picked up the phone.
I called Ingstrom Shipwrights of Seattle.
A very young male voice answered. "Hello? Can I help you?"
"I'm trying to reach Ingstrom Shipwrigh
ts. This used to be their number," I said.
"Oh, yeah, of course. The company's out of business. I'm helping out with the auctions. I think all the business records are with the family and the lawyers."
"Actually, I'm trying to track a piece of furniture. What's this about auctions?"
"Business and the estate, both. McCain Antiques and Auctions."
"Estate auctions? Someone died?"
"Yeah. The owner and his son died in a boat accident. Kind of creepy, huh? They fix boats and their boat sinks. Gives you the chills."
"That's pretty ironic. Umm… hey, I don't want to be crass, but I need to talk to someone about the furniture."
He hesitated. "We're pretty hectic right now… If you come down for the preview, you could ask Will or Brandon in person. That would probably work. Preview started at three and closes at seven."
I got the address and said I'd be there. I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to six.
"Quinton. I have to get going. Are you almost done?"
He hummed as he stood up and came around to my side of the desk.
"Yep. Almost done." He poked a floppy into the computer's disk drive. "Let me just load this software."
The machine hummed and grunted a bit, then blinked up a message. Quinton typed in a string of commands and watched it respond.
"OK. Looks good. Should run just fine. Now, to arm the door and window circuits, you just go to your menu bar and pull down this new menu here…" He ran me through the arming and disarming routine and explained the function and parameters of the new system.
He pointed at the underside of my desktop. "See this red LED I installed under the lip? It will flash slowly at you if something disturbs the motion detectors, like someone trying to sneak up on you. You'll get the nine-nine-nine code on your pager if any of the sensors are set off when the active system is armed. There's also a passive component to the system and a panic button. When you enter the remote panic code, or hit the button, here" — he pointed at another thing under the desk—"all hell will break loose. You can also call your computer and look at the office via that remote fiber-optic camera I installed over the door. And there's a reed switch on your safe door that will let you know if anyone has opened it. You like?"
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