Greywalker g-1

by Kat Richardson

  "Oh, yes. I like very much. What do I owe you?"

  He waved that off. "I don't have my bill printed up yet. I'll drop it off another time, OK?"

  "All right. Now I've got to run. Can I drop you off anywhere?"

  "No, thanks. I thought I'd catch a movie or something. Would you…?" He raised his eyebrows.

  I was already gathering my stuff and heading for the door. "Can't tonight, thanks. I'll see you when you drop off the bill, though."

  He hesitated, then grabbed his pack and came through the door in a rush. "No problem. You can always try the library if you need me." He shouldered his backpack and sauntered off.

  I stopped and watched him go. I just didn't get him. Sometimes he seemed like a friend I'd known for years; then he flipped right back into being a stranger. It bugged me, but not enough to keep worrying at. I had to get moving; I was going to find out what had happened to Ingstrom Shipwrights and Sergeyev's heirloom. I hoped.

  Chapter 9

  I drove up around Lake Union and found the Ingstrom Shipwrights warehouse on the north end of the lake, east of Gas-works Park. I had to cruise for a parking space. The small, graveled parking lot was full, and a misty rain was starting to patter harder as I circled. A generic sedan was also hunting for a parking space. I pulled into a tight spot and ran for the warehouse doors, huddling my leather jacket closer around me. I wished I'd had the foresight to wear my raincoat instead.

  I skittered into the warehouse and shook myself off like a dog. A teenage boy stared at me from his post behind a laptop computer on top of a long, collapsible table.

  "Hi," I said. "I'd like to talk to Will or Brandon." He perked up. "You're the lady who called, aren't you? Brandon took off. But Will's in the office with the family. He'll be out soon. You want to walk around and see if you spot the furniture?"

  "Sure, though I'd think it would be pretty obvious…" I looked out at the packed stacks of goods and crates under cones of dusty light. The masts of a wooden sailboat reached for the ceiling near the back. "Or maybe not. That's a lot of stuff. You don't know if there's a parlor organ in this mess, do you?"

  He shook his head. "You'd have to talk to Will. There's a lot of cool stuff, though—there's even a whole boat! Want to register to bid?" He must have seen the auction-junkie gleam in my eye. I like getting neat old stuff cheap, like my Rover. My reaction against my mother's insistence on all-new everything, maybe, I prefer good, solid, old things, even if I have to fix them up myself. That kid knew he was looking at a sucker the moment I came in.

  "Sure," I said.

  He entered my name and office phone number into the database and gave me a printed catalog and a cardboard paddle with a number on it.

  "Don't lose your paddle or I'll have to register you again," he warned.

  I tucked it into my bag. "I won't. Now, how can I catch up to Will?"

  "Oh, just wait and watch for him. Hell be out in a minute and he usually does a walk-through before we close up in a place like this. You can't miss him. He's tall and he has white hair. I'll point him in your direction."

  "I'll keep an eye out for him."

  The kid nodded and went back to something on his computer. I strolled off into the aisles of stuff.

  I did not spot anything that looked like it could be a parlor organ. Among the piles of rope and wood, crates of boat parts, woodworking and machine tools, there were a lot of desks and drawing tables, filing cabinets, chairs, objects of use, and even a few objects of beauty. And a boat, as promised: a complicated little thing with two short masts and a lot of carved woodwork. There was also a great collection of model ships—some of which appeared to be Ingstrom design models—and a lot of yacht furniture from the 1920s. There was also some antique furniture that must have come from the executive offices, including a table you could land a Boeing on.

  Deep in the piles, I spotted a small cabinet jostled in between two much larger pieces. It wasn't a parlor organ, but it pulled at my attention. So I pushed my way to it, chiding myself against buying another piece of needy furniture when I was a bit needy myself.

  The cabinet was old, short, narrow, painted a ghastly red, and in terrible condition. It didn't need a home as much as it needed a trip to the dump, but I marked the lot number in my catalog anyway. It might turn out to be wonderful under the grunge. I've always had good luck with oddball items.

  The rattle of the warehouse door coming down made me turn. It was five to seven, according to a big clock on the wall.

  High over the stacks of stuff and ranks of file cabinets, passing quickly under the dim cones of light that sliced the aisles, flashes of silver and black caught my eye. Someone quite tall and slim moved toward me with a long stride that painted white arcs in the air where the light reflected off silvery hair. This had to be Will. From a distance, I guessed he was fifty.

  He corrected his course and strolled up the aisle I was standing in. Then he stopped in front of me and I stood there, poleaxed. Not fifty. Two-hundred-watt smile. "Hi. Michael said you were looking for me."

  My heart did a little changeup and my stomach turned a sympathetic flip. I just wanted to stand and stare at him. Angular face and hazel eyes behind rimless spectacles, shades of freakishly premature silver, white, and gray in his glimmering hair. The black turtleneck and jeans he wore didn't obscure the flow of muscle and limb beneath them. Worth watching in action. A crooked grin full of slightly crooked, very white teeth. I got a hold of myself just in time to correct an imminent stammer.

  I put out my hand, dazed. "I'm Harper Blaine. I'm a private investigator."

  He wrapped my hand in one of his. "William Novak. Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?" His hand was so big it could have gone around my own good-sized paw twice. I'm five ten in my socks; not many men tower over me. Even fewer make me like it.

  I wet my throat and coughed. "I'm trying to locate a parlor organ that may have come into the possession of Ingstrom in the late seventies or early eighties. Is there a parlor organ in this sale?"

  "Early-twentieth-century grot? Curlicues and bad reeds? Normally, I'd be thrilled to say 'No such item here, but you make me wish there was one."

  I felt the prickling heat of a blush. "It belonged to my client's family. Do you think anyone else might know anything about it? Is there someplace else it might be stored?"

  "Possibly at the house, or it might have been sold already, privately. Have you met Mrs. Ingstrom and asked her? The senior Mrs. Ingstrom, that is."

  I had to shake my head. "Neither Mrs. Ingstrom," I replied.

  "Hmmm… well, I could introduce you at the auction. I assume you will be coming back for the auction," he added, eyeing the paddle peeking out of my bag.

  "I was planning on it. I thought I might bid on a few things for myself."

  "Like what?"

  I pointed over my shoulder. "That silly cabinet over there, lot 893."

  He crinkled his brow and strode over to it. "This one? Kind of an ugly little thing, isn't it? Surgeon's cabinet. Doctors and dentists used to keep their instruments in them, in the good old days before scrubbing and autoclaves. Nasty concept, isn't it? Still, you could find a treasure in there, if you can break it free of all that paint. A ten-dollar gold piece or one of Doc Holliday's own teeth," he added with a wink.

  "With my luck it'll turn out to be just the right size to fit between the toilet and the sink. It's ugly, but it sort of… talks to me."

  "Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers? And I doubt they come much stranger than this bit."

  "Talking to strangers is what I do, and the stranger the better."

  He laughed, and the round, brandy-rich tones rolled over me like velvet blankets, sending an electric jolt of lust down my spine. His eyes sparkled as he laughed, deepening the sketch of wrinkles at their corners. I revised my mental estimate of his age to between thirty-five and forty. I also added, sexy. And I was in trouble.

  "Well, you're certainly standing in the right place
for strange." He chuckled. "I'll talk to Mrs. Ingstrom and look for you tomorrow. All right?"

  "That would be great. I appreciate it."

  He gazed down at me with a half smile, then shook himself. "Mind's wandering, I guess. I'd better finish locking up. Would you like a guide to the door or can you blaze your own trail through the maritime wilderness?"

  I blushed again, for some reason. "I can manage."

  He grinned. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

  I started walking backward, smiling like an idiot, before common sense reminded me that eyes should be pointed in the direction of travel. I shrugged the jacket up around my neck and turned, hurrying toward the front.

  I heard Novak call out behind me. "Hey, Mikey! Unlock for this lady, will ya?"

  An answering shout: "Michael! Not Mikey, you attenuated stick insect! No waffles for you!"

  As I got to the desk, I saw that Michael was grinning the same grin as William Novak. He unlocked the walk-door in the larger rollaway door for me. "See you tomorrow, right?"

  "You bet," I answered as I stepped through.

  He waved to me as I started across the gravel.

  The rain was taking a breather, as it often does, now coming down as just a fine drizzle, wetter and fresher than the dry, uncanny mist with its accompanying vertigo and unpleasant reek of dead things. The moist, uneven ground slithered under my feet as I made my way across the now mostly empty lot. All the cars were gone except my Rover, a bland sedan, and a recent-model pickup. The car was just starting to pull out of the lot as I got near my truck. Headlights swept over me and I put my head down to avoid the glare.

  The gravel crushed and clattered under the sedan's tires with a screech from the clutch and a roar of the engine. It was loud. And getting louder. I glanced toward it, blinded by the headlights, but neither deaf nor stupid. The car hurtled toward me.

  Chapter 10

  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 won't—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. "Reall
y."

  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.