Greywalker - Kat Richardson [10]
She looked relieved. “Yes, that’s fine. I have a lunch at the Bellevue Hilton tomorrow. We can meet at the front desk at one thirty.”
“Sure.” I pulled out my appointment book. As I flipped it open to write down the note, she was opening her own again. Every date I could see in Colleen’s calendar had at least two or three appointments on it. And they didn’t look like beauty salons and lunches with the girls.
“May I ask what you do, Colleen?”
She looked me in the eye and gave a practiced smile. “I’m an event coordinator. I work as an independent consultant to arrange weddings, meetings, parties, conferences, conventions, shows, any sort of large function. I met Nan when I was creating an event for her firm.”
I nodded. “And your husband? What did he do? When did he die?”
Her motion stuttered, and she went blank. For a moment I was sure I could see the skull beneath her skin before she spoke. “Daniel died five years ago. He ran a small engineering firm in Redmond. His partner, Craig Lee, runs it now, though we still hold some stock. Is it important?”
“Just background.”
We wrapped up our business and dealt with my contract. She seemed relieved to be back on a professional footing and disposed of the paperwork and retainer with efficiency.
I didn’t expect to make a lot off this case. It sounded too typical: a controlling mother whose kids have finally had enough. The daughter had already cut loose and I’d guess the son was doing the same. It was even money he’d turn up with an “unsuitable” girlfriend, bingeing on something, or chasing psychedelic dreams in the clubs. Or all of the above. The depressing grind.
THREE
I walked back to my office, thinking about Mrs. Shadley’s case. I was at the top of the stairs, about twelve feet away from my office door, when a shadow flickered across the frosted glass panel.
I stopped and frowned, watching for the movement again. When it came, I eased over to the wall and along it to the doorframe. I crouched down next to the door and listened. My heart squeezed and fluttered in my chest. There was someone—two someones—in my office, and it sounded like they were searching the place. Without a thought, I reached for my gun.
And stopped.
What was I doing? There were two men searching my office and I was ready to fling open the door and confront them with gun drawn. Had I gone stupid while dead? I’d once cornered a rat by accident and had a neat line of scars on my hands and one leg to remind me. Was I now proposing to stand between these two rats and the only exit? Hell no. Once dead in a month was plenty.
I slid my pistol back into the small of my back and duckwalked across the hall to the offices of Flasch and Ikenabi, accountants. The secretary stared at me as I waddled in—no mean trick in a skirt and heels.
“Can I help you?” she squeaked.
I closed the door, stood up and spoke in a low voice. “Um . . . yes. I’m Harper Blaine. I have the office across the hall and there seem to be two men searching it without my permission. I’d like to use your phone to call the police.”
Huge-eyed, she pushed a button on her phone and offered me the handset. Gotta love speed dial.
I called it in and warned the operator that my office looked down on the west side of the building, so the patrol should approach with caution. I stayed in the accountants’ outer office, waiting.
In minutes, a police car blipped its siren to get through the intersection and pulled up outside—on the west side of the building. Two men exploded out of my office and raced for the stairs. They brushed right past the officers coming up. With a yell that echoed throughout the building, the cops gave chase, but lost them.
The two patrol officers came back up the stairs a while later and met me in front of my office. The door was standing open. The place was a mess. Papers and files were strewn across the desk and floor, and my rolling file cabinet had been pulled out into the center of the room. Its two drawers hung out. My computer was on and the little safe under