Greywalker - Kat Richardson [11]
The cops looked at the mess and looked at the door with its drilled lock. Then they called for a technician to come and collect fingerprints. They didn’t lift a single one, though I would have sworn neither man wore gloves.
The two cops questioned me alternately as the tech worked. “Could you identify them?”
“If you’d caught them, maybe. One of them looked like a homeless guy who grabbed me this morning. The usual Pioneer Square alley drunk or druggie—he was babbling—but I’d never seen him before that. The other was pretty generic. Never seen him before at all.”
“Great,” the shorter of the two muttered.
I shook my head. “I warned the dispatcher that a noisy approach on the west side would spook them. Or didn’t he tell you?”
They both looked a little pinker and I restrained an urge to spit.
“Could one of these guys be stalking you?” the taller cop asked.
I snorted. “Stalking me? Oh, yeah . . . private investigators are every crackhead’s dream girl.”
“Maybe someone sent them. Any ideas on that score?”
“Nope.”
And that was the truth. My assailant was repentant and hoping to get off lightly. I had no angry clients or frustrated evildoers lurking in my professional closets, that I knew of. Most of my work is boring and mundane stuff people pay to avoid. My nerves itched wondering about it, and my patience for Twenty Questions with the dingbat twins was about to expire.
The cops looked at me as if it were my fault. “No idea? Like nobody you pissed off ?”
“No.”
The taller one rolled his eyes. “Just get your lock fixed and get yourself an alarm before one of your admirers comes back. That would be your best move.”
That was my limit. I snapped at him, “No. The best move would have been for you to think before you came charging in.”
He narrowed his eyes at me but didn’t respond. They stalked away, muttering.
It was almost one p.m. and I was left with a mess and a broken lock. I strangled the urge to kick a few large, idiot-shaped objects. I slammed into my office and called Mobile Lock Service, then started picking up the mess.
Nothing seemed to be missing, in spite of the thorough tossing. Even the safe had been turned out, but not ripped off. It made no sense, and that bugged me.
I tried to put it out of my mind by calling a contact at the SPD and asking him if Cameron Shadley’s car had been impounded recently. It hadn’t, but he promised to page me if a call came in on it, if he could.
I returned to the mess.
I was sitting and steaming, after an hour’s cleaning and sorting, when the locksmith arrived. I’d worked with Mobile Lock before for my own business as well as clients’, so I just pointed at the door. The locksmith nodded and went straight to it.
After a while, he grunted. “Break-in?” he asked, fitting the new lock into the old one’s hole.
“Yeah. The cops think I need an alarm. . . . As if I can just pop out to the mini-mart and get one off the rack.”
“Huh. Tiny little place like this, you don’t need a big alarm system.”
“No, but I need something, I need it yesterday, and I need it cheap.”
“You get what you pay for.”
“And sometimes you just pay,” I answered, kicking my trash can in misplaced spite.
He started fiddling with the striker plate. “Huh. Well. Y’know, I might know someone could help you out, cheap.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Kind of a weird guy, but he does good electronics, tinkers around with a bunch of stuff. You should look him up, maybe. Bet he could do you an alarm for cheap and, like I said, he does good work.”
“What’s his name?”
“Quinton. This time of day, you could probably find him at the library down the street, if you’re in a hurry.”
“Maybe you could just give me his phone number.”
“Nah.You’d have better luck going down to the library. Quinton’s the sort of guy you just . . . find. Y’know? Hey, there, that does it. All done.”
He stood up and handed me a pair of shiny new keys. “There y’go. Tougher than the old one, though this crummy door don’t do much more than hold it up and