Greywalker - Kat Richardson [12]
I gusted a sigh. “All right. I’ll look your guy up. What’s his name again?”
“Quinton. Go up to the reference section and ask the librarian for him. She’ll know where he is.”
Anything was worth a try, and the guy had never steered me wrong before. I thanked him and paid for the new lock, knowing I’d have to fight my landlord for a week to get reimbursed.
FOUR
I trudged up to the main library at Fourth and Madison. The reference librarian knew right where to find Quinton.
I walked down the row she pointed out and saw a man seated at a computer workstation at the end. He was slashing away at the keyboard at a terrifying speed and muttering as he did so. His long brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck and his pale face was decorated with a close-trimmed dark beard.
He stopped what he was doing, blanking the screen, and cocked his head at me.
“Are you Quinton?” I asked.
“Who’s looking for him?” he countered.
“My name’s Harper Blaine. The guy from Mobile Lock sent me.”
He nodded. “OK. What do you need help with?”
“My office was broken into and I need some kind of alarm system right away and cheap.”
“Ah. I see.” He grinned. “Yeah, I can get something up for you in about fifteen minutes. It won’t be perfect, but it should hold back the Visigoths for a while.”
I goggled at him.
He grinned. “It’s not that hard. What’s your setup?”
“One door, one window, two phone lines,” I said. “One of the phone lines is for the modem on my computer.”
“That’ll be cake. How far away is it?”
“About eight blocks.”
“Did you walk or drive?”
“Walked.”
“OK. Let’s go.” He logged out of the computer system and grabbed his coat and backpack off a nearby chair.
I had to hurry after him. I’m tall and leggy, but he didn’t waste time and keeping up required a brisk stride. As we headed south to Pioneer Square, mid-April was doing its spring fake-out of good weather. Seattleites seem to forget that it usually starts raining again in May; they were out without jackets, enjoying the beginning of an unexpected clear evening that would probably turn cold by nine and produce more fog by morning. In spite of its capriciousness, this was usually my favorite time of year. But this time, I felt grim.
Turning onto Yesler uphill of Pioneer Square, I found myself blinking against a sudden haze in my vision and rising queasiness. As I was walking across the street to my building, a dusty-looking, bearded man in jeans, boots, flannel shirt, and a broad-brimmed hat glared at me, then walked right into me. He bumped me out of his way. His touch sent a cold shock through me, and his smell was worse.
“Hey!” I yelled after him. He stomped on.
“What’s the matter?” Quinton asked.
I blinked my eyes clear and caught my breath. “That guy just walked right into me.”
“What guy?”
I pointed. “That one.”
We both stood and looked at the empty block where the man had been. A few ordinary pedestrians were about, but my rude man had vanished.
“He must have gone down the alley,” I said. But he hadn’t. I shook off a qualm, frowning.
Up in my office, Quinton started prowling around the window and the doorway. He took a complicated folding tool out of his pocket, then rummaged through his backpack and laid a pile of wire spools, tape, and small-parts packages on the floor.
“This shouldn’t take very long,” he said and squatted down beside the open door.
While I watched, he stuck something to the doorframe near the floor. He attached some wire and cut off a long piece of the stuff, leaving it hanging like a tail as he taped it into place and closed the door. He went to the window and began on that.
My phone rang. I turned my back on Quinton and answered it.
“Miss Blaine. Sergeyev. I am calling again. Would you have interest in recovering my heirloom?”
I sat at my desk and grabbed a notepad. “Possibly. It would depend on the circumstances. Perhaps we could meet to discuss it?”
He laughed. “No. I am not in Seattle now. But I would pay very well. Two thousand American dollars up front, as you say. And more to retrieve it to me.”
“Then