Greywalker - Kat Richardson [13]
“Misplaced, only. So many disruptions here. It has gone astray.”
“Where are you?”
“I last saw it in Switzerland. Ingstrom, I think, took the cargo to Seattle, 1970, 1980. . . .”
I was getting confused by his odd speech patterns. I tried to put him back on course. “What is the item?”
“A furniture. A parlor organ. Can you find it? It is not rush.”
I jotted down what he’d said so far and looked at it. “Your information is pretty skimpy. Do you have any other leads?”
“I shall consider on it and express you papers with the check. We are agreed?”
“Yes, but it may take some time. . . .”
I thought I heard a chuckle and then, “If you’d like to place a call, please hang up and dial again.”
I glared over at Quinton, just rising from kneeling by the phone jack on the wall. “What just happened? I lost a client and I don’t have his number!”
“Wasn’t me. The line’s fine. Maybe he’ll call right back.”
But he didn’t. After a few minutes’ waiting, I shook my head. “Damn.”
Quinton frowned at the phone. “You think he’s not calling back?”
I was miffed. “Not right now.”
“I only have to do one more thing. I’ll need the phone for a couple of minutes. You have a pager?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the number?”
I looked sideways at him and felt a little dizzy, then looked away. “Why do you need it?”
He held up a birthday card in a clear plastic envelope with the words “Record your own greeting!” on it. “I’m going to program the chip to call you with a code if someone breaks in here.”
“Oh.” I rattled off the number.
He stripped a small, dark object out of the card and placed it next to the phone. Then he placed the handset next to the chip and dialed my pager number and an extension, then hung up. In a moment, my pager went off at my waist, vibrating silently.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
I read the page. “Nine-nine-nine.”
“That’s the code you’ll get whenever the door or window opens. Just ignore it if you do it yourself. I should be able to get a better system up for you in a day or two. Just a couple of quick things and we’re done, for now.”
He made several strange-looking connections to my phone and electrical system, covering them neatly with white tape so they were invisible to a casual glance.
“That’ll do it,” he said, putting his tools away and picking up the backpack.
“How much do I owe you, Quinton?”
“How ’bout dinner? I’ve got a couple of other questions about the permanent system. If you’re still interested?”
I thought about it. “I guess I am. Can you make a ball-park estimate?” I asked.
“I don’t make estimates as sloppy as that.” His eyes were twinkling over a smothered laugh.
I gave him a suffering look.
I got an apologetic grin in return. “Unless the parts have gone up a lot, it’ll be under two hundred, including the stuff I used today.”
It was only a small gamble. “OK. We can talk over dinner. What do you want to eat?”
“Some kind of dead animal will do me fine,” he answered. “I like veggies well enough, but I’m too much the carnivore to give up meat.”
I started picking up my things. “Good. I was leaning toward a steak, myself.”
“Sounds great.”
We walked up First to the Frontier Room. It’s divey, kitschy, and the menu runs to barbecue and stiff drinks, but they have a good steak and it’s cheap.
“So,” Quinton started, separating brisket with his fork, “what situation am I dealing with on this alarm? You don’t seem like the type to lock the barn after the horse is gone, to drag out a cliché. Are you expecting more trouble?”
“I’d rather not take the chance.”
He glanced at me from the side. “OK. I assume you don’t want the cops on your doorstep every time the alarm goes off. Right?”
“Yes. And I don’t want this to be out of my control or open to prying by some security company. My clients pay for confidentiality, but I still need records if someone does break in again.”
Quinton nodded, a comma of barbecue sauce lending him a quirky smile. “Quiet, reliable notification—no false alarms to the cops—and admissible in court. I think I can do that pretty easily with the setup