Greywalker - Kat Richardson [25]
“When I see him, I’ll be sure to let him know. Thank you.”
I left his office grateful I was no longer in college.
I was walking across one of the many quads when my pager went off. I couldn’t see any phone booths around, so I entered the nearest building and found a pay phone near the math department office. Someday, I swear, I am going to get a cell phone. I called my pager number and listened to the voice message.
“Hi, Harper, this is Quinton. I’ve got the stuff to set up your alarm system, though I’ve still got a couple of questions before I install some of it. I’d like to get onto it today, if that’s convenient for you. Give me a call,” he added, rattling off a phone number, “but do it before two, if you can, because I’ll be leaving this location then, and may not get near a phone for a couple of hours after that. Thanks.”
I checked my watch. “Ah, hell . . .” It was 1:55. I punched the number and waited through the rings.
Through the noise in the background, I just made out a male voice saying, “. . . garage.”
“Is Quinton there?” I asked, raising my voice.
“Hang on.”
In a second, a slightly quieter environment reigned as Quinton answered the phone. “This is Quinton. How can I help you?”
“This is Harper Blaine. I’m returning your call.”
“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Harper. I can go ahead with your project whenever you can get me access. When would be convenient?”
Was I talking to the right guy? I could almost hear the necktie strangling him. “Are you at work?” I asked.
“Not precisely, but that’s a good suggestion. Three o’clock would be fine.”
“Actually, I was going to head downtown to do some research, so I might be a little late back to my office. Could you wait a few minutes if I’m not there?”
“Certainly. I’ll be seeing you then. Thanks for calling.” The connection cut off with a click.
I went back and climbed into the Rover, trying to concentrate on what I planned to do next, rather than obsessing about Quinton’s odd behavior and odder job. He was just not in the same game as the rest of us.
I turned onto the freeway and headed back downtown. I thought about the job, the job . . . but phantom images seemed to press in harder than before, trailing their cold mist and rushing around the truck. When I got off the freeway downtown, I was firmly back in Ghostville. I parked the car and shouldered my way, shivering and queasy, through a thin fog of shadow-things, toward the main records repository in the county building.
A cold gust blew through me. I shuddered and leaned against the Metro tunnel facade to catch my breath. Several scruffy panhandlers cast suspicious glances at me. I figured I’d better move on before they took exception to my sullying the tone of the neighborhood.
Once in the records room, where even ghosts fear terminal boredom, I started searching for any sign of a furniture company, importer, or freight handler doing business under the name Ingstrom in the last twenty-five years. The list was short, but discouraging: a ship-wright, a real estate office, and a bakery. The residential listings were more daunting. There were a lot more private citizens named Ingstrom, since one-fifth of what is now the city of Seattle had been settled by Norwegians and Swedes. I paid for photocopies of the listings.
By the time I’d finished, it was nearly three fifteen. I trudged back toward my office. I’d taken Sergeyev’s money but done almost nothing so far, and that rankled. I hadn’t done more than glance at the papers he’d sent. The hour-plus I’d just spent could be a washout. Maybe the Ingstrom he wanted wasn’t even in King County. Seattle may have been just an unloading point for a pickup. The guy could have driven from Pullman, for all I knew, and then taken the parlor organ away again. I didn’t even know for certain what a parlor organ was.
Quinton was sitting on the floor just down from my door, leaning against the wall, reading a paperback copy of de Tocqueville. He was wearing a button-down shirt and