Greywalker - Kat Richardson [27]
As information, it gave only hints. The shipping bill seemed to originate with the shipper in Oslo. If Sergeyev was wrong, Ingstrom could be the sender, not the recipient. I didn’t relish trying to find a shipping company in Oslo that had employed someone named Ingstrom over thirty years ago.
I picked up the phone, absently thinking I should call the port authority or the coast guard about ship registries, but it was dead. Then it hiccuped as if on call-waiting and I jiggled the cradle switch.
“Hello?”
“Miss Blaine?”
“Yes.” Quinton must have finished with the line.
“Grigori Sergeyev. I am calling as I said.”
“Yeah, I was just looking over the information you sent. It’s still a bit thin.”
“I have forgotten some small information. Also, I have a phone number that you may leave me messages.”
“All right. What’s the number?”
It sounded like a Tacoma prefix.
“You have questions?”
“Yes. This information you sent includes the name Ingstrom, but it doesn’t indicate if he was the shipper or the recipient of the shipment. He could have been an agent in Oslo. There’s not enough information here to be sure.”
“Ah. The ship was damaged. The paper is listing cargo for salvage to pay the repairs. This Ingstrom, he takes the cargo, for the ship repairs,” Sergeyev explained.
“I see. Well, there was or is an Ingstrom Shipwrights in Seattle.”
“Excellent to start. I must go. Leave me message of your progress.”
And I was holding a dead line.
“Quinton!” I barked. “What are you doing to my phones?”
Quinton’s head emerged above the desktop with the headphones half off. “I just spliced in the components. Your lines should be just fine now.”
“Now, yes. What about thirty seconds ago?”
“Out of commission.”
“Well, the phone line worked just fine.”
He shrugged. “Huh . . . should have been dead. Doesn’t matter, though. The automatic sender is on the modem line, anyhow.”
“Can I use the phone now without getting cut off ?” I asked.
“Sure. I’m going to run a quick electrical test, but it shouldn’t affect your call.” He vanished back to his station on the floor in front of the desk and I picked up the phone.
I called Ingstrom Shipwrights of Seattle.
A very young male voice answered. “Hello? Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to reach Ingstrom Shipwrights. This used to be their number,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, of course. The company’s out of business. I’m helping out with the auctions. I think all the business records are with the family and the lawyers.”
“Actually, I’m trying to track a piece of furniture. What’s this about auctions?”
“Business and the estate, both. McCain Antiques and Auctions.”
“Estate auctions? Someone died?”
“Yeah. The owner and his son died in a boat accident. Kind of creepy, huh? They fix boats and their boat sinks. Gives you the chills.”
“That’s pretty ironic. Umm . . . hey, I don’t want to be crass, but I need to talk to someone about the furniture.”
He hesitated. “We’re pretty hectic right now. . . . If you come down for the preview, you could ask Will or Brandon in person. That would probably work. Preview started at three and closes at seven.”
I got the address and said I’d be there. I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to six.
“Quinton. I have to get going. Are you almost done?”
He hummed as he stood up and came around to my side of the desk.
“Yep. Almost done.” He poked a floppy into the computer’s disk drive. “Let me just load this software.”
The machine hummed and grunted a bit, then blinked up a message. Quinton typed in a string of commands and watched it respond.
“OK. Looks good. Should run just fine. Now, to arm the door and window circuits, you just go to your menu bar and pull down this new menu here. . . .” He ran me through the arming and disarming