Greywalker - Kat Richardson [55]
“May I help you?” came out of the speaker. I could see the man behind the desk talking into a white telephone handset. His mouth moved just ahead of the voice from the speaker. The effect was a bit like a poorly dubbed film.
“Yes,” I replied. “I was wondering who the leasing agent for this building is.”
“There aren’t any vacancies in the building at the present time.”
“I’m not interested in leasing. I just want to talk to the agent about something related to the building.”
There was a pause. “Stanford-Davis Properties.”
I’d never heard of them. “Would you mind giving me the phone number?”
The man hung up. I was just thinking up nasty words to call him when he marched over to the door and opened it. He was huge. He was not any taller than me, but he filled the doorway. On purpose. He held out a business card that looked like a chewing gum wrapper in his massive paw. I took it.
I looked at it. Stanford-Davis Properties information card. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing,” the man replied. Then he stepped back and closed the door between us. He stood there to watch me go. His steady, remote gaze set off a feeling like ants crawling up and down my spine. I backed from the door, then turned to go down the steps.
I tucked the card in my jeans pocket and walked back to my office. I wanted a cup of coffee, but what I got was a message from Mrs. Ingstrom.
“Miss Blaine, I found a bill of sale for that organ. If you’ll call me back, I’ll give you all the information I have.”
I wrote down the number and listened through the rest of my messages, including my landlord complaining about the charge to change the locks. The bliss of the painfully mundane. I made a note to call him back, then dialed the number for Stanford-Davis.
A perky receptionist answered. “Stanford-Davis Properties. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to the agent who manages the Para-Wood condominiums, please.”
“That’s Mr. Foster, but he’s not in today. However, I do know that the building is fully leased and no new leases are expected to come available before 2010.”
“I’m not interested in leasing myself, but I am trying to discover who is leasing a specific unit in the building. This may pertain to a future criminal investigation.” I let it be ugly.
She squeaked.“I . . . I just don’t know. I’ll have to have Mr. Foster call you back tomorrow.”
“I need the information as soon as possible. Is there someone who can look up the file for Mr. Foster? His secretary? I could come to the office for the information.”
“Oh no. That won’t be necessary. Give me your name, phone number, and the unit number, and I’ll have Mr. Foster’s secretary call you.”
“All right.” I gave her the information and she assured me she would have the secretary return my call before close of business. The surfeit of butt kissing was discomfiting.
Secretaries know everything and run everything, but they are often clueless about the import of what they do. They are also great sources of information, if you can get one to talk. I hoped Mr. Foster’s secretary would be a talker, but I wasn’t expecting it. I stood and stretched and left my office to get a large cup of coffee.
When I returned, I set down my coffee and called my landlord. He wanted to argue about the cost of the new locks. I told him he was being a skinflint. He’d never heard the term before. We were in mutual mid-harangue when the call-waiting beep interrupted. I switched calls.
“Harper Blaine.”
“Hey, it’s Steve. From Dominic’s. Remember me? Couple of nights ago you were looking for a blond kid? Well, I think I saw him last night.”
“Hang on a second, Steve, I’ve got a call on the other line. Be right back.” I popped over to my landlord. “Look, the lock was broken and I couldn’t go off and leave my office unlocked, so bill me. OK?”
He muttered, but I ignored him. I