Greywalker - Kat Richardson [56]
“Thanks for waiting, Steve.”
“No problem. So, that kid you were looking for? I think—no, I’m sure—I saw him last night.”
“Where?”
“Outside the club.”
“Why were you at the club on a Sunday?”
“Moving stuff around, just helping out. It was just getting dark when we knocked off. So I went out into the alley to throw some garbage in the Dumpster. And I see somebody out there. So I look around and then I see him kind of way in the back, in the dark.”
“How did you recognize him? Did you get a good look?”
“Pretty good, yeah. You know that feeling you get when somebody’s staring at you? Well, I got it, and I turned and there he was. So I stared back at him.”
“Why?”
“Usually works. Sometimes we get junkies hanging around the alley and if you just stare hard, right at ’em, they go away. Or they jump you. But either way, it’s something. So I stared at him and he took a step toward me. Then he just kind of faded back into the alley and ran away.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Or some other cupid-faced kid with yard-long blond hair, yeah.”
“About what time?”
“About . . . seven thirty, eight o’clock.”
“Why didn’t you call me right away?”
“Didn’t have your card with me.”
It was more than I’d known an hour earlier. “Thanks. By the way, I was told he might have gotten tangled up with a guy called Edward who hangs around the clubs. Sounds like an aging Goth, from the description. Ring any bells?”
“Uh . . . no. Can’t come up with any matches from that description. Sorry I can’t give you any more.”
“What you’ve given me is great. Oh, hey, how’d he look?”
“Look? The kid? Not good. Kinda gave me the willies, you want the truth.”
That raised my eyebrows. “I do. Thanks again, Steve. There’s ever anything I can do . . . that’s legal . . .”
“Round about midnight on a Tuesday I could really use a triple skinny.”
I laughed. “I’ll remember that.”
I hung up the phone and sat for a minute. My guesses had been good: Cameron Shadley was in the Pioneer Square district and something was wrong. Now I just had to bring us together. That might be hard.
Someone had told me once that the Pioneer Square historic district completely covered the original downtown of the early 1880s—small by modern standards, but still a city within the modern city, stretching from the new baseball stadium to the Cherry Street bend and from the waterfront to the train stations flanking Seventh Avenue. About fifty square blocks, and every inch of it crammed full of nooks and niches, basements and alleys. You’d need two hundred cops sweeping through with elbows linked to stand a decent chance of flushing one individual. Luck and shoe leather wouldn’t be enough; I needed something specific to catch Cameron. But my brain resisted working. I sighed and put the problem on my mental back burner, trusting my subconscious to boil up an idea.
While that cooked, I’d concentrate on Sergeyev’s missing parlor organ. I returned Ann Ingstrom’s call.
Mrs. Ingstrom sounded stronger and more confident than she had on Saturday. “You know, it seems we got rid of the wretched thing more recently than I thought. It was 1990.”
“Who bought it?”
“A man named Philip Stakis. It’s not someone I know, so there’s not much else I can tell you. Let me give you his phone number.”
She rattled off the number and I wrote it down. “Thanks, Mrs. Ingstrom. Could I get a copy of the receipt from you, just to be thorough?”
“Oh, certainly. Should I mail it to you?”
“I’d rather come pick it up, if that’s OK.”
“Oh, fine! Today? When would you like to come?” She sounded as if she were inviting me for tea.
I glanced at my watch. It was just about one o’clock. I doubted I’d hear from Stanford-Davis before four. “I could be there by two, if that’s all right.”
“That will be just fine.” She gave me her address and directions. I had just enough time to grab a bite to eat. I snatched up my stuff and locked up, then went out for food and lots more coffee.
The amount of coffee may have been a mistake because, while