Greywalker - Kat Richardson [59]
“Hi, Harper, it’s Mara.” She sounded more Irish than usual and rather hesitant. “I’m after wanting to mend our row this morning. I’ve been more the head teacher than the friend, I’m afraid. Anyhow, the little one’s at Granna’s and Ben and I were hoping you’d come for dinner this evening. A nice, grown-ups’ evening with no dirty nappies. I do hope you can come.”
Interesting. I couldn’t say I was angry at Mara. It wasn’t her fault I’d freaked. OK, yes, she pushed, but . . . what could I expect?
I looked at the phone and thought a while. Stanford-Davis hadn’t called and none of my other messages included dinner invites. I wanted to talk to the Danzigers, anyway. I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Mara?” I checked.
“Harper! I’m so glad you called. Did you get my message?”
“Umm . . . yeah, I did. Look. This morning . . . sucked, but it’s not your fault. And dinner would be nice.”
She let out her breath. “Good. Food will be ready about six or six thirty. Ben’s on for lecture until five and I thought—that is, I was hoping you might come just a touch early so you and I could get in a chat before Ben’s oratorical powers are fully recharged. Sound all right?”
“Fine,” I answered. “Should I bring a bottle of wine or something?”
“Ooo, that would be lovely!”
“Red, white . . . green?”
She whooped her wild laugh. “Green sounds brilliant! But I’d settle for white or a nice light red. OK?”
“OK. I’ll probably get there between four and five.”
“Grand! We’ll see you then. Bye.”
And so I found myself on the hook for a bottle of green wine. I was trying to imagine where I could find some when the phone rang.
“Harper Blaine.”
A deliberate, East Coast voice replied. “This is Ella with Stanford-Davis. You wanted to know about one of our lessees?”
“Yes. Are you Mr. Foster’s secretary?”
She sniffed. “I’m his assistant.” My back went up. “I want you to know that while commercial leases aren’t confidential, I’m not required to give you this information. I called Mr. Foster about this and he told me to go ahead.”
I disciplined my bristle. “Thank you, Ella. I appreciate it. Could you tell me who the lessee is?”
“Mr. Foster doesn’t like this sort of thing, you know. This is not part of our usual policy.”
“I understand,” I said and then clammed up.
The silence dragged a moment or five.
“It’s TPM,” Ella admitted.
“Is there a specific name on the lease?”
“No. It’s a corporate lease, signed by their legal representative.”
TPM is a private corporation with fingers in a lot of local pies. They also have political connections that go back a long time. I got no other details from her, so I thanked Ella and hung up. Then I sat and thought dark thoughts about famous wrestling matches with TPM from which their opponents had staggered counting their remaining limbs and thankful for retaining their lives.
Time dwindled as I banged on the implications of TPM.
I jumped in surprise when someone knocked and entered my office. My pager wiggled and the light under my desk flickered. I jerked my head up and looked at the doorway. Quinton was standing there, grinning at me.
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself. The alarm works—you just set it off.”
“Good thing, too. I just came to drop off my bill, like you suggested,” he said, brandishing a torn piece of computer fanfold. He thrust it toward me and I leaned forward to take it. “If it didn’t work, you wouldn’t be so interested in paying me.”
“Thanks,” I said, glancing at the page. “Quinton, this doesn’t look right.”
“What, billed too high for parts?”
“No. This seems sort of low, considering all the work you did.”
“You’re complaining? The parts were cheap.”
“You only billed fifty bucks for labor. I think you spent a little more than the two hours you’ve got here.”
“I spent about an hour here and some time on the program at home.”
“It only took you an hour to write the program?”
He shrugged. “It’s not as elegant as you think. Mostly I just cut and pasted from programs I’d already developed. Besides, now I’ve got another