Greywalker

Chapter 3

I walked back to my office, thinking about Mrs. Shadley's case. I was at the top of the stairs, about twelve feet away from my office door, when a shadow flickered across the frosted glass panel.

I stopped and frowned, watching for the movement again. When it came, I eased over to the wall and along it to the doorframe. I crouched down next to the door and listened. My heart squeezed and fluttered in my chest. There was someone—two someones—in my office, and it sounded like they were searching the place. Without a thought, I reached for my gun.

And stopped.

What was I doing? There were two men searching my office and I was ready to fling open the door and confront them with gun drawn. Had I gone stupid while dead? I'd once cornered a rat by accident and had a neat line of scars on my hands and one leg to remind me. Was I now proposing to stand between these two rats and the only exit? Hell no. Once dead in a month was plenty.

I slid my pistol back into the small of my back and duckwalked across the hall to the offices of Flasch and Ikenabi, accountants. The secretary stared at me as I waddled in—no mean trick in a skirt and heels.

"Can I help you?" she squeaked.

I closed the door, stood up and spoke in a low voice. "Um. yes. I'm Harper Blaine. I have the office across the hall and there seem to be two men searching it without my permission. I'd like to use your phone to call the police."

Huge-eyed, she pushed a button on her phone and offered me the handset. Gotta love speed dial.

I called it in and warned the operator that my office looked down on the west side of the building, so the patrol should approach with caution. I stayed in the accountants' outer office, waiting.

In minutes, a police car blipped its siren to get through the intersection and pulled up outside—on the west side of the building. Two men exploded out of my office and raced for the stairs. They brushed right past the officers coming up. With a yell that echoed throughout the building, the cops gave chase, but lost them.

The two patrol officers came back up the stairs a while later and met me in front of my office. The door was standing open. The place was a mess. Papers and files were strewn across the desk and floor, and my rolling file cabinet had been pulled out into the center of the room. Its two drawers hung out. My computer was on and the little safe under the desk was open. The burglars had either been here longer than I thought, or they were quick workers.

The cops looked at the mess and looked at the door with its drilled lock. Then they called for a technician to come and collect finger-prints. They didn't lift a single one, though I would have sworn neither man wore gloves.

The two cops questioned me alternately as the tech worked. "Could you identify them?"

"If you'd caught them, maybe. One of them looked like a homeless guy who grabbed me this morning. The usual Pioneer Square alley drunk or druggie—he was babbling—but I'd never seen him before that. The other was pretty generic. Never seen him before at all."

"Great," the shorter of the two muttered.

I shook my head. "I warned the dispatcher that a noisy approach on the west side would spook them. Or didn't he tell you?"

They both looked a little pinker and I restrained an urge to spit.

"Could one of these guys be stalking you?" the taller cop asked.

I snorted. "Stalking me? Oh, yeah… private investigators are every crackhead's dream girl."

"Maybe someone sent them. Any ideas on that score?"

"Nope."

And that was the truth. My assailant was repentant and hoping to get off lightly. I had no angry clients or frustrated evildoers lurking in my professional closets, that I knew of. Most of my work is boring and mundane stuff people pay to avoid. My nerves itched wondering about it, and my patience for Twenty Questions with the dingbat twins was about to expire.

The cops looked at me as if it were my fault. "No idea? Like nobody you pissed off?"

"No."

The taller one rolled his eyes. "Just get your lock fixed and get yourself an alarm before one of your admirers comes back. That would be your best move."

That was my limit. I snapped at him, "No. The best move would have been for you to think before you came charging in."

He narrowed his eyes at me but didn't respond. They stalked away, muttering.

It was almost one p.m. and I was left with a mess and a broken lock. I strangled the urge to kick a few large, idiot-shaped objects. I slammed into my office and called Mobile Lock Service, then started picking up the mess.

Nothing seemed to be missing, in spite of the thorough tossing. Even the safe had been turned out, but not ripped off. It made no sense, and that bugged me.

I tried to put it out of my mind by calling a contact at the SPD and asking him if Cameron Shadley's car had been impounded recently. It hadn't, but he promised to page me if a call came in on it, if he could.

I returned to the mess.

I was sitting and steaming, after an hour's cleaning and sorting, when the locksmith arrived. I'd worked with Mobile Lock before for my own business as well as clients', so I just pointed at the door. The locksmith nodded and went straight to it.

After a while, he grunted. "Break-in?" he asked, fitting the new lock into the old one's hole.

"Yeah. The cops think I need an alarm… As if I can just pop out to the mini-mart and get one off the rack."

"Huh. Tiny little place like this, you don't need a big alarm system."

"No, but I need something, I need it yesterday, and I need it cheap."

"You get what you pay for."

"And sometimes you just pay," I answered, kicking my trash can in misplaced spite.

He started riddling with the striker plate. "Huh. Well. Y'know, I might know someone could help you out, cheap."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Kind of a weird guy, but he does good electronics, tinkers around with a bunch of stuff. You should look him up, maybe. Bet he could do you an alarm for cheap and, like I said, he does good work."

"What's his name?"

"Quinton. This time of day, you could probably find him at the library down the street, if you're in a hurry."

"Maybe you could just give me his phone number."

"Nah. You'd have better luck going down to the library. Quinton's the sort of guy you just… find. Y'know? Hey, there, that does it. All done."

He stood up and handed me a pair of shiny new keys. "There y'go. Tougher than the old one, though this crummy door don't do much more than hold it up and look pretty."

I gusted a sigh. "All right. I'll look your guy up. What's his name again?"

"Quinton. Go up to the reference section and ask the librarian for him. She'll know where he is."

Anything was worth a try, and the guy had never steered me wrong before. I thanked him and paid for the new lock, knowing I'd have to fight my landlord for a week to get reimbursed.