I glanced at his hand, then back into his face. "I doubt your wife would approve of that offer.”
"Cara's her own woman. I'm my own man.”
My bullshit meter pegged to the redline. Even in the Grey he had a smarmy shiftiness to him that only reinforced that feeling. I let my inner bitch chill the stare I locked onto his. "My leg doesn't belong to either of you.”
Stahlqvist looked surprised and pulled his hand back, making the movement into a glance at his Rolex. "It is getting a bit late. What else did you need to know?”
I asked him for his impressions of the other participants and watched his aura flicker and shift colors as he replied, flushing through oranges and reds and into sickly green spikes. He said they were all great friends, though it was obvious he disdained them. He was jealous of Celia's fondness for Ken—the artist—and of the older military man's ability to assume control of the group. Dale Stahlqvist felt he merited more consideration from both ghosts and humans—including his wife. Something between them caused Stahlqvist distress, but he slapped a lid on it.
The only time I was sure he was telling the truth as he saw it was when I asked him if anyone was faking the phenomena.
He shook his head, laughing. "Not possible. Tuckman's made sure of that. What we get is real." He'd convinced himself, in spite of his own disbelief in "murabo jumbo." Tuckman seemed to be right on track there.
I stood up and offered Stahlqvist my hand. "Well, that's all I needed to know. Thank you. I appreciate your time. May I call you if I have any additional questions?" I noticed that the little yellow thread hadn't wavered once and I was still wondering what it was.
He stood up, too. "Certainly, Harper. It was a pleasure to meet you." He shook my hand, leaving an odd cold spot on my palm, and watched me go.
I exited onto Fifth Avenue in the long, dark shadow of the black tower behind me as the streetlights came on. The road ahead was choked with cars trying to turn left onto 1–5 southbound. I was glad to be on foot. I turned and started up Fifth toward Westlake Mall, thinking about that thin yellow thread that looked so much like the strands of energy I'd seen wadded into a ball under the séance table.
The Pager Cart had gone out of business. I scouted around and found a kiosk selling mobile phone service, but not pagers. After two other stops, I emerged from a shop in the lower level of the Pacific Place Mall with a cell phone I'd been assured could accept my pages and receive forwarded calls from my office number, too. I was a little nonplussed about the two-year contract I'd had to accept to get the plastic marvel of miniaturization and modern convenience, but I'd been impressed by the fact that it got a signal at all two floors below street level.
I poked the phone, amazed to see that it was already working. I realized that the sun was well down now, so I tried calling Cameron. He sounded anxious when he heard it was me.
"So?" he asked.
"Your dead guy is just a dead guy. Nothing to see.”
"Good. Great. Thank you, Harper. I owe you.”
"Yeah. OK. But I'd like not to do that ever again.”
"Never on my account.”
I hoped not on anyone's account. I finished up my business with Cameron and made another call. It was two a.m. in London, but I was expected.
Will sounded tired when he answered.
"Hi, Will," I started.
"Hi, Harper. You sound far away. Usually, you sound close enough to touch. And I miss touching you.”
A mild flush heated my face. "I'm on a cell phone—that's why I sound odd. In the basement at Pacific Place. If I move I'll lose you.”
"Oh." His pause stretched as he shifted conversational gears and we talked about nothing much for a few minutes. Then he said, "Now I'm lying in bed, thinking I need to get up in four hours. . ”
"I shouldn't have called.”
"You always call on Fridays.”
"Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe—”
"Maybe you shouldn't call from the mall.”
"What?”
"I just mean we can't have much of a conversation when you're in a public place with bad reception. There are things I want to say to you that I can't say in those conditions. I want…”
"What?”
I imagined him shaking his head, some stray light from the street glinting off his pale hair in the early-morning gloom. "Never mind. Good night, Harper.”
My own good-bye was made to a dead phone. I felt tired, frustrated, and sad. I wandered into the bookstore in the opposite corner, hoping to raise my mood. My feet hurt and I hadn't eaten all day, so I bought food and collapsed into a corner of the bookstore's cafe with a Michael Connelly novel.
One of the most pleasant aspects of that bookstore to me was its location so deep in the earth of the Denny Regrade that no ghost stalked there. Pacific Place lay at the southern edge of what was once Denny Hill until R. H. Thomson got his hydraulic mining equipment turned on the offending bluff. He'd watered it down to size to make the north end of downtown hospitable to the wide, gently sloping avenues he preferred over the vertical insanity that defined the original shape of the city. The current street level at the corner of Pine and Seventh lay more than a hundred feet below the hill that once towered over it, and the basement bookstore snuggled down into the glacial silt that lay undisturbed until the foundations of the current building were laid in 1998. I reveled in the paranormal quiet with Harry Bosch and a cup of soup until I had the energy to head home.
Chaos and I sorted laundry that had developed the sudden urge to levitate and move around the room, which amused the ferret, but just turned my dissatisfaction into irritation. I yelled at the moving clothes and swore at my purse, which spilled its contents all over the kitchen floor, sending coins and small objects everywhere, to the ferret's delight. I fell into bed late and in a mood so bad I had disjointed, angry dreams, and woke up swaddled as tight as a medieval baby.
CHAPTER 12
Later Saturday morning I was finishing my breakfast when Ken George arrived at the Alki Cafe. I already knew what he looked like, so I had no difficulty spotting him when he paused at the hostess's desk. She pointed him toward the back and I put up my hand to wave him over. Since the weather was lousy, the restaurant was half empty and no one had tried to rush me out as they often did on weekend mornings—a good thing considering I'd only just managed to kick my bad mood of the previous night by indulging in ridiculous amounts of coffee.
Ken was about my height, slim, and had a loping, slope-shouldered gait that made his leather jacket swing as he came toward me. I now knew from the file that Quinton had guessed right: he'd been born in India, and while his coloring was classic Indian—black hair, bronze skin, brown eyes—the presentation was Western and unconsciously hip—as if other people copied him—right down to the wire-frame glasses and the soft mustache with close-trimmed goatee.
He stopped at the table. "Hi. Are you. . Harper?" His voice reminded me of Sean Connery without having a discernible accent— low and broad as if it came up through a trapdoor behind his teeth rather than his throat. His smile was bright white and I'd have taken him for a vampire if I were going by incisors.
I nodded. "You're Ken George.”
He grinned and ducked his head. "Yeah. Sorry I'm late. I can't seem to get the hang of the buses." He sprawled opposite me, swinging a black courier bag under the table. He kept his chin tucked down and looked up at me with a self-deprecating smile. His long fingers toyed with the silverware roll. "So. What did you want to talk about?”