On the way back, Quinton frowned at me for the first five blocks.
"What is it?" I demanded.
"I'm just worried, that's all."
"About what?"
"Just got a bad feeling about this situation."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Call it a prejudice of mine. I just don't like your boy, I guess. Bugs me a bit to see someone as nice as you get involved in things that are… creepy."
"I can manage creepy just fine, Quinton. I work in Pioneer Square. I've seen plenty of creepy."
He shrugged and went silent, but kept glowering all the way back.
I was glad when I was in my own office and Quinton had wandered off. Skulking about on business for the undead made me feel like a character in film noir, and Quinton's comments about the creepiness of it all hadn't made me feel any better. I was also wondering how I was going to write this up in my case notes.
Though I had found Cameron, I still had questions itching at my brain and an irresistible desire to scratch them, especially if I was going to take on Cameron's proposal. I called the TPM corporate office and started digging to discover who had been using the condo during the dates Sarah stayed there. I finally found a real estate lawyer named Sweto with a chip on her shoulder that could have supported a couple single-family residences with room for large backyards. We talked misconduct, lawsuits, and criminal charges, and it was no fault of mine if she got the impression we shared a profession.
"TPM has interests in many real estate ventures in the Seattle area," she informed me. "In point of fact, we own the building and lease several suites in it back from the management firm for tax reasons. We also have investments in nonresidential commercial property and many other business ventures not related to real estate."
"And who was using this particular suite at the time in question?"
As fast as she'd opened up, she clammed shut. "That information is privileged."
"Oh, come on, Sweto. It's not like I can't find out."
"I'm sorry. You won't find out from me. Not unless you have a subpoena."
"A what?"
"What sort of case was this again?"
"Misconduct."
"Sorry. I can't talk any further. You'll need a subpoena for me to release that information. Have a nice day." And she hung up on me.
My native curiosity was now leavened with irritation. I went up to the records office and killed several hours looking for deeds and business licenses. They wouldn't give me the names, but they'd give me a start on cracking TPM's shell.
The corporation was privately held, so deep information on TPM was difficult to find, but I made phone calls and one of my contacts offered to fax me everything he had. Another came up with a list or newspaper articles that mentioned TPM. By the end of the day, I expected to be adrift in TPM-related paper.
While those bits of information dribbled in, I tried Philip Stakis's number again.
A woman answered. "Hello?"
"Hello, I'm trying to reach Philip Stakis. Do I have the correct phone number?" I asked.
The woman gasped. "Oh, my God," she shouted. "Can't you just leave us alone?"
"Please don't hang up!" I begged. "I'm not a solicitor or a lawyer or anything like that. I'm a private investigator and I'm just trying to find a piece of furniture." What the hell…?
"Furniture? Oh, yeah, right," she snapped.
"No, really. My client is looking for an old parlor organ that Mr. Stakis bought from Chet Ingstrom of Seattle back in 1990."
She was silent a moment, then said, "Really?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Well, we don't have it anymore," she stated in a Long Island drawl.
I restrained my urge to swear. "What happened to it? Do you know, or should I ask Mr. Stakis?"
She laughed harshly. "You'll have a hard time. Phil's dead."
Chapter 18
"Dead?" I echoed. Another dead guy? "I don't mean to pry, but could you tell me what happened?" "To Phil?" "Yes." "Lung cancer." I sat back, relieved that it wasn't something mysterious and sudden. Then she added, "Or pneumonia, really, but that's what happens when you're too sick to move after being a two-pack-a-day smoker. Died in the prison hospital a little over a month ago, sudden-like. And he'd been doing so good. Hadn't been in trouble since the navy, hadn't smoked in over a year. But he couldn't care anymore."
"What was Phil sent up for?" I asked.
She laughed her raw, barking laugh again. "Being a jackass. Grand theft—he stole a truck full of furniture, only he thought it was a truck full of TVs. Him and a couple of his jackass buddies from back in the day. So you can understand why I was kind of flipped when you said furniture."
"How long had Phil been in prison?" I asked. "This time? About six months. It was just before the holidays he got convicted. Then he got sick just after New Year's. Missed the Super Bowl and everything."
"That's terrible, Mrs. Stakis," I said.
"Oh, I'm not Mrs. Stakis. My name's Lenore Fabrette. I'm—was—Phil's sister. My son and I moved out here to live with Phil when I got divorced. Phil was retired from the navy and he was all the family I had left except Josh, and now it's just me and my boy."
"Do you mind if I ask you just a couple more questions?"
"No. You seem OK, like you actually care, not like some of the little creeps who've been calling."
"Creeps?"
"Local jerks. Some reporter's been trying to make a big deal out of the story, like it's gonna win him a Pulitzer or something. Just a bunch of middle-aged farts being stupid. Phil's criminal past is big news in Anacortes, though. He joined the navy back when we were kids so the court would seal his juvie record, but he got in more trouble in the navy and barely stayed in to retirement. I don't know how they found out, but it was all over the local papers, and me and Josh have been hounded like we had something to do with it."
"That's rough. Umm… what happened to the organ?"
"Oh. Phil gave it away. He said it wasn't worth much, but because it was an antique, taxes on it would be through the roof after he died, so he donated it to some historical society or museum or something like that. I don't know which one, though."
There was hope. "Do you have the tax records for the write-off?"
"No. All that stuff's with his tax guy."
"Could you find out for me? My client really wants that organ. He might be willing to pay you a fee for the information."
"Oh? I don't like to sound greedy, but I could sure use the money. Tell you what. I've gotta go down to Bremerton Thursday. I'll call the guy and see what he says. If he's got the stuff, I'll swing across and drop it on you then. OK?"
I agreed, gave her my numbers and address and hoped she'd come up with something. I left a message for Sergeyev asking if he'd pay for information from Fabrette.
I blew the rest of the day in mundane tasks, like billing, meeting with a lawyer who needed to find a witness, and making more phone calls and trips to the county records office—professional meat and potatoes that were strictly hamburger and home fries.
I finally stopped for some dinner and returned to my office. Cameron drifted in just a step or two behind me. I sat behind my desk and waved him to a seat, straightening up a few things as he sat down.
"All right," I started. "You want me to act as your agent in attempting some kind of reconciliation between you and this other vampire, Edward. Is that right?"
"Um… yeah. I mean, I don't care how Edward feels about me— that's not the issue. I just want the information and help that he should have given me, and I don't want to be a pariah with every other vampire in Seattle. I don't care if Edward helps me, or if he passes the job to someone else," Cam explained, "so long as I get some kind of help."
"What makes you think I can do this job?"