I nodded. "Probably the same guys who tossed my office. Either that or tax collectors."

He nodded. "Yeah, I thought they were thugs."

I raised an eyebrow at him. He grinned back.

"I've got everything I should need to get this job done in a couple of hours at the most," he said, putting his pack down carefully by the file cabinet.

"I've still got some work to do," I warned. "You're not going to need me to leave or anything, are you?"

"I don't think so. I need to drill a couple of holes and I'll need to work on your phone line at some point, but I should be able to do the installation without much noise or mess. Oh, I'll need to load some software onto your computer, too, but that'll only take a minute, right at the end."

"Let me know when you need the phone line. I need to make calls."

"No problem," he agreed and began to scramble around in his pack.

I settled myself behind the desk and called the Shadleys' bank. It took a few minutes after I introduced myself and explained my business to get me connected to the person with the lowdown on ATMs.

The ATM expert asked me for the numbers. I read them to her and she clacked away on her computer.

"Hmm… some of these are other companies' machines, so I can't you any more information than I have right here. They all appear to be in Seattle, looks like downtown. Of the ones that belong to us—let me see—there's the First and Cherry location, Main, Pine and Seventh, and the South Industrial."

"Where are the Main and South Industrial ATMs, exactly?" I asked.

"Main is around the corner from the Pioneer Square branch at 300 Occidental, and the other is First Avenue South at South Forest, just down from the baseball stadium."

I thanked her and wrote the information down. Then I pulled out my laminated map of Seattle and dotted all the known locations on it in whiteboard marker.

I got out of Quinton's way for a moment while he did something to my desk; then I called a few more major banks and got the same information from them, adding more dots to my map. Most of the dots were in downtown, clustering around Pioneer Square. If I could figure out what Cameron was up to, or get a line on his car, I'd stand a chance of finding him soon.

"I'm going to be working on the phone line now for a minute or so," Quinton said from somewhere near the floor in front of the desk. "If your computer hiccups, let me know." His head popped up for a moment, adorned with a pair of headphones and some dust kitties. "OK?"

I pulled out the papers Sergeyev had sent. "OK. I'll be reading. Let me know when the lines are back up."

He nodded and disappeared again.

I read. The parlor organ was about six feet tall and three wide, made from carved European walnut, according to the description. Built by the Tracher Company of Bavaria in 1905, it had a lot of bits and stops and railings with ivory and gilt decoration, a built-in cabinet for storage behind the music desk with a plate glass mirror, and red and blue tapestry covers over the pipes, which matched the mats on the pedals. Sounded pretty garish.

An incomplete shipping bill was included with the description. The date had been torn off and some lines of information were too blotched and stained to read. It looked as if the organ had been shipped to Seattle by boat from Oslo, along with other household and office furniture. How it had gotten to Oslo wasn't documented. There was a partial ship's registry number, a bit of letterhead that read «-gst-» and the signature, "Ingstrom." There was a little squiggle in front of the last name, but it could have been an e as easily as an n, a u, or a w, maybe even an i.

As information, it gave only hints. The shipping bill seemed to originate with the shipper in Oslo. If Sergeyev was wrong, Ingstrom could be the sender, not the recipient. I didn't relish trying to find a shipping company in Oslo that had employed someone named Ingstrom over thirty years ago.

I picked up the phone, absently thinking I should call the port authority or the coast guard about ship registries, but it was dead. Then it hiccupped as if on call-waiting and I jiggled the cradle switch.

"Hello?"

"Miss Blaine?"

"Yes." Quinton must have finished with the line.

"Grigori Sergeyev. I am calling as I said."

"Yeah, I was just looking over the information you sent. It's still a bit thin."

"I have forgotten some small information. Also, I have a phone number that you may leave me messages."

"All right. What's the number?"

It sounded like a Tacoma prefix.

"You have questions?"

"Yes. This information you sent includes the name Ingstrom, but it doesn't indicate if he was the shipper or the recipient of the shipment. He could have been an agent in Oslo. There's not enough information here to be sure."

"Ah. The ship was damaged. The paper is listing cargo for salvage to pay the repairs. This Ingstrom, he takes the cargo, for the ship repairs," Sergeyev explained.

"I see. Well, there was or is an Ingstrom Shipwrights in Seattle."

"Excellent to start. I must go. Leave me message of your progress."

And I was holding a dead line.

"Quinton!" I barked. "What are you doing to my phones?"

Quinton's head emerged above the desktop with the headphones half off. "I just spliced in the components. Your lines should be just fine now."

"Now, yes. What about thirty seconds ago?"

"Out of commission."

"Well, the phone line worked just fine."

He shrugged. "Huh… should have been dead. Doesn't matter, though. The automatic sender is on the modem line, anyhow."

"Can I use the phone now without getting cut off?" I asked.

"Sure. I'm going to run a quick electrical test, but it shouldn't affect your call." He vanished back to his station on the floor in front of the desk and I picked up the phone.

I called Ingstrom Shipwrights of Seattle.

A very young male voice answered. "Hello? Can I help you?"

"I'm trying to reach Ingstrom Shipwrights. This used to be their number," I said.

"Oh, yeah, of course. The company's out of business. I'm helping out with the auctions. I think all the business records are with the family and the lawyers."

"Actually, I'm trying to track a piece of furniture. What's this about auctions?"

"Business and the estate, both. McCain Antiques and Auctions."

"Estate auctions? Someone died?"

"Yeah. The owner and his son died in a boat accident. Kind of creepy, huh? They fix boats and their boat sinks. Gives you the chills."

"That's pretty ironic. Umm… hey, I don't want to be crass, but I need to talk to someone about the furniture."

He hesitated. "We're pretty hectic right now… If you come down for the preview, you could ask Will or Brandon in person. That would probably work. Preview started at three and closes at seven."

I got the address and said I'd be there. I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to six.

"Quinton. I have to get going. Are you almost done?"

He hummed as he stood up and came around to my side of the desk.

"Yep. Almost done." He poked a floppy into the computer's disk drive. "Let me just load this software."

The machine hummed and grunted a bit, then blinked up a message. Quinton typed in a string of commands and watched it respond.

"OK. Looks good. Should run just fine. Now, to arm the door and window circuits, you just go to your menu bar and pull down this new menu here…" He ran me through the arming and disarming routine and explained the function and parameters of the new system.

He pointed at the underside of my desktop. "See this red LED I installed under the lip? It will flash slowly at you if something disturbs the motion detectors, like someone trying to sneak up on you. You'll get the nine-nine-nine code on your pager if any of the sensors are set off when the active system is armed. There's also a passive component to the system and a panic button. When you enter the remote panic code, or hit the button, here" — he pointed at another thing under the desk—"all hell will break loose. You can also call your computer and look at the office via that remote fiber-optic camera I installed over the door. And there's a reed switch on your safe door that will let you know if anyone has opened it. You like?"