"Oh, yes. I like very much. What do I owe you?"

He waved that off. "I don't have my bill printed up yet. I'll drop it off another time, OK?"

"All right. Now I've got to run. Can I drop you off anywhere?"

"No, thanks. I thought I'd catch a movie or something. Would you…?" He raised his eyebrows.

I was already gathering my stuff and heading for the door. "Can't tonight, thanks. I'll see you when you drop off the bill, though."

He hesitated, then grabbed his pack and came through the door in a rush. "No problem. You can always try the library if you need me." He shouldered his backpack and sauntered off.

I stopped and watched him go. I just didn't get him. Sometimes he seemed like a friend I'd known for years; then he flipped right back into being a stranger. It bugged me, but not enough to keep worrying at. I had to get moving; I was going to find out what had happened to Ingstrom Shipwrights and Sergeyev's heirloom. I hoped.

Chapter 9

I drove up around Lake Union and found the Ingstrom Shipwrights warehouse on the north end of the lake, east of Gas-works Park. I had to cruise for a parking space. The small, graveled parking lot was full, and a misty rain was starting to patter harder as I circled. A generic sedan was also hunting for a parking space. I pulled into a tight spot and ran for the warehouse doors, huddling my leather jacket closer around me. I wished I'd had the foresight to wear my raincoat instead.

I skittered into the warehouse and shook myself off like a dog. A teenage boy stared at me from his post behind a laptop computer on top of a long, collapsible table.

"Hi," I said. "I'd like to talk to Will or Brandon." He perked up. "You're the lady who called, aren't you? Brandon took off. But Will's in the office with the family. He'll be out soon. You want to walk around and see if you spot the furniture?"

"Sure, though I'd think it would be pretty obvious…" I looked out at the packed stacks of goods and crates under cones of dusty light. The masts of a wooden sailboat reached for the ceiling near the back. "Or maybe not. That's a lot of stuff. You don't know if there's a parlor organ in this mess, do you?"

He shook his head. "You'd have to talk to Will. There's a lot of cool stuff, though—there's even a whole boat! Want to register to bid?" He must have seen the auction-junkie gleam in my eye. I like getting neat old stuff cheap, like my Rover. My reaction against my mother's insistence on all-new everything, maybe, I prefer good, solid, old things, even if I have to fix them up myself. That kid knew he was looking at a sucker the moment I came in.

"Sure," I said.

He entered my name and office phone number into the database and gave me a printed catalog and a cardboard paddle with a number on it.

"Don't lose your paddle or I'll have to register you again," he warned.

I tucked it into my bag. "I won't. Now, how can I catch up to Will?"

"Oh, just wait and watch for him. Hell be out in a minute and he usually does a walk-through before we close up in a place like this. You can't miss him. He's tall and he has white hair. I'll point him in your direction."

"I'll keep an eye out for him."

The kid nodded and went back to something on his computer. I strolled off into the aisles of stuff.

I did not spot anything that looked like it could be a parlor organ. Among the piles of rope and wood, crates of boat parts, woodworking and machine tools, there were a lot of desks and drawing tables, filing cabinets, chairs, objects of use, and even a few objects of beauty. And a boat, as promised: a complicated little thing with two short masts and a lot of carved woodwork. There was also a great collection of model ships—some of which appeared to be Ingstrom design models—and a lot of yacht furniture from the 1920s. There was also some antique furniture that must have come from the executive offices, including a table you could land a Boeing on.

Deep in the piles, I spotted a small cabinet jostled in between two much larger pieces. It wasn't a parlor organ, but it pulled at my attention. So I pushed my way to it, chiding myself against buying another piece of needy furniture when I was a bit needy myself.

The cabinet was old, short, narrow, painted a ghastly red, and in terrible condition. It didn't need a home as much as it needed a trip to the dump, but I marked the lot number in my catalog anyway. It might turn out to be wonderful under the grunge. I've always had good luck with oddball items.

The rattle of the warehouse door coming down made me turn. It was five to seven, according to a big clock on the wall.

High over the stacks of stuff and ranks of file cabinets, passing quickly under the dim cones of light that sliced the aisles, flashes of silver and black caught my eye. Someone quite tall and slim moved toward me with a long stride that painted white arcs in the air where the light reflected off silvery hair. This had to be Will. From a distance, I guessed he was fifty.

He corrected his course and strolled up the aisle I was standing in. Then he stopped in front of me and I stood there, poleaxed. Not fifty. Two-hundred-watt smile. "Hi. Michael said you were looking for me."

My heart did a little changeup and my stomach turned a sympathetic flip. I just wanted to stand and stare at him. Angular face and hazel eyes behind rimless spectacles, shades of freakishly premature silver, white, and gray in his glimmering hair. The black turtleneck and jeans he wore didn't obscure the flow of muscle and limb beneath them. Worth watching in action. A crooked grin full of slightly crooked, very white teeth. I got a hold of myself just in time to correct an imminent stammer.

I put out my hand, dazed. "I'm Harper Blaine. I'm a private investigator."

He wrapped my hand in one of his. "William Novak. Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?" His hand was so big it could have gone around my own good-sized paw twice. I'm five ten in my socks; not many men tower over me. Even fewer make me like it.

I wet my throat and coughed. "I'm trying to locate a parlor organ that may have come into the possession of Ingstrom in the late seventies or early eighties. Is there a parlor organ in this sale?"

"Early-twentieth-century grot? Curlicues and bad reeds? Normally, I'd be thrilled to say 'No such item here, but you make me wish there was one."

I felt the prickling heat of a blush. "It belonged to my client's family. Do you think anyone else might know anything about it? Is there someplace else it might be stored?"

"Possibly at the house, or it might have been sold already, privately. Have you met Mrs. Ingstrom and asked her? The senior Mrs. Ingstrom, that is."

I had to shake my head. "Neither Mrs. Ingstrom," I replied.

"Hmmm… well, I could introduce you at the auction. I assume you will be coming back for the auction," he added, eyeing the paddle peeking out of my bag.

"I was planning on it. I thought I might bid on a few things for myself."

"Like what?"

I pointed over my shoulder. "That silly cabinet over there, lot 893."

He crinkled his brow and strode over to it. "This one? Kind of an ugly little thing, isn't it? Surgeon's cabinet. Doctors and dentists used to keep their instruments in them, in the good old days before scrubbing and autoclaves. Nasty concept, isn't it? Still, you could find a treasure in there, if you can break it free of all that paint. A ten-dollar gold piece or one of Doc Holliday's own teeth," he added with a wink.

"With my luck it'll turn out to be just the right size to fit between the toilet and the sink. It's ugly, but it sort of… talks to me."

"Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers? And I doubt they come much stranger than this bit."