"I will."

"No. I, Will—you, Harper," he said and winked at me before jogging back into the warehouse.

Well, that was interesting. Maybe Mr. Novak found me as sexy as I found him. I'd just have to wait and see, wouldn't I? Damn, but he looked good in jeans and a sweater. I wondered what he looked like first thing in the morning…

I drove back home and hauled the chair—it seemed to weigh a short ton—and the cabinet up to my living room. I debated letting Chaos out to run around, but decided that the chair was far too attractive a hazard. Unsupervised romps would have to be put on hold until I could fix it. I took a shower and put on fresh clothes more appropriateate to my evening's plan.

First I drove around a bit while it was still light and located the ATMs Cameron had been using. They were all within a dozen blocks of the historic district. Then I drove to my office to pick up copies of Cameron's photograph. My pager started jiggling at my waist as I unlocked the door. Quinton's alarm system was working, though it took me a little while to remember how to disarm it. Nothing more drastic than pager palsy occurred.

I walked down to the Dome Burger for a bite of dinner. While I munched through a burger big enough to choke a Doberman, I asked the young Asian woman behind the counter if she'd seen Cameron.

She looked at the picture but shook her head. "I don't think so." She sang out in Vietnamese to her husband behind the grill.

He came out and looked at the picture while she ran off my story to him. He also shook his head.

That's the way this sort of operation goes: six hours on your feet for a return rate of one yes for every seventy-five to one hundred nos. Still, one positive can be all it takes.

I thanked the couple, finished as much of the burger as I could manage, and started onto the slow work of the evening.

Saturday night in the Square was hopping, but as I worked, I had that observed feeling again, though I couldn't spot a watcher in the crowd. But so what? It's not like this job was going to be exciting. I figured they could watch me work all they liked, so long as they stayed nut of my way.

I canvassed the bouncers and bartenders at every club in Pioneer Square and every night clerk in every late-closing restaurant and shop I could find. Most gave me a no. From a few I got a maybe. Several took my card and agreed to contact me if they saw Cameron. Then a bouncer at one of the clubs said, "Yes."

Chapter 12

His name was Steve, and he was sitting on a stool just inside the door to Dominic's. He looked at the photo, then raised his eyes to scan for obnoxious drunks and underage partyers. "Yeah. I think I've seen this kid. Not in a while, though. Came in a couple-few times." "When was this?"

Steve shrugged. "January, February, like." "You card him?"

"Musta done. He don't look legal." "He wasn't. Birthday was March seventh."

"Damn it, don't tell me that. My boss'll kill me. Card said he was good. He was good. OK?"

My turn to shrug. "Why do you remember him if it was so long ago?" I asked.

"Patterns. That's what you look for. You know—certain panhandlers always always hang on the same corners, certain guys always get real quiet just before they try to bust somebody in the chops. Can't watch everybody in a crowd like this, so you get to know the signs, look for the disruption in the patterns. This kid, he was a pattern breaker. Didn't fit. Slow time of year—shoulda known he was a freakin' minor. Showed up, like, two or three nights a week. Come in right after dark, stay a while waiting for some people, then leave, usually alone. Then he stopped coming around. Haven't seen him in a while."

"Who were the people he waited for?"

"Harder to say. They were more like a type. Not so much regulars as clubbers—you know, the ones who hit the circuit every night or every Friday and make the rounds. Not really anybody's regulars and not really anybody's friends, but they're there all the time and you sort of know who they are."

"Be more specific—what type?"

"Uh-huh—hey, you! ID, please." He broke off to block a young guy and his twitchy date at the door. He stuck out his hand, snapping his fingers and giving the "come on" wave.

Nervous, the guy handed the bouncer his driver's license.

Steve glared at it. "According to this, you won't be legal until after midnight."

The kid shifted and whined. "Aw, come on, man. It's my birthday! Show some class."

"Hey, you're still underage until twelve-oh-one a.m., man. So why don't you show a little class and take this pretty lady out to a nice dinner and come back after midnight?"

The birthday boy slumped and led his date away.

The bouncer turned back to me. "What type, huh? Gothies. The black hair and white makeup crowd. But there's a couple of 'em always scare the crap out of me—though, you say so and I'll deny it. You know, kind of guys look at you like they're looking through you, but not like they're ignoring you. Like you're nothing but meat to them. Be just as glad to hack you up." He gave a hard nod. "That kind."

A shiver rushed over me. "Any names you could give me?"

He shrugged. "Don't know any of 'em personally. Don't want to either, you know? But I'll keep my eyes peeled and my ears open. Give you a call if I find out anything, OK?"

I handed him my card. "Good enough."

I hit several more places before calling it a night. My feet were complaining, and I wanted a drink myself, but I headed back toward my office instead, too tired to worry about anyone who might be trailing me. But I stuck to well-lit streets, rather than crossing through the alleys.

The ghosts were thick around the Square, and being tired and distracted, I had a hard time remembering to dodge only the normal traffic. Pushing the Grey edge away constantly was exhausting, and I wasn't very good at, anyway. I almost got hit by a car while trying to avoid a sudden ghostly gap in the sidewalk. I paused under the pergola on the Square to read my watch. It was 11:22. I knew I'd missed some places, but at that point, I didn't care.

"Hi, Harper. You out partying, or working?"

I glanced up and around. Quinton was standing beneath the next iron arch, grinning at me from under a much-battered drover's hat.

"I was working, but I'm quitting for the night. What about you?"

"Just goofing off. Can I buy you a drink?"

"If you know someplace quiet where no one will complain if I take my shoes off," I replied.

"You bet I do. Come with me, fair maiden," he added, motioning me along.

Quinton struck off east, then turned and led me into a saloon along the angled block of rather disreputable buildings on Second Avenue Extension. The name of the place seemed to be some kind of double entendre that I was too tired to puzzle out.

From the outside, I expected low, dim, and smoky, but it wasn't. Broad, deep, and high-ceilinged, the original carved turn-of-the-century backbar and brass-railed front bar still dominated the room. The place was pretty empty. Of the three men at the bar, one was the bartender. A couple sat at a front table and conversed with the guys at the bar. Across the room, another couple shot pool, observed by two single men seated on high stools, bantering and kibitzing. The place hadn't changed since it was built.Quinton noticed my assessment. "It's a dive, all right, but it's quiet, decent and the owner" — he pointed to the bartender—"doesn't care if you take your shoes off, so long as you keep your socks on. What would you like to drink?"

"Whatever you're having. Oh, and ask the owner if he's ever seen this guy," I added, shoving a copy of Cameron's picture into his hands.

Quinton returned with two large glasses of beer. He handed me the photo. "He said he doesn't recognize him."