I used the ladies' lounge at the department store to clean up, then started toward the Paramount Theater.

The condo was in a swanky building. It had started out as a hotel in the thirties and been converted into expensive condominiums in the late eighties. The lobby had an electronic security lock and call system at the door and a husky majordomo at the desk inside. I pushed the call button.

"May I help you?" came out of the speaker. I could see the man behind the desk talking into a white telephone handset. His mouth moved just ahead of the voice from the speaker. The effect was a bit like a poorly dubbed film.

"Yes," I replied. "I was wondering who the leasing agent for this building is."

"There aren't any vacancies in the building at the present time."

"I'm not interested in leasing. I just want to talk to the agent about something related to the building."

There was a pause. "Stanford-Davis Properties."

I'd never heard of them. "Would you mind giving me the phone number?"

The man hung up. I was just thinking up nasty words to call him when he marched over to the door and opened it. He was huge. He was not any taller than me, but he filled the doorway. On purpose. He held out a business card that looked like a chewing gum wrapper in his massive paw. I took it.

I looked at it. Stanford-Davis Properties information card. "Thanks."

"It's nothing," the man replied. Then he stepped back and closed the door between us. He stood there to watch me go. His steady, remote gaze set off a feeling like ants crawling up and down my spine. I backed from the door, then turned to go down the steps.

I tucked the card in my jeans pocket and walked back to my office. I wanted a cup of coffee, but what I got was a message from Mrs. Ingstrom.

"Miss Blaine, I found a bill of sale for that organ. If you'll call me back, I'll give you all the information I have."

I wrote down the number and listened through the rest of my messages, including my landlord complaining about the charge to change the locks. The bliss of the painfully mundane. I made a note to call him back, then dialed the number for Stanford-Davis.

A perky receptionist answered. "Stanford-Davis Properties. How can I help you?"

"I'd like to talk to the agent who manages the Para-Wood condominiums, please."

"That's Mr. Foster, but he's not in today. However, I do know that the building is fully leased and no new leases are expected to come available before 2010."

"I'm not interested in leasing myself, but I am trying to discover who is leasing a specific unit in the building. This may pertain to a future criminal investigation." I let it be ugly.

She squeaked. "I… I just don't know. I'll have to have Mr. Foster call you back tomorrow."

"I need the information as soon as possible. Is there someone who can look up the file for Mr. Foster? His secretary? I could come to the office for the information."

"Oh no. That won't be necessary. Give me your name, phone number, and the unit number, and I'll have Mr. Foster's secretary call you."

"All right." I gave her the information and she assured me she would have the secretary return my call before close of business. The surfeit of butt kissing was discomfiting.

Secretaries know everything and run everything, but they are often clueless about the import of what they do. They are also great sources of information, if you can get one to talk. I hoped Mr. Foster's secretary would be a talker, but I wasn't expecting it. I stood and stretched and left my office to get a large cup of coffee.

When I returned, I set down my coffee and called my landlord. He wanted to argue about the cost of the new locks. I told him he was being a skinflint. He'd never heard the term before. We were in mutual mid-harangue when the call-waiting beep interrupted. I switched calls.

"Harper Blaine."

"Hey, it's Steve. From Dominic's. Remember me? Couple of nights ago you were looking for a blond kid? Well, I think I saw him last night."

"Hang on a second, Steve, I've got a call on the other line. Be right back." I popped over to my landlord. "Look, the lock was broken and I couldn't go off and leave my office unlocked, so bill me. OK?"

He muttered, but I ignored him. I was afraid Steve would have hung up, but he was still on the line when I toggled back to him.

"Thanks for waiting, Steve."

"No problem. So, that kid you were looking for? I think—no, I'm sure—I saw him last night."

"Where?"

"Outside the club."

"Why were you at the club on a Sunday?"

"Moving stuff around, just helping out. It was just getting dark when we knocked off. So I went out into the alley to throw some garbage in the Dumpster. And I see somebody out there. So I look around and then I see him kind of way in the back, in the dark."

"How did you recognize him? Did you get a good look?"

"Pretty good, yeah. You know that feeling you get when somebody's staring at you? Well, I got it, and I turned and there he was. So I stared back at him."

"Why?"

"Usually works. Sometimes we get junkies hanging around the alley and if you just stare hard, right at 'em, they go away. Or they jump you. But either way, it's something. So I stared at him and he took a step toward me. Then he just kind of faded back into the alley and ran away."

"You're sure it was him?"

"Or some other cupid-faced kid with yard-long blond hair, yeah."

"About what time?"

"About… seven thirty, eight o'clock."

"Why didn't you call me right away?"

"Didn't have your card with me."

It was more than I'd known an hour earlier. "Thanks. By the way, I was told he might have gotten tangled up with a guy called Edward who hangs around the clubs. Sounds like an aging Goth, from the description. Ring any bells?"

"Uh… no. Can't come up with any matches from that description. Sorry I can't give you any more."

"What you've given me is great. Oh, hey, how'd he look?"

"Look? The kid? Not good. Kinda gave me the willies, you want the truth."

That raised my eyebrows. "I do. Thanks again, Steve. There's ever anything I can do… that's legal…."

"Round about midnight on a Tuesday I could really use a triple skinny."

I laughed. "I'll remember that."

I hung up the phone and sat for a minute. My guesses had been good: Cameron Shadley was in the Pioneer Square district and something was wrong. Now I just had to bring us together. That might be hard.

Someone had told me once that the Pioneer Square historic district completely covered the original downtown of the early 1880s— small by modern standards, but still a city within the modern city, stretching from the new baseball stadium to the Cherry Street bend and from the waterfront to the train stations flanking Seventh Avenue. About fifty square blocks, and every inch of it crammed full of nooks and niches, basements and alleys. You'd need two hundred cops sweeping through with elbows linked to stand a decent chance of flushing one individual. Luck and shoe leather wouldn't be enough; I needed something specific to catch Cameron. But my brain resisted working. I sighed and put the problem on my mental back burner, trusting my subconscious to boil up an idea.

While that cooked, I'd concentrate on Sergeyev's missing parlor organ. I returned Ann Ingstrom's call.

Mrs. Ingstrom sounded stronger and more confident than she had on Saturday. "You know, it seems we got rid of the wretched thing more recently than I thought. It was 1990."

"Who bought it?"

"A man named Philip Stakis. It's not someone I know, so there's not much else I can tell you. Let me give you his phone number."

She rattled off the number and I wrote it down. "Thanks, Mrs. Ingstrom. Could I get a copy of the receipt from you, just to be thorough?"