Poltergeist

"Ms. Blaine, you persistently lecture me, and I find it extremely a

"Dr. Tuckman, I suspect you'd be a

I could hear him simmering. "I will brief the group on Sunday. Meanwhile, work on finding my saboteur.”

I started to tell him off on that point, too, but he'd hung up.

I made more phone calls to his project team, but only managed to catch up to two of them: Dale Stahlqvist and Ken George. From the voices, I recognized George as the artist who'd made the picture of Celia, and Stahlqvist as the middle-aged, blond businessman. George was on his way out, but said he could spare me some time on Saturday morning. Stahlqvist granted me the last hour of his day, if I could be at his office in ten minutes. The swanky Columbia Center wasn't any farther away from the dirt-crusted charm of Pioneer Square than the justice center, though it required another hike up the hill. I said I'd be there and rushed back out.

CHAPTER 11

Columbia Center is the tallest building in Seattle. It rears up from Fifth Avenue like three obsidian tors melded into one jutting prominence by some weird volcanic fit. In defiance of the prevailing winds, curved surfaces face Puget Sound like black sails. It is the bastion of billion-dollar corporations and millionaire executives. Someone called it the most obscene erection of ego on the Pacific Coast and I don't think he was too far wrong. Occupying the top two floors is the most expensive businessman's club in the city—the Columbia Tower Club—out-Babbitting even the venerable Washington Athletic Club. Dale Stahlqvist came down to the soaring red stone lobby to meet me.

Stahlqvist was one of those tall, pale blond men Hollywood likes to cast as Nazi Übermenschen or Viking raiders. In spite of my natural height plus the heels on my dress boots, he was still taller than me and he was inclined to look down his narrow beak as he assayed me.

"Well," he rumbled as he stopped in front of me and shook my hand, "we should go upstairs. A little more privacy in the CTC." "All right," I agreed, and I hoped he was paying. "So," he said as we rode up in the elevator, "you're what, another of Tuckman's graduate students?”

"No, Mr. Stahlqvist. I'm a private investigator.”

"Really? I didn't think they actually existed. How interesting. You're not what comes to mind when I think of private eyes.”

"Yeah, I'm taller than Bogie.”

He laughed. "And much prettier.”

While I suppose I am prettier than Humphrey Bogart, I'm no standout beauty and I know when I'm being buttered up, if not why. I imagined that Stahlqvist would have continued trying to turn my head a while longer if we hadn't arrived at the seventy-fourth floor just as he opened his mouth.

"Oh. We're here. Please," he added, gesturing me ahead, into the hushed modern opulence of the Columbia Tower Club's lobby. Stahlqvist paused at the big mahogany reception desk to sign in and asked me to do the same; then he whisked me into the lounge, but not before I noticed the small sign thanking guests for adhering to the dress code and eschewing denim. It appeared that my lack of laundry time had brought me more than a dry-cleaning bill.

All right, so the view was breathtaking—even with the drizzle. The lounge faced Puget Sound through the only flat wall in the building. The dark glass stretched uninterrupted across the whole width and height of the wall and around the exterior corner until necessity required a less transparent segment for the service area. Cold water, painted pink and orange with sunset, spread at the foot of Seattle's hills and, to the west, the sudden, white-peaked serration of the Olympic Mountains cut into the clouds above the peninsula. In spite of the tinted glass, it seemed as if I were a mere step from floating out over the view, weightless and free. This was not a room for those who suffer vertigo.

Since it was four o'clock, the lounge was a little crowded and I was relieved there were no free stools at the bar, facing that distracting panorama. We were forced to take a table, though both seats still commanded the view with the merest turn of the head. I chose the seat with the poorer aspect and Stahlqvist, acting the gentleman, couldn't argue with me when the declining sun was in his face instead of mine. Though I can see a great deal that Stahlqvist couldn't in any light, I still like the old-fashioned advantages, too.

He tried to order me an impressive drink, but I insisted on soda water with lime. "I'm working. I shouldn't drink.”

"Oh, yes. But I am not, so I'll have the Balvenie Fifteen on the rocks, thanks.”

The waiter nodded, smiled, and left us. Stahlqvist turned his attention back to me. "So. What can I do for you, Harper?”

"I'm doing some additional checking on Dr. Tuckman's project and I wanted to ask you a few question about it.”

"On whose behalf are you asking?”

I smiled, even though he couldn't see it. "I'm not able to tell you that. Will that be a problem?”

"No. I can't see that it would. I have nothing to hide.”

"You'll pardon me for saying, but this project doesn't seem like your sort of thing at all, Dale.”

The waiter returned with our drinks as a frown flickered across Stahlqvist's face—he didn't like my using his first name. He sipped his scotch before answering. "It's not, really. My wife's thing—friend of Tuck's from the university days." And Stahlqvist didn't approve of that friendship. He rambled on for a while about his college days and his climb to economic power in the local community, dropping names and numbers. His only interest was money. It was obvious he didn't have any background that would enable him to fake any phenomena, nor would he care to.

I nodded for a while, then nudged him back on track. "You've been with the project since the begi

"I was skeptical at first, I admit it—I don't have any patience for mystical crap. Tuckman's completely right—this magic mumbo jumbo is just that. It's people who make the world what it is. It's people who really have the power to move—well, to move mountains! It's quite satisfying.”

I'd just bet it was. Peeking at him through the Grey, I could see that Stahlqvist glowed with excitement. He loved justifying his power and position. As he blithered on about what he felt they could do, I noticed that he had a thin yellow thread of energy encircling his head. It trailed away to the north, dimming in the sunlight and distance until I couldn't see it without taking a big step into the Grey—which I wasn't going to do then and there. There was something familiar about the thread. . As I tried to bring it to mind, I lost track of his words. Until he put his hand on my knee and bent a suggestive look at me.

I glanced at his hand, then back into his face. "I doubt your wife would approve of that offer.”

"Cara's her own woman. I'm my own man.”

My bullshit meter pegged to the redline. Even in the Grey he had a smarmy shiftiness to him that only reinforced that feeling. I let my i

Stahlqvist looked surprised and pulled his hand back, making the movement into a glance at his Rolex. "It is getting a bit late. What else did you need to know?”

I asked him for his impressions of the other participants and watched his aura flicker and shift colors as he replied, flushing through oranges and reds and into sickly green spikes. He said they were all great friends, though it was obvious he disdained them. He was jealous of Celia's fondness for Ken—the artist—and of the older military man's ability to assume control of the group. Dale Stahlqvist felt he merited more consideration from both ghosts and humans—including his wife. Something between them caused Stahlqvist distress, but he slapped a lid on it.