… ”
“Saying he's tied to Eyes Only is like sayin' he hangs with Zorro.”
“Who?”
“Pre-Pulse reference. Sorry. Damn, you
young… Anyway, if he is working with or for Eyes Only, we'll have a damn hard time turning anything. Eyes Only is more than just a voice and eyes on some cable hack… it's more like a network. People who help Eyes Only, they're all loyal, and they don't talk to anybody about anything, if you're not one of them.”
Max felt her hopes slipping away, like water through her fingers. She'd come into this knowing Seattle was a big city, but Vogelsang knew the town inside out; and while her brother was a trained professional soldier, so was she. Why, between the two of them, couldn't they find him?
“So you don't know anything more than when we started? What am I paying you for, again? Remind me.”
With a shrug, Vogelsang sipped from a lidded cup— there was no way to tell what was inside, which was probably the idea. But something about his eyes— the way they seemed to flicker with thought, first tight, then loose, then tight…
“Mr. Vogelsang!”
He almost jumped, and the cup would have spilled, but for the lid.
paged
she reminded him sternly. “Why? To tell me you have jack shit?”
The private eye righted the cup, then smiled in a nervous, fleeting, wholly inappropriate manner. “I guess I did find out one thing.”
The hope welled within her, though she tried to keep such emotions in check. “What do you ‘guess' you found out?”
“… I'm not the only one looking for this guy.”
Her eyes widened as she settled back into the chair, stunned as a clubbed baby seal.
Two names popped into her mind: Lydecker; and Sterling… and then another: Kafelnikov. “How do you know?”
“It's all over the street.”
Max sat forward again. “Explain.”
“Pawnshop owner, name of Jacobs, he's… not what you would call a real upright citizen. More what you'd call… well… ”
“A scumbag,” she said curtly. “Hard to imagine you associating with that type. What did he tell you?”
The detective didn't argue with the characterization. “Anyway, Jacobs told me I wasn't the first guy that had come 'round lately askin' about a kid with these particular talents.”
“Who
is looking?”
“This is where it gets… scary. It's somebody with a lot of grease, maybe even federal. Two bent cops… forgive the redundancy… were accompanying this character around.”
“What character?”
“I didn't get a name— just a blond guy, not big or anything… but there was somethin' about him, Jacobs said, scared him shitless. Jacobs, y'understand, is a guy who's dealin' with the dregs every hour of every day… nothin' I know of ever scared Jacobs before, that's why he's able to thrive, livin' like he does, sort of on the fringes.”
Vogelsang was on a nervous roll and might never shut up, and Max was listening, but her mind was working out whether the blond man was Lydecker, Sterling, or even Kafelnikov. The latter two would be bad enough, but if Manticore was on Seth's heels, Max
needed to get to her brother, first.
“Anyway, Jacobs said he asked around, and the two cops and the blond guy were rousting every crook on the street, from the connected ones to the crum bums… slappin' 'em around, when necessary, even guys that paid for protection.” His concern seemed genuine; even a little of it may have been for her. “Listen, Max, we're playin' with fire— if this is
I—”
“Okay,” Max said, patting the air. “Back to earth— settle.”
The detective nodded and tried to regulate his breathing. He asked, “You got any idea who this blond guy might be?”
“No… maybe you should hire a detective to find out.”
That seemed to hurt him a little. “Very funny.”
“Did your friend Jacobs know anything about the kid with the barcode?”
Vogelsang shook his head. “No— but his ears are perked. I got feelers all around town on this thing.”
“Good,” she said, letting out a long breath. “Keep on it.”
He nodded, then gave her a sheepish look. “Money's goin' fast though, kiddo.”
She glared at him.
He held his hands up, as if surrendering. “What can I do? I got overhead… getting street info means greasing palms, and if you don't mind terribly, I gotta make a living myself.”
She moved out to the edge of the chair again and gave him a cold, hard, unblinking stare. “If you want money, Mr. Vogelsang… you're gonna have to help me get it.”
Now he pushed the air with his palms, like a bad mime fighting imaginary wind. “Whoa, whoa, whoa… I'm an officer of the court, y'know… comes with the license. I don't do crime.”
She gave him an arched-brow look.
He shrugged, smirked humorlessly. “Nothing you can do time for, anyway. Guy in my line does work the gray area sometimes.”
“Do tell… All I need is a name.”
He squinted, as if Max had gone out of focus momentarily. “Whose name?”
“Let's just say… speaking hypothetically, since I wouldn't want to offend an officer of the court… if you had a valuable piece of art, who would you go to, if you wanted to sell?”
He considered that. “I suppose this sale would have to be of a confidential nature.”
She nodded.
“An off-the-books transaction.”
“Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not quick.”
The detective squinted again. “Large scale?”
“Oh yeah. Could keep you in egg rolls for a long time.”
Sparked by this incentive, Vogelsang thought for several long, hard seconds. “Forget the guy I mentioned earlier… Jacobs? Large scale is beyond him. But there is one guy, and he's not far from here. His name is Sherwood.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Been down on his luck, but he's good. Right now he does business in this old building off Broad Street.”
This time it was Max who squinted. “Will I need an intro with Mr. Sherwood?”
“Yeah, you will.”
“And who's going to do that for me?” Max asked as she rose.
Vogelsang smiled at her and rubbed his fingers back and forth against his thumb. “I maybe could be persuaded.”
She leaned on the desk with both hands. “You want to keep getting paid?”
The detective switched gears. “I could call him for you, sure— sort of a favor to a good client. Referral kinda
