Fired Up

bonding.
    Winters had been cool about Rose, her secretary, as well. The elaborate tattoos and piercings sometimes made clients nervous. Then again, she decided that it would probably take a lot more than some extensive body art and unusually placed jewelry to make Winters uneasy. Hand the man a flaming sword, and you would have a warrior-priest or maybe an avenging angel, she thought. It wasn’t just the stern, ascetic features or the lean, hard body. It was the cold, knowing look in his green eyes. It was as if he sensed all your weaknesses and wouldn’t hesitate to use them against you.
    Satisfied, Hector retreated to his bed in the corner of the room and settled down. But he did not go back to sleep. Instead, he continued to watch Jack with an expression of rapt attention.
    It occurred to her that, in her own, hopefully more subtle, way she was doing pretty much the same thing; watching Jack Winters closely. She was torn between fascination and profound wariness. The energy stirring in the room disturbed her in new and unsettling ways. She probably should be a lot more worried, she thought. Instead she was intrigued.
    Winters ignored her invitation to sit. He walked across the hardwood floor to the windows overlooking First Avenue and the rain-drenched scene of Pioneer Square. Her senses still heightened, she took another quick look at his footprints. No question about it, Winters was a powerful talent.
    On general principle, she was always deeply suspicious of strong talents. It was not just that high-level sensitives were rare and potentially dangerous. The more serious issue was that there was always the possibility that they were affiliated with the Arcane Society. Avoiding contact with Arcane was a Harper family motto.
    Most of her regular clients came to her through referral. Someone who knew someone who needed her services arranged for an introduction. Jack had not been referred. Harper Investigations was not in the phone book. Her online presence was extremely discreet and so was her upstairs office. She rarely got walk-ins. Yet somehow Winters had discovered her. Intuition told her that it was not random chance that had brought him to her. Common sense dictated that she be wary.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Winters?” she heard herself say instead.
    “I want to hire you to find an old family heirloom.” Jack did not turn around. Instead, he concentrated on the view outside the window, as if the sight of the late- nineteenth-century brick and stone buildings in the city’s oldest neighborhood was riveting. “I understand you’re good at that kind of thing.”
    In the Northwest it was never smart to judge a man’s financial status by his clothes because a lot of wealthy people, especially the new-money folks who had made their fortunes in high-tech businesses, bought their jackets, running shoes and pants from the same outdoor gear stores as everyone else. Nevertheless, there were always subtle clues and signs. She was sure that whatever Jack Winters did, he was very, very good at it and therefore successful.
    “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am very good at finding things,” she said. “What, exactly are you looking for, Mr. Winters?”
    “A lamp.”
    She folded her hands together on top of the desk and thought about that for a moment. For some reason the name Winters and the word lamp in the same sentence rang a very distant bell, an alarm bell. But she could not put it together. She made a note to call her grandfather later. Harry Harper was the family historian.
    “Perhaps you could describe this lamp, Mr. Winters,” she said.
    “It’s old,” he said. He finally turned around to look at her. “Late seventeenth century.”
    “I see. You’re a collector, I assume?”
    “No. But I do want this particular lamp. Like I said, it’s a family heirloom.”
    “When did it go missing?”
    “Thirty-six years ago.”
    “Stolen?”
    “Possibly.” He shrugged. “Or maybe just lost. All I know is that it disappeared during the course of a cross-country move the same year that I was born. Not the first time it’s gone missing.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    His mouth kicked up at one corner, but there was no humor in the smile. “It has a habit of getting lost.”
    She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “Can you tell me a little more about the lamp?”
    “I’ve never seen it, but my parents told me that it isn’t particularly attractive or even interesting.