I should have kept talking to my father and gotten some more details, I guess, but even if temper hadn’t gotten the better of me, he probably wouldn't have said much more. Other than vomit more poison, that was.
I glanced up as Val walked into the living room, his expression concerned. “You okay, darls?”
I shook my head. “I’m neck deep in shit and sinking fast.”
He sat beside me. “Anything I can do?”
“Yeah, keep acting like a wallflower and go absolutely nowhere alone.”
“Now I’m really worried. I definitely noted concern in your voice that time.”
“That’s because Gilroy has just been arrested for the murder of Frank Logan, and my goddamn father is laying the blame for both events at my feet.”
“Holy shit,” Val said, eyes widening. “Is he insane or what?”
“It’s the ‘or what’ I’m worried about. If he really believes I’m responsible, he’ll come after me and everyone I care about.”
“But-” Val paused and shook his head. “I guess he never did consider you family, but still, to threaten your own flesh and blood? That’s cold.”
“He’s an elf, Val.” And that, really, said it all, especially where I was considered. I was only a half blood, after all.
Val rubbed his jaw. “Maybe you’re the one that needs to keep a low profile. I mean, if you left town until this blows over-”
“If Gilroy is charged, it won’t ever blow over,” I cut in. “Bramwell will hunt me down and destroy me, no matter where I go.”
“I guess.” He shook his head. “What are you going to do?”
“The one thing I probably shouldn’t—solve this goddamn case.” I pushed to my feet. “Could you help Ceri with the hosting duties for a while?”
“Sure, but where are you going?”
“Over to Lyle’s.” Because if someone was out to destroy everyone who was a client of Mona, then he might just be next in line.
“Just be careful, won’t you?” Val caught my hand and squeezed it gently. “You may not be much of a sister, but you’re all I’ve got.”
“Don’t worry little brother,” I said, “I intend to be here to ignore and neglect you for many years yet.”
“Such a sweet thing to say. You’d better go before I get all teary.”
I grinned, then grabbed my coat and headed out. Most of the evening traffic had cleared, so I had a relatively free run across to Lyle’s apartment. I parked in the street opposite his building, and glanced up as I climbed out of the car. There were no lights on in Lyle’s place. No flickering glow to indicate the TV was on.
I locked the car then walked across the road and up the front steps. A row of six intercoms were lined up like soldiers near the main door—I pressed the penthouse, then waited for a response.
Surprisingly, there was one. “Yeah?”
I frowned. The old elf actually sounded sober, so why the hell was he sitting in a dark apartment? “Lyle? It’s Harri. Open up.”
“Harri, I’m not in the mood for one of your sermons. Go away.”
“No. You and I need to talk. Open the damn door, because I will press the buzzer until you do.”
He obviously believed me, because the door clicked open. I took the stairs rather than the elevator and by the time I reached the top floor, Lyle’s door was also open. I entered and closed it behind me. The shadows pressed close, thick with the smell of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. He might not have sounded drunk, but empty champagne bottles lined the coffee table. If they were any indication, he should have been out like a light, not staring blankly into the distance and puffing intermittently on the cigarette he held in his right hand. Surrounded by darkness, his face lit only by the glowing end of his cigarette, he looked gaunt, like an old man who was waiting for death’s cold touch.
“What the hell are you doing, Lyle?”
He took a long drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “Thinking.”
I walked across the room and sat on the arm of the chair opposite him. He didn’t look at me, just kept staring upwards at the barely visible smoke-covered ceiling. “About what?”
Lyle shrugged. “Justice.”
Unease slithered through me, although I wasn’t entirely sure why. “Justice for who?”
“Mona, of course. I heard not long ago on the news that another of the maggots who used her has been found dead.”
There was no emotion in his voice, no life. It was as if I was talking to the shell of a man I’d once known, and that sense of unease increased. Something was very, very wrong.
“I gather you’re talking about Frank Logan?”
“Yeah. Did you know the bastard threatened her?”
I did, but the question was, how did he? “Why would you think that?”
“Because I asked him.”
Oh, shit. “When?”
“After we talked to Bramwell and Gilroy. You were the one who raised the question about James and the money he gave Mona, so I rang Frank and asked him about it.”
“And?”
“And, James stole it from the family business. I got the impression Frank wasn’t exactly sorry that his brother died in that crash.”
It sounded like the Logans were as dysfunctional as the Philleckys. “What else did he say?”
“That he’d been dealing with the situation and was totally pissed when James paid her instead. He also said he’d told her not to expect another penny out of their family.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “He was the one who’d threatened her the day after the money drops.”
“He told you that?” I couldn’t help the surprise in my voice. Frank was a politician and should know better than to admit something like that, even to someone he thought trustworthy.
“Not in so many words. But he said he was dealing with the situation, he is a high profile politician, and it fits exactly with what Mona had said.”
“Two and two doesn’t always add up to four. You told me that yourself.”
“I’m betting this time, it does. Justice,” he added, with a cold smile. “Got to love it.”
“Lyle, even the police don’t know who killed Mona yet, so it can hardly be justice that both Frank and James Logan have been killed. They might not be the murderers.”
Lyle’s gaze met mine. In the sapphire depths anger burned—a deep, dark, all consuming anger that scared the hell out of me. Anger that like was capable of anything. Truly anything.
“No,” he said, “but they used her or abused her, and they deserve their deaths all the same.”
“What about Gilroy?”
Lyle snorted. “What about him?”
My eyebrows rose. “What do you mean, what about him? He’s been taken in for questioning about Frank Logan’s murder.”
A small smile touched his thin lips. “And justice strikes again.”
“Lyle, we both know that Gilroy, for all his faults, hasn’t the stomach for murder.”
“Maybe.” He stubbed out his cigarette, but immediately lit another. The lighter’s flame flared across the darkness, a brief sliver that did little to lift the smoky darkness. “But he was willing enough to fuck her, even though he had nothing but contempt for her. Well, he’s going to feel some of that contempt himself now, isn’t he?”
“He may deserve contempt—” and he certainly had mine—“but we both know he doesn’t deserve to have his career destroyed over Frank’s murder. He didn’t do it.”
His gaze rested on mine. “Why are you so sure of that? He’s cut from the same cloth as Bramwell-”
“No,” I interrupted. “He isn’t. He hasn’t got the same steel in his bones. He’s been mollycoddled his entire life. Anytime anything went wrong, it was Bramwell who handled it, not Gilroy.”
“So you’re saying Bramwell killed her?”
“No, I am not, though he’s certainly capable of it.” I eyed him warily. “As are you.”
“I didn’t kill Mona, Harriet. I couldn’t. I loved her.” He puffed on the cigarette, then said, “You’re cut from the same cloth as Bramwell and I, you know. If Gilroy had half your backbone, he would have made one hell of a politician.”
I might have the steel, but I didn’t have the same cold soul, and for that I was extremely grateful. “Is that why you’re just sitting here? Because you have nothing but contempt for your nephew?”
“I’m sitting here contemplating justice, as I said. And I think she’s doing a fine job so far.”
With more than a little help from person or persons unknown. “What about Keale?”
Confusion briefly etched his face. “Where does that drunken sod come into any of this?”
“Why haven’t you been bothering the cops about the blood results?”
“They’ll get here when they get here.” His voice was suddenly testy. “Stop gnawing and let it go.”
“No. If he was as drunk as they’d said, he wouldn’t have been able to fly.”
He snorted. “Blood results don’t lie, half-breed.”
Half-breed. And this time, it was an insult. “This wasn’t an accident.”
“Look, he’s going to do time, even if he does have Prevoron in his system, so why the big deal?”
“Because the drug can kill him. We at least need to know how much he has in his system.”
Lyle shook his head. “All this fuss for a useless, drunken piece of dragon flesh.”
“He’s a friend, Lyle. And he’s not useless. He’s a caring, good hearted-”
“You’re a bloody romantic, you are.”
Did steel and romanticism go together? Maybe they did, but it still seemed a contradiction—although I’m sure there were plenty of people who would call me just that.
