Which made me wonder if they wanted to be seen. I mean, anyone who’d watched enough cop movies knew better than to mirror movements exactly.
I did a left into Smith street, then slowed down and watched. A white Holden swept around the corner, then the brake lights flashed as the car came to an abrupt halt outside the Seven-Eleven store. No one climbed out of the car to go inside, however.
Maybe they thought I was the type of driver who didn’t pay attention to such things, and normally they’d be right. But after Goliath’s attack, I’d learned the hard way that paying attention was a good thing.
I put my foot down. My old car hesitated—as if in shock—then surged forward with an almost throaty roar. I swept through amber lights at Langridge Street, saw the Holden sweep through the red, barely missing a turning tram in the process. The two of us roared down a thankfully empty Smith Street, the Holden steadily gaining ground—not surprising given my old car's glory days had long ago pass her by.
I swung left at Johnson Street, my tires squealing, sending pedestrians scattering as I fought to keep the car in a straight line. Then I planted my foot on the accelerator and took off. The Holden echoed my movements a couple of heartbeats later, but he wasn’t quite as lucky at keeping the nose of the car straight, and its rear end hit the side of another car before it took up the chase again. It gave me a few precious seconds space.
I swung left, did a right into a one way street, then turned off my headlights and parked under the canopy of an overgrown tree.
And that’s precisely where I stayed for the next twenty minutes.
Once my heartbeat had come down to a more normal rate, and I was reasonably sure that my tail had given up, I made my way home. I didn’t see the Holden again—although maybe that was because they’d finally gotten a clue and figured out how to tail someone properly.
There were no lights on in my house, but the TV was, meaning everyone but the ogres had made their way home. Guilt swirled through me—it had been my dinner party, after all.
I made a mental note to hold another one—more to make it up to Val than anyone else—then locked up my car and headed around to the front door. A shiny new lock greeted me, but thankfully, it wasn’t actually locked because I didn’t have a key for the thing.
The dueling sound of snores coming from both the spare bedroom and the living room greeted me as I walked down the hall. Keale had obviously gone to bed, but Moe and Curly were sprawled over the sofas, bare feet dangling over the ends, and Guy was on the floor. I continued on, and found Ceri in the kitchen unpacking the dishwasher.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, as I threw my keys and bag on the nearby counter. “But I appreciate it all the same.”
She half-shrugged. “There was nothing else to do given we’re not exactly rushed off our feet with work at the moment.”
“True. You want a coffee?”
She nodded as she put the last of the plates away, then dried her hands on an old tea towel and walked across to the table. “So, family problems all sorted out?”
I snorted. “Hardly. Someone murdered Frank Logan and set Gilroy up to take the fall. The only person I can think of right now who is mad enough to even attempt something like that is Lyle. But-”
“But you don’t want to believe he’s capable of something like that,” Ceri finished for me.
I passed her a coffee then sat down. “Oh, I know he’s capable of murder. He’s an elf, and a Phillecky, after all.”
“You’re a Phillecky,” she noted dryly. “That doesn’t automatically make you a murderer.”
“Well, no, but I’m only half elf. There is a difference.”
“Only in the minds of elves. To the rest of the world, you’re an elf—only friendlier.”
I smiled. “What I meant is, elves don’t view killing in the same light the rest of us do. If it’s more efficient to kill a rival than deal with them, then kill they will. Besides, I’m definitely not a Phillecky in their eyes, even if I bear the name.”
“For which we all say a prayer of thanks every day.” She grinned. “Particularly the ogres, who would be shadows of themselves without the use of your fridge.”
I laughed. “That is sadly true.”
She took a sip of coffee, then leaned back in her chair. “If you believe Lyle is more than capable of murder, why don’t you want to believe he killed Frank Logan?”
“It’s not so much the murder, but rather the fact Gilroy was set up to take the fall.” I took a drink then wrinkled my nose and reached for the sugar. “I might not be family, but Gilroy is, and even Lyle respects the blood bond.”
“Even if his family has, over the years, tried to get him committed?”
“Even if.”
She studied me for a moment, then said, “What about Mona? Could he have also murdered her?”
I was shaking my head before she’d even finished. “If there’s one thing I truly believe in this whole fucking mess, it’s that Lyle honestly loved Mona.”
“You can love someone and still kill them, you know.” There was a grim edge in her voice. “I saw it time and again when I was a cop.”
“Lyle didn’t do it.”
It was almost stubbornly said, and Ceri smiled. “Is that family loyalty speaking, or instinct?”
I hesitated. “Probably a bit of both, if I’m at all honest.”
“Well, let’s do what we used to do in homicide, and look at all the other possibilities. Who else, beside our dead suitors, had a reason to murder her?”
I snorted softly. “Well, there’s a little black book filled with images of the men who’d answered her call, and if she was attempting to blackmail some or all of them as well the Logans and Gilroy, that would certainly provide a number of suspects.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And have you handed this book over to Kaij? It should be in his possession if you want this case solved.”
“Yeah, I know.” I half shrugged. “I just-”
“Didn’t want to drop family into it, even if that family deserves jack-shit from you when it comes to loyalty or respect.”
“Basically, yes.”
She shook her head, her expression bemused. “So who else is there?”
“Well, if it’s no-one in the black book, there’s only Darryl, her driver.”
“And is he capable?”
“More than capable. He didn’t do it though—if only because I’m sure he would have had more sense than dispose of the body so thoughtlessly.”
“Is the fact that she was dumped in the bay any clue?”
I frowned. “I guess it does suggest that whoever disposed of her might have cared enough to give her the sea burial.” In siren lore, being buried under the earth or cremated was akin to sentencing your soul to an eternity of hell. The sea was their mother, their birthplace, and it was the sea to whom they returned at the journey’s end. And anyone who knew anything about sirens would be more than a little aware of this. “But there are better ways of hiding a body, even in the sea. I mean, she didn’t even appear to be weighted.”
“Which is no doubt why she washed up.”
I nodded. “And that speaks to someone who was reacting emotionally rather than logically. More attempting to give her a proper burial rather than getting rid of evidence.”
“Which, again, points to Lyle.”
“It’s not Lyle. It’s not.”
And yet, I knew deep down, he had to be a suspect. It made sense, especially given his recent behavior. I took another sip of coffee, then played the devil’s advocate and said, “Let’s just say he did murder Mona. Why then employ us to find the killer?”
“It’s more than possible he’s blanked out the event. Physical or emotionally traumatic events can lead to a condition called dissociative amnesia, which helps a person cope by allowing them to temporarily forget details of the event.” She shrugged. “Sufferers often suppress memories of the event until they are ready to handle them, which unfortunately, doesn’t always occur.”
I grimaced. “I still can’t imagine-”
“You may not want to,” she interrupted softly. “But if you want this case solved, you may just have to.”
“I know, but-”
“Look at the facts, and just the facts.” She raised her hand, and began ticking points off on her fingers. “One, Lyle believed James Logan had been threatening Mona; James Logan is subsequently killed in a helicopter crash with a drugged up dragon. Two, Lyle discovers that Frank Logan was responsible for beating her up, and that Gilroy had answered her call but had zero respect for her. One day later, Frank is dead and Gilroy set up for the crime. Three, Lyle, through you, had easy access to a dragon with a very bad drink-flying record. Four, he’s a very high-profile lawyer working with legal aid, and would have no trouble getting in to see Frank Logan. And finally, five; given that he is now working for legal aid, he has the contacts, if not the knowledge himself, to know where to get Prevoron.”
When it was all laid out like that, there certainly was enough evidence to suggest that Lyle, at the very least, should be on the suspect list. And hell, maybe he was on Kaij’s list.
“We don’t know yet that Keale was drugged.”
“That still doesn’t alter the truth of points one to four.” She hesitated. “Cigarette butts were found at the scene, weren’t they?”
“No,” I said, answering what she was inferring not what she actually asked.
I could feel her gaze on me, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to believe, didn’t want to see.
“When you went to see him this evening, what would you say his state of mind was?”
An image of Lyle’s hunched figure flashed through my mind. Disturbed and withdrawn were apt enough descriptions. “He’s just lost someone he loved. It’s natural that he’s not actually rationally.”
