Who Needs Enemies

“Get real. Shemp and I will need it when we go back to work.”



“Then borrow the money from him. I don’t really care where it comes from.”



“He ain’t got no money either,” Guy mumbled.



“Then give me the keys.”



“Harri!” Guy’s voice was plaintive. “Can you lend me fifty bucks?”



I rolled my eyes. Who’d have guess that was coming? I grabbed twenty dollars from my purse—which was precisely half of what remained in there—then headed slowly down the stairs. The four ogres were huddled in the far corner of the kitchen. Delilah stood in front of them, foot a-tapping and hands planted firmly on her hips. A sheep dog working her flock, I thought with amusement.



“I haven’t got fifty,” I said, and offered her the twenty instead.



Delilah snatched it from my hand, then waved the note fiercely at Guy. The ogre threw up his hands, as if warding off evil.



“I want the rest of my money by payday, and you’d better make sure you give Harri back her twenty, too.”



“I’ll pay, I’ll pay,” he said hastily.



“Good.” Deliliah glanced up. “You want me to get this scum out of your house, Harri?”



“Thanks, but no.” If the ogres went, Delilah might stay, and as much as I knew she meant well, I really couldn’t take much of her homespun advice on everything from my love life—or lack thereof—to how to repair my house. Besides, given what I’d just discovered, it might be handy to have a little muscle hanging about. Bramwell might be my father, but that wouldn’t stop him pulling any punches once he realized what I had.



“Then I’ll get going.” She hesitated, and glanced around. “There really is a shocking smell in this place. What the hell have you been doing?”



“The plumbing is playing up again,” I said calmly. If I mentioned the true source, none of us would hear the end of it.



She harrumphed and stalked out of the house, bleached blonde hair standing on end and waving a goodbye. Once the coast was clear, the ogres erupted into gales of laughter. I rolled my eyes and once again retreated.



Back at my desk, I placed Mona’s little black book in front of me and began the long process of retrieving all the images. There were twenty-two cards all up, and each one contained images of at least half a dozen men. Mona had been a very busy little siren.



It wasn’t until I was retrieving the images from the last of the cards when I noticed something odd about the book itself. There was a slight discoloration in the page that followed the final card, as if something had been stuck there but was now gone. I ran a finger across the paper. It was sticky, so if something had been there, it shouldn’t have fallen off. It could only mean it had been taken. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one who knew a siren’s hiding habits.



The question that now had to be answered was, was that person also her murderer?



I leaned back in the chair again. Technically speaking, I should hand the book and all the disks over to the PIT boys, and that’s certainly what Ceri would be demanding if she knew of their existence. Given what Val had said, it was obvious that some of her clients had known about each other. Maybe one of them would know who had been jealous enough to kill.



But handing it over meant risking a run in with Kaij, and my nerves hadn’t yet settled from our first almost-encounter. I needed more time to get used to the fact that he was back in town.



I glanced across to the printer and studied the photo of my father outside Mona’s apartment. He knew all about a siren’s hiding habits. He’d answered my mother’s song for more than ten years, until the call of duty and prosperity had finally become more alluring.



Had my father succumbed to the song yet again?



I couldn’t imagine it happening, not given his recent appointment as the head of the high council. When he’d spent all that time with my mother, he had—according to her—been little more than an adolescent looking for excitement, despite the fact he was over forty years old. He hadn’t at the time been destined for greatness and a seat on the high council. He had been married, of course, but like most Elven marriages, it was an arrangement made to strengthen political and business ties. I doubted the wife had known of his liaison with my mother though—not if the fuss my existence had eventually caused was any indication.



So why the hell had he been outside Mona’s apartment?



Only the man himself could answer that question. Somewhat reluctantly, I reached for the phone and dialed the number I knew by heart but had only ever used twice in my life.



After several rings, a polished voice said, “Phillecky residence.”



Jose, the butler. I knew a whole lot about where and how my father lived, even if I’d never been there. It was amazing what you could discover when you were a bored teenager armed with a computer and friends who could hack into just any system they wanted to.



“I’d like to speak to Bramwell Phillecky, please.”



“And who may I say is calling?”



“Just tell him Harri.”



There was a click. Symphony music came online. There was something to be said for elevator music, even if it assaulted the ears. Jose came back. “Transferring you now.”



I had no doubt I was being transferred to both a more secure line and room. Wouldn’t want the dirty washing aired within hearing range of staff, after all.



“What do you want?” My father’s voice, deep and impersonal.



“I’ve seen a photo you might want to explain,” I said, doing my best to imitate his tone.



“I haven’t got time for games, Harriet.”



Impatience edged his voice, and annoyance surged. “Nor have I. This is a photo of you outside the residence of a recently murdered siren. I want a meeting, and I want an explanation, otherwise I will take my knowledge to the police.”



Silence fairly crackled down the line. I could almost hear my father’s mind ticking over, no doubt figuring ways and means to get out of the situation.



“When?” he said eventually.



“The sooner the better.” I glanced at my watch. I still had to contact Lyle, then go see Keale, and I had no idea how long either of those would take. “Coffee at Noah’s Ark, in Lygon Street, at five PM.”



“Fine,” Bramwell said, and slammed the receiver down.



No surprise there. I dialed the café and booked a table, as the place was usually busy on the weekends, then leaned back and studied the photos still tiled on the screen. Given the fact my father had more than likely set the trolls onto Lyle, if I wanted to keep these things secure, I needed to keep them elsewhere. While I could keep the card in the safe and the computer key-coded locked, neither were one hundred percent thief proof. Which meant the only place I could store all the images—not just Lyle’s, but the ones I’d retrieved from Mona’s little black book—and be reasonably assured of their safety was by transferring them across to Cindy’s. She was another old school friend, a human who these days ran a large ISP. She’d given me five hundred gig of storage on their system some time back in return for doing her wedding photos, and while I did pay a nominal fee these days, it was still the safest place I had to store anything vital. No one was hacking into Cindy’s system—not when she was a reformed hacker herself, and kept up to date with all the tricks.



I spent the next couple of hours doing precisely that, then erased all evidence of having done so. Once I’d secured the disks and the book in the hidden floor safe, I finally picked up the phone and dialed Lyle.



“Harriet,” he said, voice gravely and tired sounding. “That punch-drunk friend of yours is in a whole heap of trouble.”



“Did you get them to test for Prevoron?”



“Yeah. They weren’t too pleased, especially since initial breath tests suggest he’s been drinking for days. In fact, they’re currently keeping a close eye on him because they suspect alcohol poisoning.” Lyle’s tone was almost scathing, although why when he’d certainly had enough alcoholic binges in his time I couldn’t say. Although elves weren’t affected by alcohol in the same way as many other races, so maybe it was just an elf’s general lack of sympathy for the frailty of others. “The Prevoron results will probably take four or five days to come through. But the biggest problem is the fact they’re intending to charge him with murder, not manslaughter.”



“What?” I said, voice incredulous. “They’re saying he deliberately downed the helicopter?”



“Basically, yes. Apparently air traffic were tracking him at the time, and he made no attempt to get out of the helicopter’s way.”



“He’s a dragon, for fucks sake. He doesn’t come equipped with radar, the sun was in his eyes, and his eyesight is shot to hell.” I hesitated. “Besides, the helicopter wasn’t exactly in legal air space either.”



“Air traffic say they were.”



“Then how do you explain the fact they crashed over Princess Bridge?”



“Sudden wind shift.”



I snorted. “It would have taken a gale to blow a dragon and a helicopter that far out of legal air space.” So why would air-traffic lie? Especially over something that could be so easily checked?



“I’m heading over to the airport now to have a nice little chat with the controller in question.”



“Good.” I hesitated. “Is Keale going to make bail?”



“They won’t even consider it until he sobers up, but I suspect he will. They’ll just tag him to ensure he can’t do a runner.”



Something he wouldn’t be pleased about, although it was infinitely better than remaining cooped up in a prison. “Is he coherent yet?”



“Near enough. He still swears he hasn’t had a drink in over a week.”



I wanted to believe him, if only because of the Rebecca factor. But if he hadn’t been drinking, why was his reading so high in the breath test? “Can I get in to talk to him?”