Who Needs Enemies

“Phillecky residence,” came Jose bored tones. “How may I help you?”



“I’d like to speak to my father please.”



Jose paused. I suspected he was surprised. “Whom my I say is calling?”



“His daughter.”



Again the pause. “One moment.”



Take that, father dearest, I thought, though I knew it would do little to endear me to him. Like that was ever going to happen, anyway.



There was a click then, after several seconds, Bramwell came on line. “Don’t ever do that again-”



“Or what?” I cut in. “You’ll beat me up? Just like you did my brother?”



“I did no such-”



“Bullshit. The only persons who have any knowledge of—or interest in—getting the drawings and ensuring Val stayed quiet are you and Gilroy, and we both know your son doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”



Silence met my reply. I continued on.



“You made a major mistake in doing that, father. For one, it was only when you were told of their existence that Val was threatened.”



Bramwell sniffed. “Frank Logan’s temper is well renowned. He has as many reasons as Gilroy for wanting this event hushed-”



“I haven’t talked to Logan, so unless you’ve suddenly decided to confide all to him, he certainly doesn’t know about the drawings. Not even the cops do. Besides, Frank would have confronted Val himself, not hired a troll and a thug to do his dirty work.”



“You have no evidence to prove any of this-”



“I haven’t finished yet,” I cut in again, more brusquely this time. “So shut the fuck up and listen.”



I could practically feel the fury leeching down the phone lines. I continued on regardless. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying went.



“If he’s touched again, if he has so much as a hair mussed out of place, every scrap of evidence I currently have will not only find its way to the cops, but will be splashed across the front page of every newspaper in this country. And that threat is not an idle one—I still have enough contacts in the industry to ensure it happens.”



“I will do what I must to protect my son.” Bramwell’s voice vibrated with anger. The legendary Elven coolness had well and truly left the building.



“Yeah, well, I’ll do what I must to protect my brother.”



“Gilroy is your brother, too.”



I snorted. “Oh, that’s very convenient, isn’t it? You inviting me to the next family get together, then?”



The silence that met my question was almost contemptuous. “Didn’t think so.”



“Gilroy did not murder the siren.”



“I’ve never said he did. But he was involved with her, and she was definitely blackmailing him. That alone is enough mud to destroy his immediate political plans. Oh, and don’t bother sending someone around to my place to beat me into submission or force me to handover the cards. I’ve made several copies of them and deposited them in safe places. If anything happens to me, they will be sent straight to the cops.”



And that, I thought, was something I had better fucking do. Never poke a bear if you couldn’t protect yourself from the bear’s response.



“You will live to regret this course of action.”



As long as I lived, I didn’t really care. “Just remember, you value your reputation a hell of a lot more than I do mine. You might be better reconsidering your position, and offering me and Lyle the help we need to find the killer.”



“I have told you the truth, and you will get nothing more than that from either of us.”



“If you have told the truth, fine. If you haven’t, expect to hear from me again.”



And with that, I hung up and blew out a long, somewhat shaky breath. Deed done, warning given. Now I just had to hope that Bramwell reacted with common sense, not emotion, not fury. If he did the latter, then the shit would really hit the fan.



I shoved my phone back into my purse, then resolutely turned and headed for my car. One problem faced, several more to go. I needed to go talk to Rebecca, and I also needed to talk to Kaij. He might not be inclined to confirm whether Mona had been pregnant or not, but I still had to try.



But it wasn’t something I could ask over the phone. He could wave the question away far too easily that way. But that actually meant enduring another physical meeting.



I bit my bottom lip, dithering between the need to get it over with and the desire to delay it as long as feasibly possible, and eventually fell on the side of avoidance.



Forty-five minutes later I was in Warrandyte, and parking at the Grand Hotel. It was a majestic, two story wooden building complete with wrought iron lace work and gleaming stained glass windows. It had always looked like something pulled out of the fifties to me, an ancient remnant of an era that enjoyed detailed exteriors as much as they did interiors.



I made my way inside. The fire had been set in the old hearth, and smoky warmth filled the air. I walked around the casual burgundy and dark wood furniture and gave the bartender a friendly smile interlaced with just a hint of siren magic.



“Hey,” he said, an answering smile tugging at his lips. “What can I get for you?”



“A lemon-lime and soda would be great, thanks.” I waited until he’d started, then added, “Is Rebecca around?”



“No, she’s not, I’m afraid.”



“Damn.” I got out some notes to pay for my drink. “Don’t suppose you know where I can find her?”



He handed me the drink and scooped up the notes. “Not sure. She rang in sick a day or so ago, and we haven’t heard from her since.”



Interesting timing. “Do you know if she lives around here?”



“She might.” He studied me, brown eyes curious. “Why?”



“Oh, she asked me here to talk about some photos she wanted done.” I dug out my card and handed it to him. “I was supposed to meet her after she finished her shift today.”



“Oh.” He glanced at the card then tucked it under the till. “Well, as I said, she hasn’t been in for the last couple of days—bloody inconsiderate when we’re short staffed, I tell you.”



“Damn,” I muttered, forcing an edge of disappointment into my voice. “I guess it means she doesn’t want those photos.”



“Hey, she might turn up. She certainly has the balls to walk into the bar after not bothering to call us.” He gave me a somewhat cheeky grin. “I’m Jack, by the way. And I certainly don’t mind standing here talking to a pretty lady.”



I smiled. He was human, but he exuded a warm, country boy charm even if he wasn’t exactly handsome. We chatted comfortably until I finished my drink and was able to leave without blowing my cover story.



Back in the car, I pulled out the street directory, and looked up the street Keale had mentioned. Joslyn Road was only a couple of streets away, and it was easy enough to find. I cruised along until I found a picket fence covered in white and yellow daisies, then stopped and climbed out.



Number eight, like most of the houses in the street, had been built into a slope steep enough to ski down. The driveway was as close to vertical as you were ever likely to get, and not something I’d want to chance, even if my car’s brakes were top notch. The house itself was nondescript—a small, double fronted brick house surrounded by huge gum trees that kept it in shadow and covered the red tin roof with leaves.



After grabbing my bag, I locked the car and made my way down the steep, mossy steps to the front door. I pressed the doorbell and heard it chime inside, but there were no answering footsteps. The place seemed empty—not that I was surprised given what Jack had said.



I stepped back and studied the windows to either side. The curtains were fully drawn, making it impossible to peak inside. I retreated, and made my way around to the side gate. I unlatched it, then whistled softly, just to ensure there was no dog. Nothing came bounding around the corner at me, so I opened it fully and entered. The back door presented a similar story to the front—fully locked and no response to my knocking.



“The owner’s not here,” a voice said to my right.



I jumped and turned around. A grey haired woman was giving me the evil eye over the top of the run-down paling fence. I restrained my grin. Nosy neighbors were one of the best resources of information around—certainly there was nothing going on in my neighborhood that Delilah didn’t know about.



“That’s odd, because I got a call from Rebecca asking me to come here and take some photos of the house.”



The woman snorted. “Don’t know what for. She was only renting the place, wasn’t she?”



“Really? How long was she living here, then?”



“Came here a couple of weeks ago. There should be a law against her type, you know. They shouldn’t be allowed in the suburbs.”



I raised an eyebrow. “Her type?”



“You know, dragons. Bloody bitch was in heat, wasn’t she? Making a goddamn racket all night and whoring it up in the skies. I had to keep the grandkiddies in all week. Can’t have them seeing that sort of stuff, can I?”



“I guess not.” I hesitated, then added, “Any idea where Rebecca might be at the moment? She gave me her work address, but she’s not there, either.”



“Well, she wouldn’t be, would she?”



“Why not?”



“Because she left again, didn’t she? Packed up everything and took off yesterday. Maybe someone did complain.” She sniffed. It was a self righteous sound. “I was out there, I can tell you, making sure she put nothing in that van that wasn’t hers.”



If it had been Delilah, she would have been out there telling the removalists how to do their job properly. “Don’t suppose you know where she was going?”



“Didn’t care, did I?”



“What about the removal van—do you remember anything about it?”



She eyed me for several seconds, her expression even more dour. “You ask a lot of bloody questions for a photographer.”