Who Needs Enemies

He added, his tone scathing, “When are you going to wake up and smell the roses? You have to look out for yourself, Harriet, because no other bastard will do it for you. Not friends, and certainly not family.”



“My friends are there when I need them, Lyle.”



“I wouldn’t put money on that.”



I would. “None of this answers the original question—why haven’t you chased up the blood work? If he was given a safe amount, it’ll be leeching out of his system by now. Another day or so and we won’t be able to detect it.”



“Look, I will, all right?” He pushed up from the sofa and staggered into the kitchen. Which was odd, because I wouldn’t have thought him drunk, despite all the bottles scattered about. He retrieved another bottle from the fridge, popped the cork, then said, “You want some?”



I shook my head. “I’m driving. And you don’t have to worry about the tests now—I’ve asked someone else to check, and arrange to get the tests done if they haven’t been.”



Tension ran across his shoulders. “What, you think I won’t do it?”



That’s exactly what I thought. It was the why I had no idea about. “Look, none of this is what I came here for-”



“Then for god’s sake spit it out.” He sat back down and poured himself a glass of champagne, then leaned back in the chair and watched me. His eyes were narrowed. Wary. For some odd reason, I had the sudden impression of a snake ready to strike. “I’d rather drown my sorrows in peace than have to sit here listening to you nag.”



“It’s hardly nagging to remind you to do something you said you’d do,” I retorted. “And the goddamn reason I’m here is to let you know I think you could be in danger.”



He raised an eyebrow. “Me? Why on earth would you think that?”



“It’s altogether possible that someone is going after Mona’s clients and, if that’s the case, your worthless carcass could be next in line.”



“Frank Logan wasn’t her client.”



“No, but he was involved with her thanks to the fact James was being blackmailed by her, and James used Frank’s cash to pay her.”



He contemplated me for several seconds, then said, “It would also be false to say that I was her client.”



“A small detail the murderer might not care about.”



“But I care.” He jerked forward so fiercely that champagne sloshed over the rim of his glass and splattered across his pants. He didn’t seem to notice or care. “I didn’t just fuck her. I loved her.”



No, I thought, as I returned his gaze uneasily. This was more than love. This was an addiction that verged on madness.



“Lyle, I really think you should get away for a few days. At least until I can sort this mess out.”



“You don’t have to, you know.”



I blinked. “What?”



He waved his free hand. “Sort it out. You don’t have to.”



I frowned. “Why not?”



“I’ve been sitting here for a while now, and I’ve come to realize it doesn’t really matter. Mona’s dead. Nothing is going to bring her back, so what is the point of trying to find the killer?”



“Because he’s still out there. Because he may have killed five people and might kill more.” My frown deepened. “Hell, Lyle, you’ve been around enough felons to know that crime sprees tend to escalate every time the perpetrator thinks they’ve gotten away with it.”



“That’s presuming Mona is the key. She might not be.”



“This all started with her. She’s the link. We just to need to find out how, and I think we’ll find our murderer.”



He downed his champagne and poured another. “I’m not paying you to go on.”



“I don’t care. I was never working for the money, any way.” It was handy, true, but I’d helped him out often enough in the past, and no money had ever exchanged hands then.



“Well, that’s just stupid. If you’re reduced to taking wedding photos, you can certainly use the cash.”



“Life is more than just cash, Lyle.”



“That’s where you’re wrong. You can buy the world if you have enough of it.”



“I don’t want the world.”



“Neither did I,” Lyle said, his voice soft and gaze suddenly distant. “I just wanted Mona. They’ll pay, Harriet. They’ll all pay eventually.”



It was fair to say I was getting a little confused by the differing messages he seemed to be giving. One minute he wanted an end to the investigation, the next he was out for revenge. I hoped it was the booze speaking, hoped he didn’t actually intend to go after anyone, because if the anger I kept getting glimpses of was any indication, retribution would be fast and bloody. And he wouldn’t care who he unleashed on—not even family.



“I thought you said it didn’t matter anymore?”



He blinked. “It doesn’t. But we all have to answer for our sins eventually, even if it is when we arrive on the evergreen fields.”



I snorted softly. “It’s more likely to be the gates of hell if we’re talking about you, old man.”



“Aint’ that the truth,” he murmured.



I frowned. “Look, you dragged me into this. You can hardly complain when I want to see it through.”



“You’re putting yourself in the line of fire, Harriet.” His voice was flat, filled with an odd intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. It was almost as if he were warning me.



Which he was, but it somehow seemed to be more than just that. It was the sort of warning one antagonist might give another.



A snake ready to strike indeed.



A chill ran up my arms, but I resisted the urge to rub them. “Right now, we need to get you out of the line of fire.”



Lyle’s smile was bitter. “No one’s after me, Harriet. You can be assured of that.”



“Why? Because you’re an old fool too busy drowning his sorrows in alcohol?”



“Maybe.”



Frustration swirled through me. “Look, it’s not going to hurt to make yourself scarce for a few days, is it? You can chase insobriety in a hotel room as well as you can here.”



Lyle lit another cigarette then regarded me over the glowing tip for several seconds. “This place is safe. We have security monitoring twenty-four seven. Any trouble, and we only have to press a buzzer and they’ll come running. You won’t get that in a hotel.”



I gave up. And maybe he was right. Maybe he was as safe here as anywhere else. “Just be careful who you let in the door, then.”



“I will.” He took a puff. “You heading home?”



“No. I thought I might contact my old boss and see what he can tell me about Gilroy’s arrest.”



“You really don’t believe he did it, do you?”



“It’s all just a little too convenient, Lyle.” I rose. “I learned long ago to trust instinct, and right now, it’s telling me this whole mess is stinking higher than fresh dog crap.”



“Let the police deal with it. That’s that they’re there for.”



And where was that sentiment when he’d first hired me to find her? “Are you sure you’ll be-”



“Yes,” he growled. “Stop fussing, Harriet.”



“Fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”



He nodded. “Is Keale staying at your place?”



I paused. “Yeah, why?”



“Keep an eye on him. It won’t look good if he gets himself in more trouble before his case comes up.”



“He’ll be fine.”



I headed for the door. Lyle remained where he was, a hunched, lonely figure surrounded by the smoky darkness. And once again I had the notion that something was very wrong. Something that was more than just natural grief over a loved one’s death.



But what?



That was the question I couldn’t answer—but it was one I was beginning to suspect I needed to.



Once back out on the street, I grabbed my phone and rang my old boss. He didn't answer, so either he was out of range or he couldn’t hear it ring. I glanced at my watch. Greg was a man of habit; if he stuck to past form, he’d be at Mystix’s, a small restaurant and bar just down from the paper’s offices. If I hurried, I could still catch him there.



I unlocked the car, then hesitated, instinct making me look up at Lyle’s windows. He was standing there, watching me. I frowned, and wondered how wise it was to leave him alone. Yet, short of hog-tying him and hauling him away, what choice did I have? I shook my head, climbed into the car, and headed into the city.



Even though it was Tuesday night, Mystix’s was overflowing. Rock music blared over the hum of conversation, and the air was rich with the scent of the homemade breads and pizzas Mystix’s was famous for.



I made my way through the crowd, every now again greeting a familiar face from my days at the paper. Greg’s large form was parked at one of the tables near the rear of the bar, close to the kitchen doors. It was the only way to ensure the food was piping hot, Greg used to say, although I’d never once been given cold food in all the times I’d come here.



“Harri,” he said, pushing the paper he’d been reading to one side. “Haven’t seen you around these parts for a while.”



I ordered a lemon-lime and bitters from a passing waitress, then pulled out the chair and sat down opposite him. “It’s not a social call, I’m afraid.”



“Didn’t think it would be. Nice job on those photos, by the way. We sold quite a few more papers with them on the front.”



“Which is why I sent them to you.”



He nodded. “You always did have a good eye for that sort of stuff. If you ever want to come back, you’re more than welcome.”



“Thanks, but I’m not that desperate yet.”



He laughed, an action that sent ripples rolling across the sea of flesh that was his stomach. “More’s the shame. So, what can I do for you?”