Ashes Reborn

by Keri Arthur

  “He’s a vampire—or at least a pseudo one,” I replied. “If he wanted to catch up, he would have.”

  “He did. He wasn’t far behind when you ran into me, remember.” He cast me a curious look. “Why don’t you want to believe that some part of the man still cares for you?”

  I sighed. “Because it would just lead to heartbreak, and I’ve really had my fair share of that this lifetime.”

  “But it could also lead to happiness, and that’s what you’ve been searching for all these centuries, isn’t it?”

  A smile ghosted my lips. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I still think you could at least talk to the man—he obviously has something he wants to say.”

  I crossed my arms—a move I was well aware spoke of a need to protect myself. “And I think that you should keep your nose out of this particular aspect of my life.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Then how about you concentrate on driving?”

  “I am one of those rare males who can actually concentrate on two things at once.”

  I snorted. “Then think about the fact that if something does happen between me and Sam, the sexual part of our relationship is finished.”

  “As I’ve already said, that is already a foregone conclusion.”

  Or so he’d dreamed. When I’d combined our spirits and saved his life, I’d apparently not only created the link that allowed us to now communicate telepathically, but I had also leaked some of my ability—or curse, depending on how you viewed it—for prophetic dreams.

  I shifted slightly to look at him more fully. “Have you had any more dreams?”

  “No. And don’t change the subject.”

  I blew out a somewhat frustrated breath. “If I agree to talk to Sam when all this shit is over, will you drop the subject as of now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Done,” I said.

  “I expected a follow-through report.”

  “And I expect that won’t be at all interesting.”

  The navigation system politely informed us we’d missed a turn. So much for his being able to concentrate on two things at once.

  Holdright Industries was in one of the new industrial estates in Cranbourne. Jackson pulled into one of the parking spots at the front, and we both climbed out. The building was unremarkable—a typical metal-roofed concrete warehouse with a two-story office section stuck onto the front. The reception area was on the small side but comfortably furnished.

  A middle-aged woman looked up from the reception desk and smiled. Unlike the woman at Rosen Pharmaceuticals, this one was actually genuine. “Welcome to Holdright Industries. How may I help you both this afternoon?”

  I showed her my badge. “We need to talk to someone in charge.”

  “Sure. If you don’t mind waiting a couple of minutes, I’ll ask Frank to come down here.”

  She made the call while we waited, and a few minutes later a balding man in his fifties came down and offered his hand. “Frank Newton,” he said. “How can I assist you both?”

  “This may seem a somewhat strange request,” I said, “but we need to get into James Hamberly’s office and inspect whatever storage units he has there.”

  He frowned. “You know James Hamberly is dead, don’t you?”

  “Yes, we do. We still need to check out his office, I’m afraid.”

  “Sure, but can I ask why?”

  “We’re not really in a position to say,” Jackson said, “but it involves the theft of some research matter.”

  Frank’s eyebrows rose. “And you think James was involved? Because he was a decent man, and I refuse to believe that’s possible.”

  Many an otherwise decent man had gotten involved in shady dealings, but I bit the comment back and simply said, “At the moment, we’re only checking possible leads. It may turn out that this is just another red herring.”

  Frank grunted and turned around. “This way, then.”

  He led us through a door to the rear of the reception room and up a set of stairs. There was a long corridor lined with a series of glassed offices; James Hamberly’s was the last one on the right.

  Frank knocked, then entered without waiting for a response. Mark Terral—a sallow-skinned, brown-haired man—looked at us over the top of his glasses. “Is there a problem, Frank?”

  “These two PIT officers need to check out the storage units Hamberly was using.”

  “That’s those three over there by the wall and the upright near the door. The ones behind me are new.” He paused, his gaze scanning us. “What’s Hamberly done?”

  “Possibly nothing.” I started checking the units, looking for a number that matched the key. “We just have the tedious task of checking all possibilities, however remote.”

  “Does this have anything to do with his murder?” he asked.

  “Not his murder, no,” Jackson said. “Does the name Janice Green mean anything to you?”

  Both men shook their heads. None of the locks matched the number of my key, so I moved across to the upright.

  “Why?” Frank asked.

  “Because she was murdered yesterday, and there was a Holdright Industries badge in her car. She also had Hamberly’s number in her cell.”

  “We deal with a lot of people,” Frank began doubtfully.

  Jackson held up his hand, stopping him. “I know. As we’ve said, we’re merely chasing down all possibilities.”

  “No match with these units,” I said. “Do you mind if I double-check the remaining ones, just in case?”

  Mark waved a hand in invitation. “Where did she work? I might not know her name, but I’ll probably know the company.”

  “Rosen Industries,” Jackson said.

  “Not a company we supply to.” Mark hesitated. “I think we did do a quote for them at one stage, though. Hang on, and I’ll grab the file from the archive.”

  The archive turned out to be a box sitting on the top of the upright cabinet. Mark fished through it until he found what he was looking for—a file in a suspension folder bearing the name of Rosen. He handed it to Jackson who opened it up and did a quick scan. “Just quotes, as you said, and several years old at that.” He handed back the file, then glanced at me. “Anything?”

  I checked the desk drawer, just in case. Unsurprisingly, it also wasn’t a match. “No.”

  “Sorry we couldn’t be of more help,” Frank said.

  I shrugged. “It was always a long shot, but thanks for your cooperation.”

  Frank nodded and took us back downstairs. Once we were in the car again, I said, “Now what? Hamberly’s place?”

  “I don’t think we have any other choice. I’m right out of options as to where else to look.”

  “That makes two of us.” I sighed and scrubbed a hand through my hair. It’d been a hell of a day, and my energy levels were beginning to flag. Not because I needed fire, but simply because I was tired. Even a phoenix needed a decent night’s sleep occasionally.

  “We can leave Hamberly’s until tomorrow if you’d prefer,” Jackson said, obviously catching those thoughts.

  I wrinkled my nose. “I’d rather just get it over with. That way we’ve a clear run for new options tomorrow.”

  Jackson snorted. “Because we’re so overrun with options right now.”

  “Hey, we just might be after a decent night’s sleep.”

  “And tomorrow the wish fairy will serve us Rinaldo’s head on a platter.”

  I grinned. “Or the rats will.”

  “That is even more unlikely.” He paused as he reversed out of the parking spot. “You want to punch Hamberly’s address into the GPS?”

  As I did, he added, “If the rats uncover Rinaldo’s whereabouts, I very much
doubt they’ll inform us, no matter what they might have agreed to.”

  “And I think they will, if only because Radcliffe knows how dangerous I can be and will want that firepower as backup.”

  “He’s too egotistical. He wants Rinaldo’s scalp all to himself.”

  “He may have an ego the size of a planet, but he’s already lost a number of men in Rinaldo’s attacks—”

  “The very reason why he won’t want our help. He’ll want to save face and prove he can handle any situation.”

  “I guess time will tell which of us is right.”

  His grin flashed. “We can always place a small wager on the matter.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What kind of wager? Or is that a really stupid question?”

  “It can be anything you want.”

  “Fine. Dinner at a fancy restaurant of my choice.”

  “Done. And if I win—” He paused, as if considering his options. The wicked grin that touched his lips had all sorts of possibilities racing through my mind.

  “Yes?” I said when he didn’t immediately go on.

  “You do my ironing for a week.”

  “What?” I all but spluttered. “Are you crazy?”

  “Have you seen the state of my wardrobe?”

  “Yes, but me, ironing?”

  “You’re disappointed it’s not something sexual. Go on, admit it.”

  “I’m shocked more than disappointed.” I grinned. “It seems you still have a few surprises up your sleeve.”

  “It’d quickly get boring if I didn’t.”

  I was pretty sure that being involved with Jackson, on any level, would never get boring.

  “And I, my dear Emberly, would say exactly the same thing about you.”

  “I was very boring before I met you. It was supposed to be Rory’s turn to raise merry hell this century.”

  “Once all this shit with Rinaldo and the research is over, PIT will go back to ignoring us, and things will get back to normal.” He paused. “Or as normal as things ever get when you’re running a PI agency.”

  Somehow, I really doubted “normal” was something that would ever be applied to our lives again. Not if what both Lan and Grace had said was true.

  Hamberly lived in one of those beautiful old Melbourne streets with wide footpaths and huge plane trees that arched over the road, creating a living green tunnel to drive through.

  His house was hidden behind a six-foot green metal fence, but it was nowhere near as tidy as the other houses on the street. Weed and bushes scrambled wildly over the fence, and it wasn’t a result of his being dead. It had been like this the last time I’d come here.

  As we walked over to his gate, I rather warily eyed the bushes that all but hid his neighbor’s yard. The elderly woman who owned the place had jumped out at me with questions—and scared me half to death—when a prophetic dream had sent me here after the Aswang, but far too late to save Hamberly. Thankfully, the old girl appeared to be elsewhere today.

  We opened the gate and walked up to the front door. This time it was locked, and yellow and black police tape was barring our entry.

  Jackson took the lock picks out of his pocket and in very little time, the door was open. He stepped through the tape, his footsteps echoing as he moved into the front room—Hamberly’s bedroom. I followed him in. That odd, almost chemical smell that had been here last time was gone; the air held only a slightly acidy taint that spoke of the fire that had almost wiped out the kitchen.

  Jackson walked across to the mahogany wardrobe. “Nice, but not lockable.”

  “No.” I glanced around the room, but other than fingerprint dust, nothing seemed to have changed. “I wonder why this place is still under police wraps? We know what killed Hamberly, and we’ve dealt with it.”

  “Yeah, but the wheels of officialdom tend to move very slowly, so his body might not have been released by the coroner as yet.” He opened the wardrobe doors and rummaged around. “No files or any other paperwork.”

  Though I doubted Hamberly would have kept anything important in his bedside tables, I nevertheless checked them. As expected, there was nothing more than socks and undies. I headed out. The letters I’d seen in my dream were still sitting on the small table in the hall, and one of them caught my eye.

  “That’s why Holdright Industries seemed so familiar.” I picked one up and showed it to Jackson. “Hamberly had mail from them.”

  Jackson frowned. “Why would they be sending him mail when he worked there?”

  “I can find out.” I ripped the envelope open and quickly scanned the letter. “It’s nothing more sinister than a superannuation update.”

  “Huh.” Jackson moved past me and went into the next room. “There’re a couple of cabinets in here.”

  “On my way.” I dropped the letter onto the table and stepped away, only to stop suddenly when the return address on the other letter caught my eye—Rosen Industries.

  I quickly opened it; inside were a letter and a check for two thousand dollars. “Holy fuck.”

  Jackson’s head appeared around the corner. “What?”

  “Rosen Senior was sending money to Hamberly.” I scanned the letter’s content, but all it said was For services rendered, July, with Rosen’s signature at the bottom. “A couple of grand a month, if this is any indication.”

  “Wonder if the company was paying him or if it was coming out of his own pocket.”

  I glanced at the envelope again and realized that it hadn’t actually been posted. Was that why Janice had been at Holdright Industries? Had she been delivering the money for her boss? “If I had to guess, I’d say personal payment. Otherwise, he’d be using company checks, not personal ones, wouldn’t he?”

  “Well, if it was a bribe to keep Hamberly away from Junior, he wasn’t honoring it.”

  “But it does at least explain why Rosen thought he was a leech.” Even if the bastard had lied to us about not having much contact with Hamberly.

  I dropped the envelope back onto the desk, then walked into the next room. This was a combination office and spare bedroom and, because it was closer to the kitchen and the fire that had threatened to wipe the place out, it had the faintest sprinkle of soot over everything. There were two cabinets to one side of the desk, but neither had our key’s number.

  “Wonder if he had a shed.” I moved out of the bedroom and headed toward the kitchen. I didn’t bother checking the living area, as I knew from the last time I was here there were no cabinets in there and the only paperwork was old newspapers and magazines.

  “I’ll go look.” Jackson pressed a hand against my hip, lightly pushing me to one side so he could get past. As he went out into the rear yard, I started searching the kitchen drawers and cabinets. The bottom drawer near the end of the counter turned out to be filled to the brim with all sorts of bills and other bits. Though I doubted anything useful would be found, I nevertheless pulled the drawer out, dumped it on top of the counter, and began sifting through the papers.

  Jackson came back just as I’d finished. “Anything?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “There’re a small shed and several drawers containing tax and super paperwork, but nothing even remotely interesting.”

  I frowned and shoved the drawer back home. “There’s got to be something here. That money can’t have been a bribe to keep Hamberly away from his son—Rosen was well aware the relationship was ongoing when we asked him about it. There has to be another reason behind Rosen giving Hamberly that sort of money.”

  “Something like hiding important information, perhaps?”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “Hamberly’s certainly the last person anyone would have thought to ask about hidden research information. Senior didn’t exactly hide his thoughts about his son’s relationship with the man, did he?”

  “No.” Jackson leaned
a hip against the counter. “Maybe Hamberly has storage facilities elsewhere.”

  “I didn’t find any indication of it in the pile of bills, and there surely would have been.” I drummed my fingers on the counter, my gaze scanning the scorch marks up the wall and across the ceiling . . . My thoughts stalled.

  Old places like this were very popular with renovators because the steep roofline meant it was very easy to build a loft into them. Hamberly’s place didn’t appear to have one, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t using the space or storing stuff up there. I pushed away from the bench and headed into the laundry. The access hole was an unusually large one; I jumped up, grabbed the hanging cord, and pulled it down. A set of metal steps similar to the ones Jackson had installed in our office folded down from the roof.

  “It appears unusually bright up there,” Jackson noted.

  I climbed to the top of the sturdy ladder and looked around. “There are a couple of skylights in the rear portion of the roofline.”

  And that wasn’t all. While there might have been no evidence of a loft from the front of the house, the entire area under the roof had been extensively converted. It was bright and white, with two distinct, paneled spaces consisting of a room immediately to my left and an office area to my right. The latter had a large desk and five filing units—two four-drawer and three of the shorter two-drawer ones—and a comfortable-looking sofa. Hamberly obviously hadn’t gotten any of those up that ladder, so there had to be a secondary access point somewhere else.

  “Anything else of interest?” Jackson asked.

  “You could say that.”

  I climbed into the loft and waited until he did the same.

  “Whoa,” he said. “Hamberly was certainly intent on keeping something secret.”

  “And from the look of it, neither PIT nor the cops have been up here to investigate. That strikes me as odd.”

  “Not really. Not given Hamberly was the victim of the Aswang and involved with Junior rather than Senior—at least as far as anyone was aware.” He waved a hand to the left. “I’ll tackle the room.”

  His footsteps echoed on the wooden flooring, smothering the sound of mine as I walked across to the desk. There were several folders sitting in an in-tray, each one bearing someone’s name. I picked up the top one and flipped it open. The images that greeted me had my eyebrows rising, if only because they were of Hamberly and someone who wasn’t Rosen Junior in sexually explicit positions. The man might not have looked like much, but he certainly had an imagination, if these photos were anything to go by.