“Well, I was going to call with Doc Carver’s prelim findings on the Headless Monkey-man but apparently you beat me to it this morning.”
Wincing at his growling tone, Erin said, “I’ve known Dr Carver for years. I thought I would take one of the potential favours I owe you off the plate by seeing him myself. Sorry.”
“Of course you are. Which brings me to another little point of contention.”
Erin stopped and leaned against the wall. “Hawkins.”
If Courey had discovered her visit to the morgue, then he knew who she went with. This wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“You’re bloody right, Hawkins,” he spat. “What the hell are you doing with him? He’s bad news, Erin. I thought you learned that after he put you in hospital, for the second time this year.”
Honestly, it was like having two husbands. She’d already suffered through William’s recriminations and now this. “I know what I’m doing, Courey. I don’t need you looking over my shoulder.”
“No, but you do need a refresher course in the legal system, it seems. He’s a crook, McRea, an ex-con.”
“Exactly,” Erin snapped. “Ex, Courey. He served his time and he’s been clean ever since.” Sort of. “He helps me out from time to time. Purely professional. You have no say in how I conduct my business.”
“I do when it interferes with a police investigation. That little girl he hangs out with was with our vic last night.”
Shit. Someone had described Mercy well enough to catch Courey’s attention. He’d only met her the once, but once was usually enough for people to remember the beautiful but odd Mercy Belique.
“All right,” Erin said, placating. “She was part of my investigation. Any information she got out of him I have given you already. When he died, she ran, like anyone would. And no, I won’t let you question her. She’s been traumatised enough.”
“Christ, Erin, this is what I’m talking about. Associating with that bastard Hawkins is compromising your integrity. The girl needs to come in. Any recordings you have of the conversation have to be turned over.”
“No, she doesn’t have to come in. You can get a warrant if you want, but only if you find a real name to put on it. And there are no recordings. It was all relayed via psychic link, Courey. Do you want to take that to your captain?”
She was safe going that far. Courey had admitted to, if not outright believing in psychics, then at least tolerating them. Still, it wasn’t anything any cop could use in an investigation that wouldn’t be laughed out of the courtroom.
There was a lot of grinding silence on the other end of the line, then Courey muttered, “You’re close, Erin. One more push and you’ll be over the line on this one. Get rid of that mongrel Hawkins now, before he ruins your reputation for good.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said calmly. “I passed on everything I knew, and just to be totally transparent, my client has asked me to continue my investigation. If I find anything about who may have killed Sean, I’ll pass that on as well. Was that everything, Courey?”
“You’re stubborner than my second wife,” he growled and hung up.
Letting out a long breath, Erin put her phone away. At least he hadn’t given up on her completely. A joke about an ex-wife generally meant they’d ended the conversation on decent terms. It was one of the tricks of dealing with the detective—he respected those who gave back as good as they got. The next time he called, he’d be nice as pie. If something else didn’t aggravate him in the meantime.
On the way back to the office, a local radio station reported a suspicious fire at the Mount Coot-tha Botanic Gardens. At a red light, Erin put her head in her hands and sighed.
What had Matt done now?
Chapter 14
“Where to now?” I asked Dev as we left the botanic gardens.
The sorcerer stared out the window, silent, as if he didn’t hear me.
He was in pain. The burns had been aggravated by the tree’s attack, not to mention the way he kept wincing as he swallowed. But it was more than physical. I’ve seen honest fear before, and Dev’s reaction to the fire had been more extreme than it had been when he’d had a tree wrapped around his neck. Fire scared him. Terrified him. Which was understandable. It was a terrifying thing, capable of so much damage and so hard to control, but Dev’s fear went deeper. Judging by the burns on his wrists—in the distinct shape of fingers—he had every right to be.
Mental note to self—don’t use fire around Dev again.
“Dev?” I tried again.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “The tree was a trap. I knew it, goin’ in. Whoever this sorcerer is, they know someone’s after them.”
“So what? You just keep springing traps until you find them?”
Dev’s lips twisted into something that in another life might have been a smile. “No. I have their sense now. Each time they do anythin’ substantial, I’ll be able to trace their power signature.”
“Really? Cool.”
“Is there any record of recent supernatural events I could look at? I understand you don’t have a proper Council contact here, but is there anyone who might be able to collate any such data?”
I grinned. “That, I can help you with. I’ll take you to Jacob.”
“Jacob?”
“He’s sort of our scorekeeper.” At Dev’s askance expression, I explained. “There’s a few of us here who have a finger or two on the supernatural pulse of the city. Other psychics, a couple of academics and a few small time enthusiasts. Jacob collects all of our experiences and keeps a log of it.”
“Ah, yes, he is exactly what I’m looking for then.”
“I was going to take you by his place, anyway. Ever since Aurum hinted at this Council business, Jacob’s been frothing at the chance of making contact with them. He’s going to love you.”
“Awesome.” A couple of blocks went by silence, then, “You let a ghoul get the drop on you?”
By the time we reached Vogon Books some of the tension had eased. For once, I found a legal park not far from the shop. I even put money into the parking doohickie and left the permit on the dash. Feeling all upstanding and whatnot, I led Dev into the bookshop.
In recent times, Jacob had decided to expand. He now not only stocked genre books and comics, but ‘collectibles’ as well. Along one wall were several glass fronted cabinets displaying figurines. Bright and outlandish, they leered, grimaced and scowled at us as we made our way to the counter, brandishing swords, bows and arrows and axes. I recognised a few, like Spiderman, Wolverine and a Yoda bobble-head I might have to check out a bit closer later, but most of them were various shades of anonymous cartoonish gaudiness.
I’m the first to admit I’m behind the times, pop culture wise, but the things kids were into these days put some of the honest to God real supernatural creatures out there to shame. Complete and utter shame.
Then again, if Kermit—the local ghoul snitch in the local haunted cemetery—ever decided to put on some spandex and a mask, he probably wouldn’t look out of place at a comic convention, if these figurines were anything to go by.
“Hey, Matt,” Jacob called. “How’s it going? Been busy?”
Leaving the collectables behind, I went and leaned on the counter. “Not too bad, actually. Doing some work with Erin this week, so I probably won’t have much to report. Regular stolen goods slash murder investigation.” I couldn’t help being a little smug about it. Being a long time mystery fiction fan, getting to work with a real PI lately had fanned the flames of my obsession to outrageous proportions.
Jacob, understandably, rolled his eyes. “Right. And what’s Mercy doing while you play private dick?”
Dev held back a bit. He’d put his jacket back on, covering up the bandages. Jacob eyed him speculatively, but since Dev had arrived with me, and wore that ridiculous t-shirt, he surmised it was okay to talk around him.
I winced. “She’s helping out a bit.” Not to change the topic or a
nything. “Jacob, this is Randy Devantier, call him Dev. Dev, this is Jacob Whyte, our recorder of all things weird and generally slimy.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Dev said, coming forward to shake Jacob’s hand.
“A sorcerer, huh?” Jacob had keen observational skills, proving it with, “From Texas.”
“I have to ditch this shirt,” Dev muttered. “But that’s right.”
Hmm. No twangy flirting with Jacob.
“Cool,” Jacob breathed. “Welcome to Oz, mate.”
Dev snorted. “Thanks. Hawkins says you might be able to help me.” He launched into a quick explanation of why he was here and Jacob grabbed for his ledger with embarrassing eagerness.
Oh yeah, I was going to earn some brownie points, if Jacob ever remembered I was in the room. The way he was hanging off every drawled word, he’d probably need a private moment and a lie down when the sorcerer was done.
It was my turn to hold back. I idly checked the shelves for anything that might interest me, keeping half an ear on the conversation at the counter.
I wasn’t sure how to take Dev. He switched from deadly serious to laid back at the drop of a ten gallon hat. There were issues there, that was apparent, but let he who hasn’t visited a psychologist on a semi-regular basis for anger-management lessons cast the first stone. What didn’t sit quite right with me was the admission he’d killed a man.
I was a killer, no doubt about it, but I kept my homicidal habits confined to creatures of the Old World who required putting down. Not so long ago, I’d been rather indiscriminate about what I killed. Not human? Sayonara, sucker. Since then, I’d had some rationality beaten into me. Now you have to be not human and a clear and present threat to me or the world at large. Sure, I felt the default setting of all vampires was ‘threat’ and acted accordingly, but I was capable of changing my opinion regarding a lot of other creatures. Amaya, the succubus sent to kill me a couple months back, was still alive. Granted, killing demons was bloody hard, but I’d stopped trying after a couple of attempts, and she’d successfully argued her case for continued life.
And I’d voluntarily thrown myself into Hell—literally—to save the human boy who’d commanded her to murder not just me, but his step-mother as well. There was no way I could have left him to be tortured by Asmodeus, no matter the crimes he’d committed.
I watched Dev as he spoke with Jacob, wondering what this fire sorcerer had done to him to warrant dying. Burned him, yes. Stolen a spell, too, but was that punishable by death?
Yeah, I could see the… racism, for want of a better word, in my argument, but I couldn’t help it. There were human monsters out there, worse than any ghoul or were-creature or what have you, and there were days I feared I might be one of them. There was an ex-NRL star out there who’d probably agree with the sentiment. So why did it disturb me Dev might have killed this man?
My phone rang, with a totally cool song, thank you very much.
“Night Call,” I answered.
“Matt,” Erin said, “did you have anything to do with the fire at the botanic gardens?”
It was posed as a question, but there was no doubt in her voice.
I sighed. “Is it on the news already?”
She laughed. “The radio, at least. What happened?”
Casting a quick glance to the counter to make sure Dev and Jacob were suitably occupied with not overhearing, I explained it sotto voce.
“The tree tried to kill him?” she demanded.
“Yeah. This sorcery deal is looking like it might be a bit scary.”
Erin was quiet for a moment, then, “How did it work? The sorcery, I mean. Was it spells and a wand or what?”
I pulled the phone away from my ear. Yes, the name on the screen said Erin McRea and the voice certainly sounded like her. The question, however, did not. Generally, Erin wasn’t keen on hearing the details. Threat levels and vulnerability targets, that was it. Should she shoot it and if yes, where. Not, how does it work? At least, she’d never shown an interest in how I did anything. No probing questions about how I smashed things with my telekinesis or what it felt like to ride in Mercy’s body with her. Nothing. No interest, ever.
“Matt?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” I muttered. “Um, I don’t really know how it works. Dev said something about spells but that they affect the sorcerer, not the world, or something. I didn’t really follow it.” And didn’t really see a need for understanding it, honestly. Not when Erin McRea, Super Sleuth, was on the case. All of a sudden.
“Oh, okay. I was just curious. Look, I’m really calling about the case,” she continued, all business-like now. “I spoke with Mr Thistlethwaite. He’s very upset about Sean’s death.”
My stomach did a little shimmy at the memory of Sean’s broken head on Dr Carver’s table. “I can’t imagine anyone who’d be happy about it.” Barring the coroner and his, excuse the use of the word, ghoulish delight in putting the pieces back together.
“Well, that too, but Sean was our only suspect in the monkey caper.”
I snorted a laugh. Monkey caper. Heh.
“What was interesting, though, is that Thistlethwaite identified the monkey that killed him. It was a squirrel monkey, like those stolen from the zoo.”
My eyebrows tried to become one with my hairline. “That is some serious payback. Not only killing him with a monkey statue, but a monkey statue of the same sort he stole.”
“It’s weird, right? Who would go to that much trouble? But, I think it clears away any hint of coincidence about this case.”
“Yeah. Seems that way. Do you think you should look over the other zoo employees?”
With a groan, Erin said, “I’ll probably have to. Thistlethwaite’s keen to keep the investigation going. He still wants to find the monkeys and Sean’s killer might be the key.”
“Do you need help with that?”
“Not at the moment. It’ll be background checks and interviews for a couple of days.”
I began to suspect the real reason for the call. Smiling, I asked, “Are you lonely, Erin?”
Her assistant, Ivan, had taken off a week back for a cruise with his boyfriend, Brad. They were swanning about the South Pacific, having a fabulously drunken and tanned time of it. At least, according to the emailed photos of pristine beaches, crystal blue waters over perfect coral reefs and gorgeous, grass-skirt wearing islander girls which, I’m certain, were a personal punishment for me, considering neither Ivan nor Brad were interested in them.
After a moment’s hesitation, Erin said, “No.”
“You are. Why else are you calling me? I don’t need to know any of this stuff.”
“You’re part of the case.”
“Not really.”
“I have a contract that says otherwise.”
“A contract for a sting op, only.”
Another little pause. “Are you saying you want out of the case? Is it because of Mercy?”
That made me twitch. “No, I don’t want out of the case. I’m just teasing you. I’ll do whatever you want, you know that.” It was my turn to hesitate. “But yeah, I won’t use Merce again like that.”
“Good. About helping, not about Mercy. I mean, good that you won’t…” She sighed, realising she was babbling. “You might be right, Hawkins. I think I’m going a bit crazy being here alone. Maybe I should have got a temp.”
“I realise I said I’d do anything, but you know that stops at filing, right?”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking. You have your chauffeuring job, after all.”
“True.” Which seemed to be winding down at the counter. Jacob had closed his ledger and Dev was making backing up motions even though Jacob was talking a mile a minute. “If that’s all you called for, I think it’s time I rescued Dev from Jacob.”
Erin laughed. “Go. I’ll call you later if I find anything.”
She hung up and I deflected Jacob’s growing fan-boy passion while Dev made his escape. Outside, the sun seemed far
too bright and I scrambled in my pockets for sunglasses. Finding them, I put them on with a little sigh. Still, a dull ache settled in behind my eyes. Great, a headache and I’d given the last of the drugs to Dev.
“Find anything useful?” I asked as we walked.
“A few things. Do you have anythin’ else to do this afternoon?”
“Nope. Erin’s given me the arvie off. Where do you need to go?”
“Jacob said a clairvoyant sensed somethin’ dark and ominous somewhere called the Old Windmill.”
I groaned. “That would be Caroline. She’s always sensing something dark and ominous.” Which, last time, had turned out to be a Demon Lord. Maybe she’d hit on something again. “It’s not far away. Do we need gardening supplies?”
“I’ll let you know once we get there.”
“Awesome,” I muttered.
Chapter 15
The Old Windmill is, well, an old windmill. It doesn’t have sails anymore, or convicts chained to its grindstones. It does have a plaque telling you how it used to have both of those things, though. When I first saw it, as an ignorant hick in from the country, gawking at all the Big Smoke grandeur and silliness, I thought it was a lighthouse. Albeit a rather landlocked lighthouse, being sort of smack damn in the middle of Brisbane. I was heartily disabused of my error by John Portineau laughing his arse off as we cruised past in the ambulance on the way to the Brisbane Private Hospital. Which was right across the road from the Old Windmill.
After bulldozing the Monster Mobile into a park around the corner, Dev and I walked back to the Old Windmill. It perched at the top of Wickham Park, overlooking Wickham Terrace and a pretty decent spread of city. We stopped to admire the view.
It was a beautiful day. Cloudless, peerless blue sky; a gentle breeze swishing through the trees; temperature soaring into the mid-thirties. Dev had to be sweltering in his jacket, but I could see why he didn’t want to take it off.
“Lovely, isn’t it,” I said, looking down the green slope of the park.
And it was, when viewed objectively. The jacarandas were in flower, all their leaves dropped in favour of delicate purple blooms that still managed to send a shiver of nerves down my spine. The explosion of purple flowers meant end of year exams. Four years of associating extreme stress with the flowers had firmly imprinted on me and ten years on, my stomach still did a little flip at the sight.
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