Who Needs Enemies

I blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Why?”

Lyle shrugged. “I listened to the recordings. It does sound like Keale kept heading directly for the helicopter. The pilot did take evasive action.”

I frowned. “No, he didn’t. I was there, and saw it. Besides, we’re not disputing he hit the helicopter, we’re just saying there might be extenuating circumstances.”

Lyle snorted. “It doesn’t really matter if there was Prevoron in his system or the sun in his eyes. The fact is, he hit a helicopter and killed four people. His butt is busted for good this time.”

“Which is why we need find out if Prevoron was in his system or not,” I said, more than a little fiercely. “It is very possible that someone wanted him to down that helicopter.”

Lyle stared at me for several seconds. “You really don’t believe that, do you?”

“Yeah, I do.” Mostly. I crossed my arms and returned his stare evenly.

“But that’s insane.”

And maybe I was for believing Keale. I mean, he had been caught drink-flying more times than I could remember, and had come close to hitting aircraft more than once. But this time, it just didn’t feel right. And I couldn’t ignore it.

Of course, it was a theory that could fall apart very easily if Numar confirmed they’d not only been drinking last night, but indulging in a little Prevoran high.

“You’ll never be able to prove it in a court of law. Not in a million years.” He shook his head. “It’s too far fetched for anyone to believe.”

“Unless we can get some solid proof.” I hesitated. “Did you know Frank Logan was supposed to be on that helicopter?”

“Why the hell would I? It’s not like I associate with the man.”

“Well, he was. Only he had a last minute change of plans and his brother went instead.”

“I cannot see your point, Harriet.” He downed his third glass. Elves might not be as affected by alcohol as humans, but at this rate, he was going to be drunk in no time.

“The point is, why the last minute change of mind? Was he, perhaps, warned not to go?”

“For fucks sake, you’re really reaching for straws now. Besides, if he was warned, why wouldn’t he also warn his brother?”

“Maybe the warning came too late. Or maybe he simply didn’t care if his brother died. They weren’t exactly bosom buddies, after all.”

“Family is still family, Harriet.”

Said the man whose family had more than likely set trolls onto him.

“Besides,” he continued. “There sure as hell are easier ways to get rid of someone than feeding Prevoron to a dragon and pointing him in the direction of the city in the vague hope that he’d hit a helicopter.”

As daft as it sounded, that’s exactly what I suspected someone might have done. After all, Prevoron wasn’t only deadly to dragons in high doses, it also made them highly susceptible to the power of suggestion.

According to the article the paper had printed, Prevoron might be available on the street, but it wasn’t actually cheap—though it only took the smallest amount for a human to get a high. Dragons, with their different biology, had to take far more, which is why it was so much of a risk for them. Too little, and they didn’t get the high; too much, and they could die. The amount needed to affect a dragon Keale’s size as badly as it had meant someone with money and means had to be behind it. The question was, why? Hell, most trolls would kill for half the cost of buying the drug.

“Is there any way you can get the blood tests hurried? I mean, if he’s been given too much of the stuff, he needs to be treated.” Because if too much Prevoron was introduced into a dragon’s system, it began to act like a virus, first overriding the body’s natural defenses, then infiltrating cells and reproducing its toxic presence to the point where it began shutting down the central nervous system and eventually killed its host.

“I can try.” He sighed and wearily rubbed his eyes. “I’d better go home and get some sleep.”

“I’ll call a taxi.”

He glanced at the now half-empty bottle of whiskey, and smiled. “Yeah, I guess you’d better. The way my luck has been running, I’d be picked up by a breathalyzer.”

I called a cab. Lyle downed another two glasses by the time it arrived.

“Time to go.” He rose a little unsteadily. “You got the photos of the driver?”

Oh, god, the photos and photocopies. I hadn’t even thought to check they were still there. “I’ll go get them now.”

He waited in the hall as I raced upstairs. Thankfully, the thief had missed them, probably because they were underneath some other paperwork. Lyle contemplated them silently when I handed them to him.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said eventually. “I’m going to find him, and kill him.”

He meant whoever had killed Mona, not the driver of the car.

“No, you’re not,” I said calmly. “We’re going to find enough evidence against whoever it is, and then we’re going to let the cops pin his ass to the wall.”

Lyle’s gaze met mine. The fury so evident in the sapphire depths shook me. “I meant exactly what I said.”

“Do that, and Adelia will have grounds for divorce and get all your money.”

He didn’t say anything. I helped him into the taxi, gave the driver his address, then slammed the door shut and watched it disappear down the street.

And wondered just what it was about sirens that captured my Elven kin so completely.

#

Xavier rang back at midnight, as promised. By that time, the ogres had gone home and I finally had the TV—and the house—to myself.

“Got the phone number,” he said, without preamble. “But it’s a public telephone. No way to trace who was using it.”

“Where was it located?”

“Near as I can figure, it’s one of the ones inside the Jam Factory, near the cinemas there. Doesn’t help you much, I guess.”

No, it didn’t. But then, it didn’t help the trolls much, either, and Xavier didn’t seem all that fazed about it. “How do you get paid?”

“Oh, come on, you know we can’t tell you that.”

“You can’t? Then perhaps I better tell you that we’ve done some checking since you left. You can’t afford another breaking and entering charge, because this time, it will mean jail time.” It was, of course, nothing more than a wild guess, but I figured—given what his compatriot had said this morning—they were all likely to be in the same boat.

I guessed right.

“But I can’t break a contract. We’ll be out of business if word gets around.”

“Your employer doesn’t have to know. Just tell me how you get paid and where the exchange is so I can then follow them home.”

“But we didn’t come away with the intended goods. We won’t get paid.”

They obviously hadn’t been told they were only a diversion. I lightly bit my bottom lip for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll give you an old camera and a couple of memory cards. Will that do?”

“Yes,” he said, resignation in his tone. “But you didn’t get anything from me, okay?”

“Okay.”

He hesitated, then said, “We’ve worked for this particular fellow a few times-”

“I’m guessing he’s the one who employed you to beat up the elf this morning.”

“Yeah.” He paused again. “Sorry about that, but it was just a job, you know?”

I knew—though I would never understand the weird ethical code that allowed trolls to beat up and even murder people, and still feel able to call themselves pacifists. “Go on.”

“He always pays by cash, which is placed in unmarked envelopes and dropped by person or persons unknown at a pre-arranged time and place.”

“And the payment drop tonight?”

“McDonalds on the corner of Smith Street and Victoria Parade.”

Which was, very conveniently, not very far away from me.

“So you park and go in?”

“Yep, order a burger, head outside, a car pulls up and we exchange bags.”

“Thanks Xavier. And a word of advice—stop taking work from this particular client. He doesn’t play nicely with other people.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” he said. “What about the camera and stuff?”

“Drive by my place on the way through.”

“Will do.” He hesitated. “We square after this?”

“Unless you attempt another break-in here, yes we are.”

“Oh, you’ve hit the top of our avoid list, trust me.”

I grinned as he hung up. At least that was one lot of trolls we no longer had to worry about. Trouble was, there were plenty of others around who’d no doubt be pleased to step into Xavier’s shoes, and they might be a whole lot harder to bluff.

I picked up the remote and channel surfed for the next half an hour, then went upstairs. After collecting a couple of old cameras, I scooped up some memory cards that were either faulty or contained images I no longer needed, and headed outside to wait for Xavier.

Five minutes later, a blue pick-up cruised to a halt beside me. Winifred wound down the window, plucked the bag of goodies from my hand, gave me a nod of thanks, then was off again.

I jumped into my car and followed, parking in the shadows several cars up from Xavier’s and sliding down in the seat so I wouldn’t be as noticeable.

The trolls climbed out of their truck and ambled toward the store, my canvas bag of goodies slung over Winifred’s shoulder. I leaned across the seat, grabbed my spare camera out of the glovebox, and flicked it to infra-red.

Five minutes later, right on the dot of one, a black Mercedes pulled slowly into the car park. Xavier and Winifred re-appeared, bags of burgers and fries in hand.

I raised the camera and started taking shots. The passenger side window of the Mercedes slid down, and a hand holding an envelope appeared. The trolls smoothly exchanged the bags for the envelope and the Mercedes kept going with barely a pause. I would have missed it if I’d blinked. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">