Who Needs Enemies

Page 6

I hesitated, then said, “Keale mentioned drinking with Numar last night, but I was under the impression he’d gone back to Brisbane. You know his mom, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I take it you want me to ring and see if he actually made it home?”
“If you could. If Keale’s in this bad a state, I hate to think what Numar might be like.”
Ceri snorted. “Having seen the two of them drinking before, he probably ended up in Western Australia rather than Brisbane.”
That’s what had me worried. “How’d the stake out go last night?”
“The husband is an idiot. I don’t think he’s even trying to cover his tracks.”
“Meaning lots of lovely evidence?”
“Yes. The wife is coming in this morning. I’ll hang around in case you don’t get back to take care of her.”
“Thanks. And good luck. Have a box of tissues handy.”
“God, I hope there’s not tears,” she muttered, and hung up.
I shoved the phone away and made my way back through the crowds into Matthews Street station. After a short trip through the underground loop, I was at my car and on my way to Sandridge.
Mona lived in an apartment just off the main strip, which meant she wasn’t a very high profile siren. The prime spots were actually along the outer ring, a position that gave those sirens the pick of incoming customers. The sirens living on or near the main strip had far less choice. Mom had been middle rung, so our apartment had been situated closer to the outer ring than inner.
I found parking just off Fitzroy Street and walked back. Once upon a time, this street had been the trendiest of places to hang-out, a place that was a mix of restaurants, live music venues, and strip clubs. All that had changed once the sirens moved in, simply because the sirens brooked no competition. By day, the place was so deserted and uninteresting that even the seagulls looked bored. The neon signs and gaudy lights that had once blazed so brightly were dead, and the old posters that hawked the wares of lap dancers long gone flapped forlornly in the breeze. Under the harsh glare of sunlight, the place looked, and felt, like some sleazy sideshow trinket cast aside for brighter cousins.
Of course, the sirens—the area’s biggest attraction—needed no lights or signs. They had their songs.
I found Lock Street easily enough and headed down, looking for number seven. It turned out to be a three-story brick affair that had been painted hot pink, with lavender trim. I shuddered. I still had nightmares about living in a house like this, having grown up only a couple of blocks away in Burnett Street. If Mona had the same tastes as most sirens, it wouldn’t only be the outside of the building that was pink, but the interior walls, the furniture, even her clothing.
I climbed the steps. The door wasn’t locked—siren apartments rarely were. I’d never been able to figure out why they were so trusting, and had certainly never believed my mother’s explanation that the aural shield kept away the worst elements of crime. It might have kept away the drunks and drug addicted, but it seemed to have had little effect on anyone else. It had certainly never stopped our apartment from being robbed more than a dozen times.
I shoved open the glass door and entered the building. According to Lyle’s directions, Mona’s apartment was on the second floor. I climbed up, the steps creaking softly under my boots. The air was warm, and thick with the mixed scents of orange and sage.
The scents of my childhood.
The scents of my mother.
I paused and looked up. Surely she wasn’t back in town? When last we’d talked, she’d been adamant about remaining on the Gold Coast, despite the fact she had no family up there. She claimed the constant sunshine was far better for her arthritis than the often chilly Berren air.
I grimaced and walked on. It wasn’t like my mother had a patent on those scents—lots of other sirens used them. Maybe Mona was one of them.
I hit the second floor landing and paused again. The corridor was shadowed, and the grime and cobwebs gathering in the corners suggested there were few who actually cared about this place, let alone lived here. Only three doors led off the hall—Mona’s was on the left, down near the end. As I reached for the door handle, one of the two doors behind me opened.
“Well, strap my ass to a flag pole and hoist it skyward,” an all too familiar voice declared. “Harri!”
I closed my eyes in resignation. The scent I’d smelled hadn’t belonged to my long absent mother, but rather one Valentine Prytoria—my long avoided, and generally annoying—younger brother.
I slowly turned around. Standing in the doorway of the apartment closest to the stairs was what could only be described as a thin streak of colorful humanity. His sharp features were framed by platinum curls that flounced to his shoulders, and he wore a bright pink smock and purple pants, which were artfully torn at the knees and splattered with blobs of blue and gold paint. His feet were bare, but his toenails were rainbow painted.
It was a rather tame outfit by his standards.
“You told me you bought a house, Val, not a fucking apartment block.”
“It’s almost the same thing, darls. And you know I’ve always loved this area.” He waved a hand around, fingernails glittering. “Isn’t the place delish?”
I glanced at the grimy, pink painted walls. Delicious was one way to describe it. Fucking awful was another. “Why the hell would you want to live in a place like this again? In a building filled with sirens, for god’s sake?”
Val raised silvery eyebrows. “My, don’t we have some deep-seated resentments still hanging about in our subconscious cupboard?”
“Yeah, don’t we,” I muttered. I opened Mona’s door and stepped inside. There was no escaping Val, however. Not that I thought there would be.
“And to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” he said, trailing into Mona’s apartment after me.
“You mean it isn’t your birthday?” I stopped in the center of the small living room and looked around. As it turned out, Mona wasn’t like most sirens. Her walls were a deep, almost purple black, and her furniture bore the same tonal tendencies. The door frames, skirtings, and cornices were pink, however. The same hot pink as my brother's smock, in fact. It was a deadly combination.
“Oh, funny.” Sarcasm edged Val’s voice. “But speaking of birthdays, I meant to thank you for the wand you sent. It was an inspired choice given I broke my other one only the day before.”
“I know.” We might be somewhat estranged when it came to daily—even monthly—interaction, but we shared the same siren blood, and that meant I sometimes caught echoes of his sharper emotions. “I’m not a complete bitch all the time, Val.”
“I know.” He patted my arm gently. “Just most of the time.”
I snorted softly and walked across to the desk. Fingerprint dust decorated both the top and the drawer handles, so the cops had obviously already been through it. But Lyle was paying me to look, so look I did. I found exactly what I’d expected—nothing.
“I gather you have a good reason for being in this apartment and going through Mona’s drawers?” Val said.
“I do indeed.” I turned and studied the room. Other than the garish paintwork and odd blobs of fingerprinting dust, nothing seemed out of place. Not that I’d actually see anything out of place given I knew nothing about Mona.
This was useless.
“Well?” Val said, voice impatient. “What is it? I do own the building, remember. I’m not sure I should be allowing you in here.”
My gaze came to a halt on what looked to be the bedroom doorway. Where would a siren keep stuff she didn’t want anyone to find? In my mother’s case, it hadn’t been the bedroom—with all the traffic, it would have been nowhere near private enough. Neither was the bathroom. Mom’s answer to keeping her ‘treasures’ safe had been the laundry—usually at the bottom of a laundry basket filled with stinking socks. But her friends had always kept their treasures in the kitchen. I headed that way.
“Are you even listening to me?” Val asked.
“Do I ever?”
A tissue box came sailing at my head. I caught it with a half grin, then handed it back as I walked past him. I found the kitchen and hunted through the cupboards, searching for something—anything—out of the ordinary. Her fridge provided the first revelation—a dozen cans of beer were neatly stacked on the bottom shelf.
Lyle was a champagne and spirit drinker from way back, and hated beer almost as much as he hated having to deal with the occasional human. The beer had to belong to someone else, because sirens rarely drank. Mona had obviously liked someone enough to allow access to her fridge.
Lyle had competition.
I slammed the door shut then glanced across at my brother. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed and one brightly painted foot tapping. He rather looked like a garishly colored flamingo. “What do you know about Mona?”
“Oh, so now you want to talk to me?”
I didn’t really, but he did own the building and he certainly knew Mona better than me. “She’s disappeared. I’ve been asked to find her.”
“Mona’s always disappearing. Sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. I told the cops that, when they were here yesterday.”
“Was it just the usual need to be in the sea, or something more?”
“More.” Val pursed his lips. “I mean, she did the minimum three day stretch in the ocean, but she was away at least once a month apart from that.”
“Was she married or engaged?”
“Are any of them? Was mother?” Val snorted softly. “Get real, darls.”
“Yeah, I guess it was a stupid question.” I squeezed past him and headed for the laundry. “What about customers? What sort of men did her song attract?”
“All sorts, though she seemed to have a preference for uniformed men.”
“So, firemen, policemen, that sort?”