Ashes Reborn

  As he strode toward them, I headed for the broken front gate and lifted my right hand, as if warding off the heat of the fire consuming the little car. The flames flared briefly, as if in protest to my drawing the heat from them, then quickly faded until only the pungent smell of burned rubber remained. I turned my attention to the fire biting through both the remnants of the rear wall and the dividing fence. Its heat swirled around me, through me, and I briefly closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation before I drew it in and snuffed out the flames.

  But that enjoyment had come at the cost of a life. Rinaldo, I thought grimly, was going to pay for all these deaths. One way or another, no matter how long I had to fruitlessly search for the bastard, I was going to make sure of that.

  The fires had now disappeared, but I had no idea if any other threat remained. I stopped several feet away from the area where the front door had once been and surveyed the huge pile of rubbish—all that remained of the house and the person who’d lived here.

  I couldn’t go into that. I wouldn’t. I’d seen death in many disguises, but if there was anything left of Janice beyond a splash of blood or the shredded remnants of flesh, then I didn’t want to be the one to find it.

  I spun around and walked across to Janice’s Honda instead. Aside from the melted tires and the dents and scrapes that were a result of being tossed through the fence, the car had actually come through relatively intact—at least when compared to the house.

  I knelt down and peered in through the driver’s side window. Heat still radiated from the front portion of the car, but there was no scent of leaking fuel; hopefully, the thing wouldn’t blow up in my face.

  There didn’t seem to be much more than the usual assortment of rubbish and clothing that accumulated inside cars over time, but I nevertheless tugged my sleeve over my hand and—after a bit of a tussle—wrenched the door open.

  “You’re worried about leaving fingerprints?”

  The unexpected comment made me jump. I swung around and slapped Jackson’s arm. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “Sorry.” He sounded—and looked—anything but. “The question stands, however.”

  “The handle was hot, and we’re being watched.” I looked pointedly at the gathering crowd. He might have managed to keep them at a distance, but some of them had cameras, and there would no doubt be videos posted on YouTube sooner rather than later.

  “The handle wasn’t glowing with heat, so no one would have given two thoughts about your opening it with bare hands.”

  “I’d still rather be safe than sorry, thanks.”

  I ducked down, then crawled inside the car. There wasn’t a whole lot of space, but that was more because it was a small car than because it was upside down. I opened the glove compartment, and papers, tissues, and the car’s service book all fell out. I gathered the papers and handed them to Jackson, then checked the storage bin in the center console. Small change, phone chargers, and candy wrappers joined the rest of the rubbish on the floor—or rather, the roof. I swept a hand under the driver’s seat but couldn’t find anything, repeated the process for the passenger’s seat, then twisted around and began sifting through the mess that had come from the backseat. It appeared that Janice shared our love for McDonald’s—most of the rubbish consisted of their coffee cups and the occasional hot apple pie wrapper.

  “Anything interesting in all that paperwork?” I asked Jackson. I ran my hands around the sides of the seats, just in case something had been jammed between them and the console.

  “Nothing more than service receipts and registration papers going back a couple of years.” He paused as the wail of sirens began to get louder. “We don’t have much longer.”

  “No.” Something pricked my finger. I swore and wrenched it free. Whatever it was had drawn blood, even if it was little more than a fine droplet.

  “You okay?” Jackson squatted in front of the door.

  “Yeah, something just stabbed my finger.” I sucked the blood from it and peered a little closer, but couldn’t immediately see anything sharp.

  “Approach it from under the seat,” Jackson suggested.

  “I did that before and didn’t find anything.” I teased a bit of flame to a fingertip and pushed the seat cushion with my other hand, creating more of a gap. Something small and metallic gleamed back at me.

  “It’s a pin of some sort.”

  I carefully reached down and pried it free. It was one of those pin-on plastic name-tag things companies gave short-term visitors. This one read just that—VISITOR—along with a company name: HOLDRIGHT INDUSTRIES. The name, for some reason, rang a bell.

  I handed the name tag to Jackson, then crawled out of the car. “Never heard of the company,” he said, helping me up.

  “I have, but I can’t tell you where or why.” I glanced around as a police car pulled up. “And the fun begins.”

  “At least we now have PIT badges to speed up the process.” He pocketed the name tag. “Do you want to put Google to use while I go talk to the cops?”

  I nodded and dragged out my phone. Holdright Industries, I soon discovered, made industrial shelving and racking. I didn’t really know the difference between the two, but obviously there was one.

  But the real question was, why would Rosen’s secretary have that badge in her car? Even if Rosen’s company did use either the shelving or the racking, it was unlikely Janice had gone out there personally to arrange quotes. She would have simply sent a purchase order to their office supplies department.

  Which meant we probably needed to contact Rosen Pharmaceuticals and talk to someone who might give us some insight—either on Holdright Industries or as to why Janice might have had the badge.

  A police officer approached. I shoved my phone away and resigned myself to answering his questions. Jackson had no doubt already made a statement, but I couldn’t complain about cops being thorough. The fire brigade and the ambulance soon appeared, with the ambulance paramedics giving Jackson and me a quick check-over before declaring us both okay.

  It was a good half hour before we managed to get away; by that time, I seriously needed a caffeine hit.

  “I noticed our favorite café has a franchise not far away on Plenty Road.” His tone was amused. “We can grab something to go from there. Any luck on the Googling front?”

  “I learned Holdright Industries makes industrial shelving.”

  “It didn’t jog any memories loose?”

  “Not a one. I guess our best option now is to go talk to Rosen Pharmaceuticals—but not before I have tea in hand.”

  “I wouldn’t even dare suggest otherwise.”

  “Wise man.”

  He grinned and, in very short order, we not only had our hot beverages in hand, but also a large fries to share as we drove across to Power Street, where Rosen’s company was located. It was a rather plain-looking four-story building with a café on one side of the ground floor and a lawyer’s office on the other. The entrance to the building sat between the two.

  There was no parking allowed on the street immediately outside the building, so Jackson turned onto Lynch Street and found a spot there. I drained the last bit of tea from the cup, then jumped out of the car and followed him across the busy road.

  The building’s glass doors swished open as we approached, revealing a small, somewhat dark foyer. There was a bank of elevators to our immediate left, and I spotted two armed security guards, one near the elevators and the other near what I presumed was a rear entrance, possibly the loading dock. A reception desk was in the middle of the foyer, with a small seating area to the right.

  A rather handsome middle-aged blonde glanced up from her computer as we approached the desk, and gave us a polite smile. “Welcome to Rosen Pharmaceuticals. How may I help you?”

  “We need to talk to whoever handles the purchase of storage and shelving units.”
Jackson pulled out his PIT badge and showed it to her.

  “That badge,” she said, “says ‘associate.’ I do not believe it has power of investigation—”

  “And you would be wrong,” Jackson said, his tone as polite as hers. “However, if you wish to check our authority, you can give PIT a call—the person you’ll need to talk to is Chief Inspector Richmond.”

  “I’ll have to discuss this with someone in management. Please take a seat—I shouldn’t be long.”

  “A woman immune to your charms,” I murmured as we walked over to the waiting area. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “Neither did I. What’s more interesting, however, is that they’ve seriously ramped up security.” He motioned toward the two security officers. “That’s the first time they’ve had armed guards in the foyer.”

  “It’s not really a surprising step, given research was stolen and Wilson, Rosen, and now Janice were murdered.”

  “True—although they surely wouldn’t know about Janice’s murder yet.” He sat down and crossed his legs, his expression contemplative as he studied the blonde. “I might have to come back when all this is over. I do so like a challenge.”

  “Seriously, haven’t you got enough women to deal with already?”

  “Oh, I’m not talking about anything serious. A simple flirtation lasting no more than a night or so will do.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever understand the sexual drive of a dark fae.”

  “There’s nothing to understand,” he said easily. “We simply live for sex.”

  The woman in question replaced the receiver and gave us another of those polite smiles. “Brad Jenson will be down to assist you shortly.”

  “Thank you,” Jackson said, his tone warm. There was little response from the blonde.

  I grinned and leaned back in my chair. About five minutes later, a chime sounded as an elevator arrived; then a tall, thin man with receding brown hair strode toward us.

  “Brad Jenson,” he said. “How may I help you both?”

  As he propped himself on the sofa beside me, I caught a whiff of garlic and tuna—lunch, obviously.

  “Are you in charge of ordering storage and shelving items?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Rosen Pharmaceuticals is a large company, and we have a range of suppliers—why?”

  “Is one of the companies you deal with Holdright Industries?”

  “No—they specialize in the manufacture of warehouse storage rather than stuff suitable for our needs.”

  I frowned. “So there’d be no work-related reason why Janice Green would have a visitor tag from them in her car?”

  His expression became somewhat perturbed. “Janice Green is our founder’s secretary, so certainly not.”

  I glanced at Jackson. Maybe she knew someone who worked there?

  Possibly. He paused. We might have to go through her phone and do a check of all the numbers.

  Tedious. And it was extremely doubtful we’d find anything, given Amanda had deleted at least one number—her alias’s—from Janice’s phone.

  Amanda—and Rinaldo—will make a mistake sooner or later, Jackson said.

  I hoped he was right, but I wasn’t counting on it.

  “Is Janice in some sort of trouble?” Brad asked, his gaze darting between the two of us.

  Jackson glanced at me, and I blew out a breath. “How well did you know her?”

  “Only casually, via work functions and the like.” He paused. “‘Did’? Has something happened to her?”

  “I’m afraid she was murdered this morning.” And, I silently sent to Jackson, why is it always the woman who has to give the bad news?

  In this case, because you’re prettier than me, meaning he’s less likely to take it badly.

  I’m sure there’s logic in that statement somewhere.

  Brad scraped a hand through what little hair he had. “Shit. How did it happen?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say anything more right now,” I said. “But you can’t think of a reason why she might have visited Holdright?”

  “Not officially, no.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “I didn’t know her that well, so I couldn’t say.”

  I grimaced and stood up. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Jenson.”

  Jackson handed him a business card. “If you do think of anything, please contact us.”

  He glanced at the card and frowned. “I thought you were PIT officers?”

  “We’re temporary ones—we’ve been seconded onto the current investigation.”

  “Ah.” He pocketed the card. “I hope you catch her killer.”

  “Thanks.” I gave him a smile, then headed out. “Well, that was a waste of time.”

  “It wasn’t, because we’ve at least ruled out the possibility she was there on official business.”

  “Which still leaves us down a rabbit hole with no exit in sight,” I said.

  “True.” He paused while we dashed across the road. “Do you need to go see Rory?”

  “Not until tomorrow. Why?”

  “Because I think we have two courses of action right now—we continue the fruitless search for a lock to fit that second key we found at Wilson’s place, or we go back to the office and share the odious duty of going through Janice’s phone and checking all the numbers.” He unlocked the car, and we both climbed in. “Of course, it might be a whole lot easier if your memory would come to the party with the information of where you’d seen that name before.”

  “Undoubtedly, but until that happens, there is a third choice.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That being?”

  “A choice piece of work called Amanda. You did find her apartment, did you not?”

  “I did indeed, and I think that’s a very fine suggestion.” He gave the satnav an address in Docklands, then pulled out into the traffic. “And I seriously hope the bitch is home—taking out another of Rinaldo’s soldiers can only work in our favor.”

  “With Frederick’s disappearance, he more than likely has her under some sort of protection.”

  “Only if he believes we know her location, and why would he think that when we’ve lost her every damn time we’ve spotted her?”

  I didn’t think he’d be that careless after his close shave at the warehouse. He’d have known the information about his location could only have come from Frederick. Still, even if Amanda wasn’t at the apartment, we could search it. While it was likely Rinaldo already had any information she’d gathered, it was also possible he hadn’t had the opportunity to collect whatever she’d gotten from Janice more recently.

  If she’d gotten anything and wasn’t just covering her tracks.

  Jackson found a parking spot on Bourke Street, and we walked through to Amanda’s building, which fronted the Victoria Harbour Promenade. The building itself was a glass and concrete structure with large balconies that overlooked not only the harbor, but also the Bolte Bridge and the Melbourne Star Observation Wheel. The first two levels seemed to consist of nothing more than restaurants and pool and gym facilities for the residents—none of which the apartment building Rory and I shared had. Maybe we should move . . . I killed that thought almost immediately. Moving would mean pulling apart the fire room we’d created in the third bedroom and restoring it to its original condition, and that just sounded like too much hard work.

  We walked into the foyer and approached the reception desk. Jackson flashed his badge again, but the guard waved his hand. “Remember you from yesterday. What can I do for you now?”

  “I’m afraid we need to get into Felicity Hocking’s apartment.”

  He frowned. “Don’t you need a warrant for that?”

  “Not if we think she’s in danger,” Jackson replied easily. “Her lover was murdered yesterday. We have every reas
on to believe she may also be in danger.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Listen, Mike,” I said, glancing at his nameplate. “We’ll sign in, and we’ll give you the name of our boss so you can confirm we are who we say we are, but we seriously need to get into that apartment.”

  He hesitated, then said, “I’ll call the supervisor down. He has the master keys, in case of emergencies.”

  In other words, he was passing the decision-making buck. Couldn’t blame him for that. “Tell him to hurry.”

  He nodded and made the call. Three minutes later, a well-built, dark-skinned man strode into the foyer, followed by two others—one male, the other female. Both projected a “Don’t mess with me” vibe, and all three were armed.

  “You’re the PIT officers?” the first man said. According to his badge, his name was Gale. Whether that was a first name, last name, or some sort of warning was anyone’s guess.

  Jackson offered up his badge again. “We’re associate officers, seconded to investigate the murder of one Janice Green—Felicity Hocking’s lover.”

  “And you need to get into her apartment—”

  “Because we feel she may be in danger,” I repeated. “It is rather urgent, so if we could move this along, we’d appreciate it.”

  The supervisor grunted. “Give Mike your boss’s contact details—I hope you don’t mind, but we are going to check your credentials. And if you’re carrying any weapons, leave them at the desk.”

  “We’re associates—sadly, they won’t give us guns.”

  Because there’s a real need for either of us to have guns, Jackson said, his mental tone wry.

  I gave him “the look.” His grin grew. Once I handed the guard the information, he did the required check, then handed me the phone.

  “What is this about, Emberly?” the inspector said.

  “We’re at Felicity Hocking’s apartment, just about to check on her.”

  “Felicity Hocking aka Amanda Wilson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent work. Do you need backup?”

  “Is there anyone available to help if we did?”