Who Needs Enemies
Page 37

“I came to pick your brain about Gilroy Phillecky’s arrest.”
“Ah.” Greg’s gaze narrowed as he leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “You wouldn’t happen to be related, would you? I mean, the Philleckys are a big clan, so it’s no given but-”
“I’m his half-sister,” I cut in. “What do you know about Gilroy’s arrest?”
Greg shrugged. “Not much. The police received a tip off about the weapon used in Logan’s murder. A registration search showed it belonged to Gilroy.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t seem enough to arrest him on.”
“No, but the address given was Gilroy’s apartment, and his prints were all over the gun.”
“I’m guessing they’ll be testing for gunshot residue.” And I’d bet they wouldn’t find any. The waitress appeared with my drink. I dug out some cash to pay for it, then added, “Do you know what Gilroy said?”
“His father released a statement not long ago. Apparently, Gilroy came home, discovered the gun on the coffee table, and picked it up to investigate. The cops appeared not long after that.”
It was a stupid thing to do, but also a very natural one. “Do you believe him?”
Greg’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The question is, do you? You’re related, after all.”
“I’m the daughter no one speaks about,” I said, voice dry. “I do not know them, and they certainly don’t know me. But yeah, I’m inclined to believe him, if only because a politician as smooth as Gilroy could come up with a far better lie than that.”
A small smile touched his lips. “I tend to think the same, although the prints on the gun is pretty damning.”
“Not if he has a watertight alibi.” And I suspect he would.
Greg studied me for a moment, then said, “Given what you said about your status in the family unit, I’d have thought you wouldn’t care either way what happened to your half-brother.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why the interest?”
“Because I believe Frank Logan’s murder is linked to at least one other.”
Interest flared in Greg’s brown eyes. The newshound scented a good story. “Care to share?”
I smiled. “Maybe. What else can you tell me about Frank’s murder?”
“He was killed by a single shot to the back of the head. Close range, so not pretty, according to my source.”
“At home?”
Greg nodded. “No sign of forced entry, and no evidence of any sort of struggle. He knew his murderer, that much is certain.”
And trusted him enough to turn his back on him. “No one else in the house? No known appointments?”
“That I can’t say. I know it was the housekeeper who found him. She’d been out buying supplies for dinner.”
“What about the security tapes? They show anything?”
He smiled. “I’m a newshound, not a bloody cop. I can only give you what my source is willing to share, and right now, that’s not much.”
“Damn.” I took a sip of drink and wondered if it was worth the heartache to ask Kaij about them. No, I thought. Definitely not. Not for Gilroy’s sake, anyway. “So really, we have nothing more than the gun linking Gilroy to the murder?”
“A gun with his prints all over it.”
“Gilroy’s been set up. I’m almost positive on it.”
Greg gave me his best shark smile. “Tell your lovely old boss all, my dear.”
I snorted. “My lovely old boss can go to hell. I have no intention of saying anything to anyone until I can prove my theories. Doing anything else just might get me as dead as Logan.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. “Really? Then I insist you give the story to me when you can. I have a feeling it could be a good one.”
“You have no idea how good.” I hesitated, then said more soberly, “To that end, can I send you some information for safe keeping?”
“What sort of information?”
“The sort that must only be opened if I’m dead or incapacitated.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What the hell are you investigating that you’re worried about dying?”
“A fucking good story, as I said.” I smiled. “So, can I send it to you?”
“You can, but I’m surprise’d you’d trust me not to open it.”
“Do you promise that you won’t?
“Yes, but curiosity has been known to kill the occasional cat.”
“I’d keep that warning in mind if you think about opening before it’s necessary.”
“Good grief, now I’m really intrigued.”
I half smiled. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Gilroy’s arrest?”
“Well, they did find a partial print that doesn’t seem to belong to any of Logan’s family or staff, but they’re still running tests.”
Meaning Gilroy’s prints hadn’t matched it. “So have they actually charged him?”
“No. Officially, he’s still helping with their enquiries.”
Complete with an armada of lawyers by his side, I was betting. “I was told you newshounds arrived at Gilroy’s the same time as the cops did—that true?”
“Yes.”
“So the paper got a phone call?”
“Not the paper—me.”
That raised my eyebrows. “Why you? I mean, no disrespect boss, but you haven’t been in the field for years. You’re not a name anyone who didn’t know the paper’s structure would recognize.”
“I thought it was a little odd, too.” He contemplated me with a pleased sort of smile.
Meaning, I thought with amusement, he’d done something he shouldn’t have. “Line trace?”
His smile grew. “You know as well as I do that sort of thing is highly illegal.”
“It’s also illegal for anyone but the police to record a conversation without first informing all parties, but that’s not stopping you now, is it?”
He laughed and pulled his hands out of his pockets. A small recorder was nestled in his right palm. He placed it on the table, but didn’t turn it off. “Just want to make sure I get my facts right when I print this story of yours.”
“If you print this story of mine,” I said. “Now, we were talking about a line trace.”
“Ah yes.” He paused for a moment. “The trace wasn’t successful. He hung up before it was complete.”
“Did you manage to pin down a general location?”
“It came from somewhere in Brighton.” He shrugged. “I suspect whoever it was called from an old phone box, because there was a hell of an echo.”
Darryl’s mystery woman had called from a phone box, too. The coincidences just kept on mounting.
“There’s not that many phone boxes left in use these days, so it shouldn’t be too had to uncover a location.” Not that it would do us all that much good now. Whatever prints had been left would probably be smudged to hell by subsequent users. “What did the person actually say?”
“That if I wanted to see Hartwell Gilroy Phillecky arrested for the murder of Frank Logan, head over this Brighton address.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He said Hartwell?”
“Yeah.” Greg frowned. “Why?”
“Because Hartwell is his Elven name, and it’s only known—and used—by family or those close to the family. Gilroy is the name he uses publicly.”
“So you’re basically saying that whoever made the call is an elf, and either a family member or a close friend.”
“Yes.” And the only person I could think of who’d revel in seeing Gilroy so disgraced was the man I’d just left.
But I couldn’t imagine Lyle going to such lengths—not when it came to his nephew, anyway. Sure, he was pissed off at Gilroy’s attitude when it came to Mona, but that didn’t warrant murder. Not even the most irrational mind could think that it did. Besides, blood looked after blood—at least when it came to full blooded Elves. Us half-breeds could definitely take a long jump off a short peer as far as the Elven community were concerned.
Greg leaned back in his chair, his expression suddenly curious. “Given your outcast position, what do you call your brother?”
“Brother.” I grinned. “It really pisses him off.”
He snorted. “Good to see you’re still stirring the pot, Harri.”
When it came to my family, there was little else I could do. And at least pot stirring annoyed them as much as their refusal to acknowledge my existence annoyed me.
Although really, you’d think that, given I was almost thirty, I would have gotten over it all by now.
“You can’t think of anything else?”
“Well, a source in the squad suggested cigarette butts had been found outside Frank’s house, but they’re not sure if they’re connected.” He paused, studying me intently. “I have a feeling you know a whole lot more about this case than I do.”
“Maybe.” I smiled and glanced at my watch. “Let me know if you hear any interesting gossip, though.”
“I will. You off?”
I nodded. “I have a dinner party to get back to.”
“Just remember, my sweet, the story is mine.”
“If I piece it together, most definitely.” But first, I had to survive. “Thanks for the help, Greg.”
He nodded and picked up his paper again. I made my way back to the car and headed home.
It took me about ten minutes to realize I was being followed. I studied the rear view mirror for several seconds, then changed lanes. Two sets of headlights back, another car did the same. I might have considered it little more than a quirk of traffic, except for the fact that the car had been echoing my movements for a good ten minutes.