She silently cursed the old biddy across the road. Chelsea had appointed herself the local neighborhood watch, and there wasn't a thing that went on that she didn't know about. Shame the old girl hadn't been on guard duty the night the manarei had attacked, she thought bitterly. Maybe Helen might still be alive.
"Did you ask her if she was wearing her specs at the time?" The detective didn't bite, merely continued to regard her. "Were you at the house with a man?"
"Damn it, why is this even important? Something killed my friend and your constables, and you're sitting here questioning me about whether or not I went back to the house with a man? How much damn sense does that make?" She slammed a hand down on the table. The sound rebounded sharply, ringing through her ears. She licked her lips, wondering why she suddenly felt so lightheaded. Lack of food, perhaps.
The detective raised an eyebrow, the only sign he even noticed her outburst. "Did you know Helen Smith was insured?" She blinked. "Yeah? So?
"Did you know you were the major beneficiary of that policy?" His implication took several seconds to sink in. Her gut churned, and she clenched her fists around the coffee cup so hard the sides collapsed, and the hot brown liquid spouted everywhere.
She ignored it, ignored her burned hands and stared at the detective. "You think that I...?" Her voice shook with the fury she was barely controlling. "For money? For a few lousy dollars?"
"It's more than a few lousy dollars." His voice was dry. He regarded her for a second longer, then leaned across to the cabinet near the door and snagged some paper, offering it to her. "It's close to half a million dollars."
"I wouldn't care if it was a million. Or two. Or even three. I'd rather have Helen than any amount of damn money, believe me." She snatched the paper from him and wiped her hands.
"And yet you were in serious trouble financially, weren't you?" Only because she still had three clients owing her for work she'd done on their houses, but there was nothing unusual about that, not in the building trade. "Last I heard, that wasn't a damn crime."
"But a half a million dollars would set you up financially, wouldn't it?" She thrust her hands under the table, hiding the heat that was beginning to dance across them. Heat she was tempted, so tempted, to let loose. "If you're going to charge me, then charge me," she said, voice so low and tight with anger it was little more than a harsh whisper. "If you're not, stop asking me stupid questions, get off your fat arse, and start looking for the real damn killer. Because she hasn't finished yet."
He raised the eyebrow again, seemingly unmoved by her hostility. "She? What makes you think the murderer is a she?"
Kirby cursed silently, realizing then he was goading her intentionally. She sat back in her chair. Pain twinged down her spine, but she ignored it and regarded the detective stonily. "I have a fifty percent chance of being right, haven't I?"
"Yes, you have," he said. "But we both know you know more than what you're saying. And you wtil tell me, Miss Brown. Eventually."
"If you're going to lock me up, you owe me a damn phone call." Who she'd call she wasn't entirely sure. Doyle was missing, and she had no idea how to get in contact with his friends. Or even if they'd be willing to help her.
"I have no intention of locking you up. Not yet, anyway. I do, however, recommend police protection."
She snorted. "Fat lot of good it did me last time." Besides, the last thing she needed right now was the weight of more deaths on her conscience.
"It's in the interest of your own safety." He looked around as the door opened and a blue uniformed officer stepped in, handing him a sheet of paper. He read it quickly and looked up, his expression grim. "Seems you have some highpowered friends somewhere, Miss Brown. I've been ordered to release you immediately."
"Yeah, right," she said, not believing him for an instant. The only person in power she knew was the janitor at the local municipal offices.
"You keep in contact and let us know where you're staying, or I'll have a warrant placed for your arrest and your arse back in this station so fast your head will spin."
She blinked at the anger in his voice. 'Then I am free to go? You're not kidding?"
"Not in anything I'm saying," he said, stony-faced. "Officer Duncan will escort you to the front desk. Collect your things and leave a contact number." She rose quickly, then hesitated. What if the person who arranged for her release was the killer? What if she was walking out into another trap? "How will I keep in contact with you? Should I just ring the station?" He handed her a business card. "I want to know where you're staying, Miss Brown, and I want a number where I can reach you at any time." She nodded and followed the younger officer from the room. Five minutes later she was outside and blinking at the bright summer sunshine. It wasn't warm, not by a long shot, but at least the rain had finally cleared. Maybe summer would arrive back in Melbourne after all.
"About time they released you," a sharp voice beside her said. "This concrete gets a bit hard on old bones after a few hours, you know." Kirby jumped and spun, calling to the fire as she did so. Only the voice belonged to a woman she recognized— Doyle's friend, Camille. She was perched on the planter box at the base of the steps, silver hair gleaming in the summer sunshine, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity.
"Scared you, huh? I'm guessing from that play of energy across your fingers that you're the air elemental portion of the circle."
She clenched her fists and extinguished the lightning. "Did you arrange to get me released?"
Camille frowned. "Hardly. Don't know enough people in this country of yours to apply that sort of pressure." She hesitated, her sharp gaze darting around.
"We'd better get you out of here. Come along, dear." She hopped off her perch and marched down the street. Kirby glanced briefly at the police station and saw the brown-suited officer watching her from a window. She stared at him for a second, then turned and followed the old woman. Right now, she trusted the ability of Doyle's friends to keep her safe more than she trusted the police.
"Where are we going?" she asked once they were in Camille's beat-up van and driving toward the city.
"We ain't going anywhere," Camille replied. "I gotta hunch I might be tagged, so I'm going to create a few illusions and drop you off at the nearest car rental."
"Why? I've got a car. I don't need another."
"Yes you do. Your car's probably been alarmed, just like your handbag was. The killer certainly has had the time to do it. So you rent a car and go find Doyle."