"Really? Could I have it? I know some people who can get right onto tracing it."
"Sure." He pulled a grubby bit of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. I thanked him, then pulled out my phone and walked away.
Jack answered straightaway. "Riley, you can't be at Richmond yet, so what the hell are you ringing me for?"
"Bad news, boss. Some asshole truck driver ran my cab off the road."
"You're okay?"
"I'm standing here talking to you, aren't I?"
He snorted. "The smart mouth is working, so you've gotta be fine." He hesitated, and in the background, keys clicked. "Another car will be there in ten. It'll take you straight to the murder scene."
"You're all heart."
"I'm a vampire. We don't do tea and sympathy."
Not when there was a crime scene to get to, anyway. "A witness caught the plate number." I raised the bit of paper and read it out. "You want to get a trace done? Oh, and contact the cops. Tell them who I am, so I can leave when the car gets here."
"I'll get straight onto it."
He was a man of his word, and I had no trouble leaving once the new cab arrived. Half an hour later, the driver was dropping me off at the Richmond street address. The wind whipped off the nearby Yarra River and spun its chill around me. I shivered and hastily zipped up my borrowed jacket, hiding the torn and bloodied state of my shirt in the process.
I slung my purse over my shoulder and turned around. The house was one of those cute, single-fronted Victorian weatherboard homes that Richmond was famous for. Which meant, of course, it was worth a sheer fortune. This one was a little forlorn looking, what with its weatherworn and rickety white picket fence, smashed front window, and a front door that seemed to have more patches than original wood. The "for sale" sign behind the rickety fence had a black and red "sold" banner pasted across it, and part of me wondered if the deal would still go through now that someone had been murdered inside. That kind of information tended to turn people off.
Blue and white police tape had been strung across the door and windows, and a burly-looking cop stood near the gate, studying me with a somewhat forbidding expression. It was about then I realized I didn't have my ID with me, and that I didn't have a hope of getting inside that building - or past that cop - without it.
I dug my phone out of my jeans pocket and rang Jack again. I got his caramel-haired assistant, Salliane, instead.
Joy. "Sal, it's Riley."
"Ah, so the rumors are true. The bitch returns early."
And Jack wondered why I enjoyed snarking her so much. "It's such a pleasure to hear from you, too, Sal."
She made an unladylike snort. "What do you want, wolf girl?"
"Who's being sent to the Brighton Street cleanup?" You.
"Besides me, smartass."
Even the small screen of the vid-phone couldn't mask the amusement glinting in her brown eyes. "Cole Reece and his team."
I couldn't help the slight smile that touched my lips. Cole was a wolf-shifter I'd worked with briefly - on a case that had almost led me to being the sixth victim of an ancient god of evil. He was somewhat uptight when it came to the rules, and more than a little judgmental when it came to his opinions on weres, but my wolf soul sure as hell enjoyed teasing him.
"Have you got an ETA on him?"
She paused. In the background, I could hear the sound of typing. Checking the computer tracking system, no doubt. All Directorate personnel - those in the office as well as those in the field - now had small trackers inserted in their ears. Jack had no intention of losing any more staff than necessary. Not after the decimation of the guardian ranks by the madman I'd once called a mate.
"He should be almost on top of you," she said.
I should be so lucky. I shoved the thought aside, and looked around at the sound of a car. The black vehicle that approached had Directorate plates. "He is. Thanks."
"You're welcome," she said, voice suddenly polite. Jack had probably just walked into the room. Sal didn't mind throwing crap my way, but she wouldn't do it in Jack's presence. Trying to impress the boss and all that. Why the hell he didn't bed her and be done with it was anyone's guess.
I shoved the phone in my back pocket as the car pulled to a halt. A tall, craggy-faced man of indeterminate age climbed out, his gray hair glinting silver in the cool daylight. His musky, spicy scent swum around me, as refreshing as an evening breeze on a warm summer day.
Which it wasn't, of course, but he did smell as good as that.