I left. The beemer was ten cars down from the house, parked in a no-standing zone. There was no one inside and the car was locked.
I dug the phone out of my pocket and dialed the Directorate. "Sal," I said, when her not-so-cheery features came online, "I need a plate check."
"Is this official business?"
"Hell, no. I just thought I'd ring you up to piss you off."
"That would be no surprise." She sniffed. "What's the plate number?"
I read it out, then peered inside the car while I was waiting. Two warm winter coats had been thrown across the backseat, the vibrant red of one suggesting it belonged to a woman, while the other was definitely male in design. There was also an umbrella and several newspapers.
"Okay," Sal said. "That plate belongs to a green BMW, registered to one Li am Barry."
So it did belong to the victim's fiancé. "Could you do a background check on him? I think he might be the boyfriend of our victim, as well as her murderer."
"A lovers' tiff?"
"Trust me, this was more than a tiff."
"It'd have to be, otherwise we wouldn't have been called in."
True. "Can you get that information to me as soon as you have it?"
"I'll think about it, wolf girl."
I didn't bite, just hung up. I set the phone to record then did a slow walk around the car, detailing how I'd found it and who it belonged to. Then I placed the phone on top of a fence post, stripped off my coat, and used it as a shield as I smashed the front passenger window. Though I'm not sure why I bothered—a few more glass cuts surely wouldn't have made much difference to my already impressive array.
Glass sprayed over the seats, glinting brightly in the cold morning light. I shook the coat free of glass, then dumped it on top of the car and opened the passenger-side door.
The car smelled of leather, musk, and the tangy, flowery scent of perfume. The date on the newspaper was yesterday's, and it was the Age rather than the Herald-Sun. Upmarket rather than mass-market.
I reached for the man's jacket and sniffed it. The scent was musky, entwined in an earthy, piney aroma. Not an upmarket man when it came to cologne, obviously. Either that, or the girlfriend had bought it and he was just wearing it for her sake.
I took another sniff, just to clarify the scent in my mind, then checked the rest of the car. There didn't seem to be anything more than the usual rubbish that collected in cars—CDs, candy wrappers, and dirt.
No indication of drugs or alcohol. Nothing that would explain his sudden, violent outburst.
I closed the door, stopped recording, then called the cow to have the car picked up for closer forensic inspection.
Then I shoved the phone in my pocket, grabbed my coat, and headed back to the house. The bird-shifter was squatting in the doorway, carefully placing a piece of bloodied skin in a bag.
"Could you tell Cole I've just fouled one of his crime scenes?"
"Cole will not be pleased," the shifter said, voice gruff and somewhat harsh. Oddly enough—although perhaps not, given he was a bird-shifter—it reminded me of an eagle's call.
"Yeah, I know," I said, with a grin. "Tell him the green BMW with the smashed side window is the fiancé's. I've already asked for a pickup."
"Will do," he said, still concentrating on whatever was on the floor more than me.
"And keep an eye on this jacket, will you? I need something to change into after the shift."
He grunted, making me wonder if anything I was saying was actually registering. I dumped my jacket over the fence, then called to the wolf within.
Power swept around me, through me, blurring my vision, blurring the pain. Clothing disappeared into the magic as limbs shortened, shifted, and rearranged, until what was standing on the footpath was wolf not woman.
I nosed around the gateway and, through the many scents that crowded my olfactory senses, found the one I was hunting for.
With my nose to the ground, I followed. The chill wind ruffled my fur but did little to affect the trail. Liam obviously hadn't run after he'd murdered his girlfriend—not if these spoors were anything to go by. Running steps tended to be longer, the distance between each step—and therefore each scent mark—greater.
Liam had walked. Casually, unhurriedly. As if he hadn't a care in the world, despite all the blood that must have covered him.
I followed the trail into Rose Street, then crossed another road and found myself in a park. Trees lined the rim of the park, and seemed to snake through the middle. Liam didn't stay on any of the well-worn tracks, instead heading for a small but thick clump of trees in the middle.
It was there I found him.
Only he was well and truly dead.
Chapter Four
I stopped and shifted back into human form. After tying together the ends of my torn shirt—for some reason, shirts and the more delicate fabrics like lace didn't seem to handle the shifting as well as jeans—I took out my phone, hit record, and made a brief report. Then I set it down and squatted beside the body.
Liam had died with a look of shock and agony on his face. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, and if it were possible for the smell of terror to linger on a body, then it did here.
Blood covered him from head to foot. It saturated his well-pressed pants and drenched his fine-looking cashmere sweater. It also painted the skin across the back of his hands, and colored his fingernails. And there were strands of pale hair caught between his fingers, though nowhere near enough to cover the head of his dead girlfriend.
There was absolutely no doubt he was responsible for the girl's murder. But why? And just how did the shadow the old neighbor had reported relate? Did we have a potential witness, or was he—she?—another sick part of this gruesome event?
I scanned him again, wondering briefly how he'd died. There was no obvious cause—no gunshot or knife wounds. It was as if he'd just been strolling through the trees when he'd fallen over backward and died.
Heart attack? It was a possibility. It had certainly taken a heartbreaking amount of strength to do what he'd done—and he didn't smell like a were or a shifter of any kind. But if he were human, then his actions were even more extraordinary.
I waited for several more minutes, just squatting there, staring at the body, but nothing registered. Maybe this guy's soul didn't want to come out and talk. Maybe it was too shell-shocked. Or ashamed.
I rose, grabbed my phone and ended the recording, then rang the Directorate again.
"Gee, this is my lucky day, isn't it," the cow said dryly.
"I just found our murderer. You'd better send in a second cleanup team."
"You didn't kill him, then?" she said, in her most sarcastic tone. Someone had been reading my file again, and had obviously discovered my reluctance to kill. I'm sure it amused her greatly—though she could hardly talk. Sal wasn't the only one who could break into secure files, and her own such reluctance was the reason she was a liaison rather than a guardian.
"He was already dead when I found him. There's no apparent reason for the death, so we'll need an autopsy."
"I'll arrange it."
"And tell Jack I'm heading back home to finish my holiday. I'll send him my report tomorrow."
"He won't be pleased."
"Tough."
After all, what was he going to do? Fire me? He'd spent too long getting me into the guardian ranks already.
I hung up, sent the two recordings to Jack, then turned off the phone. The minute the cow told him what I was doing, he'd undoubtedly want to talk to me, and all I wanted to do right now was go back to Kellen's, have a long, hot bath, then curl up in bed beside him.
None of which I could do until the cleanup team got here. So I waited, keeping away the curious and the occasional dog. When the team—three shifters I'd never met before—arrived, I explained events and told them to report their findings back to Cole, so he could include it in his report.