My cellphone rang again when I climbed into my car. I expected it to be Michaels, so had the call swiped open before registering the caller ID was not from his phone.
With nothing left to do but go with it, I said into the mouthpiece, "Keen."
"Hey, Keen. Heard ya been dodgin' flyin' bullets. Don't they teach ya better than that in police woman school?" He said 'woman' in a husky tone.
"Eagle." I suppressed the smile on hearing his voice. "Now how would you have heard a nasty rumour like that?"
"I ain't just a pretty face, baby. 'Course, you'd know that if ya just took me up on my many offers."
"Not gonna happen and you know it."
"Man can dream, eh? Someone's gotta dirty y'up a bit. Or, word is, maybe that job's gone. Got yourself a invite to the mystique."
How the hell did this kid know these things? It was no wonder he was top of my list of informants to go to every single time.
"Seems like it."
"Whatcha gonna wear?" he asked in a singsong voice.
"Never you mind. Why the call?"
"Always business with you, Keen. One day ya gonna realise there's more to life than the job."
The job will pull you in and hold you down, unless you find a way to shut it the fuck off. A hobby, alcohol, mindless sex. Doesn't much matter, Sport. Just don't let it suck you dry without living a little first.
Carl had been a good, dedicated cop, but he drank a little too much whisky, and he had a couple of regular ladies he liked to visit on his nights off, and his hobby of choice was bugging the fuck out of me. And yet when he'd said those words to me not long before he disappeared, I'd just laughed outright in his face.
What life, Old Man? This is life. Couldn't be a grander cause, catching criminals, cleaning up the streets. That's life. That's my life. Had been, since before I was born.
He'd shaken his head, adjusted his slightly protruding belly - those whiskies maybe catching him up at last - and said, One day you'll ask yourself, why? Why did I give my heart and soul to something that just fucks you right back?
I should have known it was an omen. I should have read the message between the lines. But it was Carl. Steadfast, consistent, reliable Carl.
Even police detectives can miss the obvious, can have it staring them in the face and waving a damn flag, and still miss the fucking clues.
"Y'there, Keen?" Eagle drawled, pulling me out of my dark memories.
"Yeah, I'm here, Eagle." I'm always here. "What's on your mind?"
"Roofies've picked up again."
"Why the sudden change?" I thought they'd have continued to be careful, if they'd heard wind they were being watched.
"Don't know, that's for you to detect, ain't it? Just heard they're back. Coupla scenes last night got pretty loose. Like they wanted it on the streets. Like a message, eh."
Not careful, not even arrogantly sure of their safety. It was a trap.
"Good to know, thanks for the tip. I'll swing by and pay up when I can."
"On the house," Eagle generously offered. "But it ain't the end of the news."
"Never is, Eagle."
He chuckled. It sounded so fucking young.
"Pat's askin' for yous."
"Patrick O'Malley? Down at the docks?"
My back had gone rigid as chilling ice encased my spine.
"Yeah-hah. The one and only old sea dog."
I hadn't used Pat for anything lately, after Carl left he'd refused all contact with me. Blamed me, some said. I couldn't fault that assessment, so I'd left the old git to himself. And now he wants to see me?
An informant. One of Carl's. Asking for a meet. I wondered, idly, if he'd come into any cash recently too.
"All right," I finally replied. "Any idea why?"
"Nah, just been askin' if ya been on the streets."
"What did you tell him?"
"That he got no skills to getta hot woman like you."
"Very flattering, Eagle."
"Always am. Want me to flatter ya person to person? I do a good body rub."
"I'll have to pass on that, but the image is intriguing."
"See, I'm wearin' ya down, Detective."
Chuckling, I offered, "Take care, Eagle," and ended the call.
What to do? What to do? What to do?
It was closing in on nine. Pat usually did the night shift on the container ship cranes, Carl had always met with him up in his cab, metres above the docks. You couldn't really see in there from the ground if you sat in just the right spot, and getting up there was inside a covered, all weather ladder. It was as good as any dark alley for meeting with a snitch.
But I'd never climbed the ladder, nor sat in Pat's smoke filled cabin in the night sky. He wasn't my informant, he was Carl's. And I certainly never inherited him. But that's not to mean he hadn't got some useful information and decided it was time to mend bridges and pass it on. Or he might have just needed the cash.
I drummed my fingers on my steering wheel, checked my watch again and then let out a long breath of air.
I couldn't risk it. Just asking if I was on the streets was hardly enough to the risk the guy's neck over.
And then of course, at this point, Inspector Hart's words filled my head.
"Something to consider, Keen. You'd keep him safe, watch over him for the duration. One small risk to prevent the deaths of many."
God, I couldn't think straight. For once, in my not very illustrious career, I didn't know what path to tread.
I banged my head back against the headrest in the car a couple of times, then aware I'd run out of options, picked up my cellphone and dialled Michaels. I needed a sounding board. I needed someone who wasn't quite as close to the heart of the case as me.
Ah, fuck it. I needed to hear his voice.
But I didn't let him talk first.
"The Birdcage on Franklin Road. Take a taxi, then you can drive my car afterwards."
"Is this a date, Detective?" he asked in a slow drawl.
I sighed. "Just be there. You know where it is?"
"I am a fireman, Lara. I've been to the Emergency Service's favourite bar before," he explained patiently. "I know exactly where it is."
"Good. See you there." I hung up before I changed my mind or he told me he was busy. It was a coward's way out, but it was time I cut myself some slack.
I found a booth seat in the corner, one where I could watch the door, and therefore Damon's approach, and had a wall at my back. I'd had to pull rank and badge on a couple of off duty paramedics who had unwisely chosen that particular seat, but they were quick to oblige my request. I had a feeling it had nothing to do with the badge and everything to do with the look on my face.
I pretended to be interested in the décor; old photos of policemen holding up beer steins, arms wrapped around firemen as though one big happy family. The ambos had missed out. The orangey red brick interior, which pretty much matched the outside, black painted beams, stained glass windows and gilded birdcage hanging proudly in the centre of the pub.
There was just something about the Birdcage that made you feel welcome. I'm sure a lot of patrons weren't cops or from the Fire Service or St John's Ambulance. But we'd made it ours. And it felt like it. I'd come here often with Carl.
I realised, as I spotted Damon weaving through the tables, stopping to acknowledge a greeting, have a word or two with someone he knew, that I hadn’t been here since Carl left.
A night of firsts.
I nursed my whisky, my eyes following Damon's movements, his confident stance, his winning smile. He schmoozed the room. Should have been a politician. But I guess to head up all of HEAT he had to have some social skills to speak of. Politics and career climbing went hand in hand.
It was fascinating to watch though. The way he gave eye contact, made them think they were the most important thing in his world, but how he knew exactly where every single person was located in that room.
When I took another sip from my glass, his eyes found mi
ne. But the person he currently spoke to didn't notice. When I waved a waitress down and ordered the whole bottle, his back stiffened, even though he didn't look like he was aware of me. When I poured a generous helping into my glass, he distractedly placed an order for some food. Always looking out for my health.
I gave a mirthless laugh as I downed most of my newly poured fire-in-a-glass and watched as he commandeered a bowl of chips off a fireman's table and sent them my way instead. The waitress banged the basket down in front of me with a bemused look.
"He does it to everyone," I sympathised, but just received a curious glare.
I'm feeling now, Old Man. The whisky's burning. Is this what you meant?
Or that feeling I had inside my chest, tightening the muscle, sending shooting pains deep into my bones and up into my head, could have been because of something else entirely. The disapproval I could see in Damon's eyes.
No, that was a lie. It wasn’t disapproval. I wanted it to be. But it wasn't. It was weighted concern.
Ah, damnit.
I swallowed the last of the glass, refilled it, amused to note Damon scowled, and pushed it aside to concentrate on the chips.
They were cold and greasy; I hadn't tasted better in years.
I'd finished most of it by the time Damon extricated himself from the hangers on and slipped into the bench seat at my side.
"I ordered us cheeseburgers and more chips," he said, helping himself to the whisky. "I gather you haven't eaten yet tonight?"
"You gather correctly." Not a slur in sight.
One thing you learn growing up in a cop's household; how to hold your liquor.
"How's Marc?" Damon seemed surprised I'd remembered to ask. I may have been a slightly socially awkward person at the best of times, but I did have manners.
"He's... ruffled."
"I bet. That was his only hot rod car?"
Damon relaxed into the seat, one arm slung along the back behind my shoulders, not touching, but close enough to feel his body heat. He sipped at his whisky, pensively.
"No, he has several in storage, but that was his baby. He's ropeable right now."
I pushed the empty basket away from me and dusted my hands clean on the jeans covering my thighs.
"There are napkins," Damon offered. I shrugged.
"Sort out everything at HEAT?" I asked, delaying the real topic I wanted to discuss for now.
He leaned forward, removing his body heat, and rested his elbows on the table top. "I wouldn't say sorted."
"Going to tell me what's going on?"
His head turned quickly and dark intense eyes held my gaze.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on with you?" he asked.
"What makes you think there's something going on with me?" I shot back.
He tapped the side of the whisky bottle, but didn't bother to say a word.
I rolled my eyes. Then shifted under his continued gaze.
"OK," I said, on a breath of disgruntled air. "I need a sounding board."
"I'm honoured, and here I thought it was my body you were after all along."
It was actually easier that he was making jokes, somehow it lessened the pressure on my chest. Let me draw in a full breath of air. Feel a little more even keeled.
"I'm still pissed off at you," I whispered.
"I know," he whispered back. "And I'm sorry, Lara. It was an... underhand move. And I fear it failed anyway. You still look exhausted, and my guess is that's the first food you've eaten all day." He indicated the empty chip basket with a nod of his head.
"A chocolate bar at the station," I offered, pathetically.
"Well, here comes the burgers. Maybe we can be each other's sounding boards after we've gotten more than just carbohydrates in our bodies."
"If that was meant to be a sexually loaded sentence, it fell a little short."
"I'll try to up my game, then," he said with a wicked smile.
We ate in surprisingly companionable silence, watching the patrons and the ever increasing drunkenly behaviour of Emergency Services personnel unloading after a stressful day. And when the empty plates were taken away, we both sat back with a satisfied sigh, picking up our drinks and taking a - in the case of me, large, and for Damon, small - swallow.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"Monumentally," I admitted.
He smiled slyly. His objective obviously achieved for now.
"So, how's the case?" he asked, nursing his barely touched Scotch.
I gave him a run down of Anton's change of finances and new career move, bringing him up to speed with where I'd managed to get the case to so far. I also mentioned my theory that the roofies pushers were setting up a trap. Damon agreed, but for now there was nothing we could do about that. Then came the fun part.
"The Inspector suggested using an informant to lure the killer in."
Damon whistled low. "Your take on that?" The words were spoken carefully.
"Initially, I baulked. It's a huge risk, considering the escalation of each murder so far. The perp is getting too confident, we push his hand, he'll bite ours off." Or the civilian's.
"And now you've had time to think about it?"
"Now I've had an informant of Carl's fall into my lap, asking for me on the streets, which is as good as an invitation to meet."
"Ah, and you're not sure whether to answer the invitation."
"Oh, I know I have to answer the invitation." It was a conclusion I'd reluctantly made. "I'm just not sure if I'll be able to live with myself afterwards if it all goes wrong."
"So take back-up," Damon suggested. Do what the Inspector had recommended. Cover him and me, and have the contact watched and followed after the meet.
"Is it as simple as that?" I asked, dubiously.
"It's never simple, Lara. There are just paths with less risk than others. It's what we do. When I enter a building fully involved, there are choices I can make to lessen the risk. Walk along the outer edge of an upper hallway, utilising the structure's strengths even when they're failing. Check the heat on doors before I open them, conscious of flashback at any time. Watch the curl of flames, the movement or direction, read the fire, predict its next move. I could ignore the rules I have set up completely, or I could lower the risk and take my time implementing each one."
"Take my time," I repeated. "What if there's not enough time?"
"Who's to say there isn't?"
My gut. Carl's voice in my head urging me onwards. Pay attention, read the signs. Don't ignore your gut.
Three dead informants, connected to me through Carl. A near miss with a .38 bullet, the culprit one of the dead informants themselves. Cash as payment for an as yet unknown service. A trap set at the centre of the roofies sex club scene.
I looked at the damage I'd done to the whisky bottle, felt surprisingly level headed. Then called in a few favours from my colleagues at CIB.
Chapter Thirteen
"Pay attention, read the signs. Don't ignore your gut."
It was set for the end of Patrick O'Malley's shift; six tomorrow morning. Two reasons. I'd consumed enough alcohol to be aware it would be dangerous to undertake a sting right now, despite feeling in control of my faculties. There was just too much riding on this to fuck it up because I'd had a couple of drinks. And secondly, tomorrow evening was booked solid with the back room invitation to the mystique night at Zero Gravity.
Time was also of the essence. Striking tonight off the schedule meant tomorrow morning was the soonest I could tee things up. It also gave Pierce, Cawfield and Simpson time to clear their decks and back me up at the meet.
So, with little else to do but confront HEAT's issues, Damon agreed to finally 'show' me what the hell was going on with them.
"Where are we going?" I asked from the passenger seat of my car. "This isn't in the direction of Pitt Street."
"I've got all the information in my car. I'm taking you to my place."
What?
"Isn't it at HEAT?" I think
I'd started sweating.
Damon smiled, not removing his eyes from the road out the front of the windshield.
"I moved everything to my car to bring it to your house tonight, as we were meant to be having dinner there. But when you requested my attendance at the Birdcage, I stopped off home to garage my truck, and grabbed a taxi from there."
So fucking reasonable. Couldn't the guy slip up at some stage?
"Oh, all right then," I said, trying for breezy, but I think sounding a little harassed.
Damon chuckled. "Come on, Keen. You've been to my home before."
Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. Flashbacks at the scene of the crime. Hot, slick bodies and long, tangled limbs. Yep, this was going to fun.
Still, I wouldn't let him see that. Not a fucking chance.
I offered a shoulder shrug and received an amused smirk in reply.
Damon's house hadn't changed much in the six months since I'd been there. The security lights came on as he parked my car in the driveway at the back of the row of terrace houses, directly in front of the sectional door to his garage. The three storey Paddington styled home had an uninterrupted view of The Domain reserve across the street from the latticed balconies on the opposite side of where he had parked my car. It was a quaint, inner city apartment style home, conveniently located and plushly fitted.
I'd been surprised when he'd first brought me here. Damon, being a fireman, was not in an executive type job raking in the money, yet these terrace homes were definitely for the well-to-do. To this day I hadn't done more than a Query Person check on him through the system at work, coming up with the standard; no outstanding warrants and no prior arrests. It felt wrong to delve further into his background, and he hadn't been forthcoming himself other than to mention the fact that his parents were both dead. And he had a younger sister, whom he'd been very protective of, and at the same time irritated with, but we were never introduced.
And then we'd parted ways and looking into anything Damon Michaels related was at the bottom of my to-do list.
Now, I found myself standing in his modern lounge, looking out the dark windows at the lit up trees along The Domain's edge, and remembering how his body felt, hard against mine, on top of the beige leather couch that dominated the room. Keeping my eyes off that settee was difficult. Keeping my body from responding to the memories was impossible.
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