H.E.A.T. Book Bundle (H.E.A.T. Books 1-3)

by Nicola Claire

  I shook my head, thinking what with the rain, the hidden alleyways, the clanking of metal on metal and the fact that I felt like I was being watched, and knew I was too, made for an ominous atmosphere. It was time to settle into my cop persona and forget everything else.

  Focus on your surroundings, but don't let them distract. Use a location to your advantage, never the other way 'round. Be ready. Be aware. Be a fucking cop.

  Carl's voice hadn't left me, even though last night I'd kind of hoped it was done. I'd spent too long in the old man's company. I'd idolised him, my shrink had said. And then I blamed him for getting shot, for leaving me. Hell, I couldn't even manage to say the actual words: Carl is dead. More often than not I said he'd left. Left. A euphemism for dead.

  My shrink was working on that.

  I wished him luck.

  I rolled my head on my shoulders, shifted my weight ensuring circulation to my feet, and readied myself as the door at the bottom of the crane opened, spilling out Patrick O'Malley, in all his smoke-riddled checked shirt and beer gutted frame.

  He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me, a sneer quirked the side of his split lips. Grey stubble decorated each cheek, his eyebrows bushy and wild. He was missing a good portion of his hair, but what he did have was swept back and covered in some sort of hair product, the front part yellowed from nicotine.

  "Patrick O'Malley," I said, stepping forward and displaying my badge, but not so close as to be caught by a wayward punch. "Detective Keen, Auckland CIB."

  "I know who you are, girlie. Carl spoke often about ya, he did."

  "Likewise," I countered. Then cutting to the chase, "Heard you've been asking around about me."

  "Maybe."

  "Well, here I am. We doing business?"

  His eyes darted about the part of the wharf we were on, jittery, a little too wide. He was rattled. It wasn't an entirely unusual behavioural pattern for a nark. Being caught talking to cops had bad consequences for some, they often kept glancing over their shoulders. For now, I put O'Malley's nervousness down to just that.

  "What if I did? What you paying?" He took a step closer, which led me to believe he was warming to the idea, willing to trade info for cash.

  "Going rate, I'm sure you remember what that is. First, what have you got for me?"

  "It's big." He licked his lips, looked around the dock again. Took another step closer. "Worth more than a pinkie." New Zealand's one hundred dollar note was a reddish-pink colour, often referred to as a pinkie. Or a Rutherford, the person who fronted the bill.

  "One hundred's the going rate," I pointed out, not playing ball.

  "Yeah, but this is something big," he emphasised, and took another step closer.

  He was within reaching distance now, a quick jab and he could knock me on the jaw or in the guts. But his nervousness had settled, he was clearly getting into the idea of talking the going rate for an informant up. Whatever he thought he had to exchange, he obviously felt it was worth the effort to negotiate.

  "Tell me then," I said, offering a shrug of my shoulder, not willing to give away the upper hand just yet.

  "It's about Carl," he finally said, making my breath hitch as he looked around the wharf yet again.

  "What about Detective Forrester?"

  A small, nasty looking smirk twisted his lips. He licked them, eyes jumping from my face to my breasts to my neck and then back to my face. I forced the shudder that wanted out back down. This guy was definitely giving me the creeps, I was glad Carl had dealt with him alone in the past.

  "You and he were close, eh?" he asked, stalling.

  "He was my partner."

  "He tell you everything?"

  "What's that got to do with your information, O'Malley? Spill."

  "Yeah, he told you everything," he said, ignoring my command. This was going nowhere fast. I was beginning to suspect old Patrick O'Malley had lost the plot and was currently wasting my time.

  I reached up to scratch my head, getting ready to give him the flick, when it happened.

  He took one last furtive look about the wharf, his continued agitation making me glance around the area too. Had he seen something? The moment I took my eyes off him, he struck. There was no way I could have expected the level of violence. I was on guard, I was focused, but he'd not given the right signals for such a brutal attack.

  But I'm well trained. I can adapt in an instant. And the moment his hands wrapped around the length of chain hanging over a hook underneath the crane, I threw myself out of the way. The metal loops rattled and clanked, and the air swished ominously over my head as he swung the fucking thing towards my neck. Instant strangulation. Thank fuck he missed.

  My gun was in my hands the second my back hit the concrete, the air burst from my lungs so I didn't offer a warning before I fired. I aimed for his thigh. My shot was true. Blood gushed from the wound, but didn't pulse. I'd missed the artery.

  He howled, swung again with the chain, eyes glinting evilly, snarl on his lips, and I finally managed to suck in enough air to yell, "Drop it! Drop the fucking chain now!"

  The metal connected with my foot as I dragged myself backwards. I knew fairly much straight away that he'd broken a toe. Sweat dotted my brow, my stomach threatened to expel its contents. But I had more important things on my mind right then, like what the fuck? And where the hell is my backup?

  In the next instant, O'Malley split. Limping, favouring his shot leg, but dragging that fucking chain with him towards the alleyway created by containers. I watched him for a heartbeat, relief coursing through my veins, then reality set in. He'd tried to kill me. The second informant to do that.

  I couldn't let him get away, I needed answers. Now more than ever.

  Scrambling upright, I tested my weight on the aching foot, able to bear down if I kept the toes off the ground. It meant my gait was lopsided, rather like O'Malley's. I fished my walkie-talkie out of my jacket pocket as I limped after the chain wielding prick, turning the volume up and hearing loud chatter. My breath was already choppy.

  Pierce shouted orders over the unit to Simpson and Cawfield, giving directions as to where O'Malley had gone. Another wave of relief washed through me, making me feel chilled after sweating for so long. Or maybe that was the agony in my toe, I couldn't be sure. Trembling had started in my extremities as well, I willed the shaking to stop. Mind over matter.

  "Lara, you're closer. Can you see him?" Pierce asked over the cracking line.

  "No, but I'm right behind him. Where are you?"

  "We're on the way, Cawfield's closest to your location, he'll be right behind you. I'm going over the top to see if I can get a visual from above. Simpson's approaching from the East." The other direction from Cawfield and me. "And I have no idea where Michaels is."

  "Thirty seconds away," came Damon's clipped response.

  I slowed as I came to a corner, turning the volume down on my walkie-talkie and getting low to the ground to peer around. Not that Pat had a gun last time I looked, but I sure as hell wasn't taking anything for granted right now. A quick jerk of my head, eyes only around the corner, a split second to see the view before I was back, breath escaping in short, controlled huffs, my head and chest starting to ache.

  But the alleyway was empty for the entire length, so I slipped around the corner, gripping my gun in a two handed hold, hugging the sides, going as fast as my hobbling gait could manage. Halfway down I heard a noise from above. Directly over my head. My heart missed a beat, my breath all but stalled, I thought of Pierce getting a bird's eye view, and then a grunt preceded a rattle of chain.

  I rolled away from the edge as the length of chain O'Malley had tried to throttle me with came down the side of the containers like a coiling snake. Snapping and slithering and puddling in a loud pile of rattling links, the echo of it clanking against the siding ringing in my ears.

  Heart in throat, breathing through my mouth in quick, short bursts, I had my gun aimed at the top of the containers in an instant. But
no one was there. I was stuck fast with the realisation that had I not moved quickly, I would now be dead.

  I licked my lips, worked to control my rasping breath, growled low in the back of my throat, and pulled my radio out, turning the volume up again and letting the others know he was up on the top of the containers, but now without his weapon of choice.

  I took one last withering look at the pile of chain and moved off down the alleyway, making sure to look up and around, and keeping an ear out for any sounds. I'd been in tense situations before, moments in time that felt surreal due to the level of fear I experienced or the amount of brutality I saw, but this ranked right up there with them.

  My heart beat unmercifully in my chest, my legs shook with too much adrenaline, a bitter, metallic taste filled my mouth, making me want to spit. Sweat coated my brow, dripping annoyingly into my eyes, making me have to stop and run my forearm over them, wiping my vision clear. My ears were ringing from the effort required to hear the minutest sound in amongst the beeps and engine roars back out on the dock itself. Not to mention the harsh respirations I was making.

  This man wanted me dead. It would have been so easy to turn tail and run. But that's not who I am. The part of me that wanted to figure this out, overruled the part of me that wanted to hide like a frightened child. Mixed in with that was a deep seated sense of anger. How dare this bastard make me fear.

  Just because you have courage and you know what precautions to take to make your survival more achievable, doesn't mean you stop feeling any fear. Fear is what makes you a good detective. But mindless terror kills.

  I wondered, as I rounded yet another corner, checking low, checking high, listening out, if Carl had felt terror when his body rose up and over that cliff ledge. Or if he had only felt fear.

  I'd never know. He wasn't here to ask. And talking to his memorial plaque at the cemetery wouldn't cut it either.

  Another corner, a long stretch of torturous, shadowed alleyway, and another and another. It went on forever and my quarry had simply disappeared. The fear had settled into a low hum of heightened awareness now. I was ready for anything. Sweat soaked, wrung out, but aware.

  And then I found him.

  Leaning back against a container, in the centre of an intersection of several alleyways. Legs outstretched on the concrete, eyes closed. Blood had soaked his thigh from the bullet I'd fired. But it wasn't what had killed Patrick O'Malley.

  No, that was the long, heavy, rust stained links of chain wrapped securely around his neck.

  I sucked in a deep breath, looked up, looked to the sides, and then finally lowered my gun.

  "Well, fuck," I muttered, just as Damon came careening down another alleyway on the left. Followed by Pierce and Simpson.

  Cawfield must have gotten lost.

  "Shit," Pierce exclaimed, Simpson offering a similar expletive. "Well, that's that, then."

  Nobody said anything for a suspended moment, the consequences of this grisly discovery settling into our minds.

  Damon turned from looking at the body, his fists still clenched, his face paler than it was before, he held my eyes with his. Worry, consuming fear, concern all flashed through the dark brown.

  "Where's the complexity in this?" he finally asked, obviously referring to how the killer had escalated on each murder scene until now.

  I glanced back at the body and let out a shaky breath, then flicked my eyes up and around all over again. The others followed my movements with their own agitated perusals. Every nerve ending on high alert.

  "The complexity," I offered, my throat dry, making the words sound gritty, "is in the fact that it was done right under our noses."

  This killer was bold and very quick. Able and strong. And he was laughing in our faces right about now.

  I looked around the containers, just to be sure, all over again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Fear is what makes you a good detective. But mindless terror kills."

  It took a few of hours to clear the scene. The Ports Of Auckland not at all happy about closing down a wharf to accommodate a murder enquiry. The paramedics tended to my foot, but as the toe wasn't dislocated I knew there was little a doctor could do. The medics splinted with gauze and dressings, offered some over-the-counter pain meds, and left me to my bandaged, unsightly fashion accessory. I couldn't wear my shoe, so my limp was rather pronounced.

  Whenever possible Pierce made me take a seat and elevate my leg, bringing witnesses to me to interview. Damon remained suspiciously quiet. The occasional glance in my direction, but something meaningful was working behind those dark and brooding eyes. If he couldn't handle a minor injury such as this, then he and I weren't going to last long.

  And the fact that I'd actually thought that at all left me puzzled beyond measure.

  But an hour into the clean-up Inspector Hart appeared. He threw all the witnesses and everyone else out of the Port staffroom I'd commandeered and shut the door with an ominous click. If he was just after a report, he would have allowed Pierce and Damon to remain.

  So this was no casual update, this was a reprimand.

  I almost didn't have the strength to battle it. I scrubbed my face with a palm while his back was still to the room, taking advantage of his delay tactics. The Inspector liked to use little ploys such as that to put you off your game. Sometimes he'd just stare at you until you buckled.

  When he turned back to look at me his face was blotchy and red. Increased blood pressure. Fuck it, he was about to blow.

  "Tell me," he said in a level and controlled voice, "why I shouldn't just pull you completely from this case?"

  My stomach plummeted to the floor, pooling around my bandaged foot morosely.

  "There was no way to have predicted he'd react like that," I pointed out, and then thought to add a belated, "Sir."

  Hart harrumphed and started to pace.

  "Twice now, you've been targeted," he started. I opened my mouth to suggest it could have been either Michaels or me who was the target at The Cloud, but Hart spun back towards me and pointed a finger at my face. "Don't give me that distraction bullshit, Detective. These were Carl's informants. They were both aiming for your head."

  I'd thought the same, but hearing my experienced superior officer say it aloud made the whole situation more real. I'd been scared out there. And it was a different fear than the angst I've felt in similar situations before; chasing down an armed suspect. This had been personal. The way O'Malley had gone for my throat. The way he had looked so fucking smug. Like he knew something I didn't, and my gut was telling me it was something to do with Carl. My partner. My idol.

  How much more personal did it get than that?

  "Sir," I began, and for a moment I thought Hart was going to silence me, but he just sucked in a deep breath and glared, waiting for me to go on. "We can't rule out that this is still some kind of coincidence." He just raised an eyebrow, but thankfully didn't interrupt. "Carl's connection could be the red herring. This could still be tied up with the roofies at Zero."

  "I'll give you that, Keen. But answer me this," Hart said, arms crossed over his still broad chest. The man may have been getting on in years, but he kept himself fit. "How many of these informants knew anything pertaining to Zero?"

  I sat back in the chair as the implications of his statement sank in. Anton had known nothing. Tommy had offered minor intel. Tank hadn't had the chance to trade info, but it had been suggested he was known on the club circuit. But no one had mentioned Zero as his preferred locale. And there was just no way I could even see Patrick O'Malley turning up at a sophisticated, invitation only back room of a sex club.

  "One, possibly two," I finally replied.

  "One confirmed, three unproven," he countered, and then let out a beleaguered breath of air. "Keen. You're a good cop. One of the best. You have an instinct some detectives never manage to cultivate in all the years they work CIB. You're a natural."

  He'd never praised me before. I had no words to offer i
n thanks. Besides, you didn't thank Inspector Hart and you sure as hell expected there to be an ulterior motive to any show of approval.

  "But," and here it was, "this is too personal. This is too close to your heart. You know what they say," he went on, and I just knew whatever came next couldn't be good. "If you can't detach from the emotions, you can't be expected to remain objective."

  Not a Carlism, but true nevertheless.

  "I want you to take a back seat on this, let Pierce take over on lead." Demoted. At least he'd chosen Ryan and not Cawfield. "Get a psych evaluation on this killer from Hennessey." My shrink. Now why didn't Hart pick one of the other department psychologists for the profile? "Work the case from the bottom up, go back over the notes and reports, put together an offender profile and see if we can attack this from a different angle."

  "Sir," I tried.

  "If I let you out there again, it might not be the informant zipped up in a black bag."

  "I can increase my security," I offered.

  "No."

  "The club, we've got the invitation."

  "We'll have to hold off on that."

  "Sir, it's their mystique night. Masks providing an element of anonymity. We won't get another chance like this to observe without giving ourselves away any time soon. How long do you think we've got before the killer strikes again? With or without me on the streets."

  He hesitated. I pushed my advantage.

  "I'll stay in the background for everything else. Work the profile, double check what we've already got. But there's no way Michaels can get into that club with Cawfield or Simpson on his arm. It isn't that sort of place."

  Hart actually huffed in amusement.

  "One night, sir. Then I'll hole up at CIB for the duration. I'll even get Pierce his coffees and doughnuts, like a good little secretary."

  "Cut the facetious crap, it doesn't suit you."

  "Sir," I almost whined.