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

by Nicola Claire

  Nothing could help me right now. Not Pierce. Not Hennessey, my shrink. Not even Damon.

  And definitely not Carl.

  Taking in the sights and sounds of Karangahape Road early on a Friday morning, I watched the harried Queen Street suit wearing workers and the more relaxed AUT students heading towards Myers Park and the shortcut down to Mayoral Drive and the city campus there. Mixed in with the inner city apartment dwellers out for their breakfast at various cafés, because God knows they couldn’t possibly pour a bowl of cereal in their mini kitchenettes at home. And finally the street workers, finishing up for the night, weary looks of exhaustion combined with creased lines of despondency on their haggard faces.

  Or maybe that was just me. Everything had a pall of desperation to it. Even the body I’d just left in the tender care of scientists to unravel had been forlorn.

  Death is miserable.

  I rounded the corner and stepped into Eagle’s domain. The chances of finding him here at this hour were negligible. But someone would see me and tell one of his team and Eagle would know I’d been here. I’d long since realised that Eagle and cellphones were not going to work. He occasionally phoned me, from a public phone box or a pay phone in a bar. But Eagle liked face to face contact. His whole career was based on it.

  He relied on his clients seeking him out. And even though Eagle and I had an unusual professional relationship, I was sure I was still firmly placed in the category of client.

  But as suspected, he wasn’t here. Just a couple of homeless street dwellers, their scattering of boxes and layers of newspapers to keep themselves warm, and a can of blue paint sitting forlornly between them.

  Blurred eyes squinted up at me out of grime stained faces, blue coloured snot running in rivulets down past their chins. For a second it was all I could focus on; glue-like mucus the colour of Smurfs. But the acidic stench of aromatic hydrocarbons filling the air broke my morbidly fascinated stare. One of the men carefully reached out a hand and pulled the thinned paint towards his body, cradling it as though it was a precious living thing.

  “Seen Eagle?” I asked, making sure to keep well out of kicking reach. I purposely didn’t flash my badge.

  “Nah. No one by that name comes ‘round ‘ere,” the one holding the paint tin said. The other was tipping over sideways about to pass out.

  “This is his stretch,” I pressed, leaning back against the wall casually and holding the drugged out paint sniffer’s eyes, letting him know I was calling “bullshit.”

  “Not last night,” the guy grumbled and rolled over onto his side, hugging the paint tin, placing his back to me. His eyes darted up from behind stringy strands of hair. Aware and wary.

  I frowned down at the men, but knew I’d get no further aid, so walked into the darker reaches of K Road hell.

  This little alley was all Eagle’s. If any other street worker chose to ply their wares here they’d meet a hard fist and swift kick to the solar plexus, ensuring Eagle and his team reigned supreme. Everyone knew it. Hell, he even had regulars who came here time and again. The kid gave good service.

  But the end of the alley was bare. And I mean, completely bare. No rubbish. No cigarette butts. No discarded condoms or rubber gloves. The stench of urine and the musky scent of ejaculate still hung on the air, but the usual pleasantries of the sex industry were all gone.

  I tipped my head to the side and stared at nothing, feeling my stomach clench and my sluggish mind reel.

  The bum was right. Eagle hadn’t been here last night. And last night, being a Thursday, was an easy cash cow for the likes of Eagle. The build up to the weekend always brought the compulsive purchaser out crawling the curb.

  I turned on my heel and came face to face with the no longer passed out huffer. The one not hoarding the paint tin all to himself. He opened his mouth and displayed a fine set of crooked blue teeth, his thick tongue looking like a bloated, necrotic organ. I held my breath as he went to speak, taking a surreptitious step backwards and placing my hand on the butt of my gun inside my jacket, flicking the safety catch on the holster, ready to draw if need be.

  He let out a cackling laugh; wet and crackly, a lung infection not aided by the toluene in the thinner. And shook his head, hands up in a peace offering. His stained fingers clutching a piece of paper.

  Black with gold writing.

  I raised my eyebrows and carefully reached out with my free hand to take the flyer. He relinquished it with another one of those too knowing chuckles, then turned his back to me and staggered towards his now fully tripping partner.

  I waited until he’d settled himself back down in amongst the mess of detritus he called a home and then flattened the grease and blue snot stained advertisement out in the palm of my hand.

  Sweet Hell. Open night. Thursday.

  Eagle had branched out and my gut was telling me this was no mere coincidence. A members only club designed to accommodate any man’s debauched and licentious desires across the street from where a woman had been left as if crucified on an invisible cross.

  No. This was no coincidence. This was act one of a tragedy that I feared would be extremely long.

  I gripped the flyer in my hand and headed back towards Pierce and the first victim.

  Back towards where, I was sure, there would now be several more of my fellow CIB detectives.

  Back towards my life.

  Chapter Two

  “Never let them see your fear, Sport. Attack before they notice the shaking in your limbs.”

  My cellphone chiming had me pausing just down the street from the now cordoned off, tented and chaotic crime scene. I stepped over toward the shelter of a nearby stoop and pulled the device from my pocket swiping the screen, and placing the phone at my ear.

  “Keen,” I announced, receiving only silence.

  Cars roared passed on my right, the wind whistled through a gap of the door to my left, but I knew there was someone breathing on the other end of the line. I couldn’t really hear it, not with the diesel engines of city buses and shouts of someone hailing a cab. Not with my heart suddenly pounding inside my head loud enough to drown out my own rapid breaths of air.

  But I knew. Because this was the tenth silent call I’d received in just over one week.

  “This is Detective Lara Keen,” I tried, my voice solid and clear. You wouldn’t know I’d started shaking. “How can I help?”

  The line went dead. It always went dead.

  I looked up and scanned the street. Was he here? Was he watching? Was he trying to shake me awake and make me pay attention?

  Pay attention, Sport. Don’t fucking fall asleep on the job.

  My hand clenched around the cellphone, hard enough to make the casing creak.

  For a moment I couldn’t move. For a second that felt like a lifetime I stood still on the side of a busy street believing I was somewhere else. Believing I was going mad.

  I lifted the cellphone slowly up and stared at the screen, then swiped until I found the call log. The number was “unknown.” Unidentified. Possibly from a pay phone or a disposable cellphone with the number blocked. Like all the others had been. I’d pulled my service provider’s records already, pinpointed the caller to three locations. The CBD, Henderson and Manukau. Practically three equidistant locations across Auckland City.

  My guess, today’s call would have matched the others.

  Carl was getting around.

  But why?

  A sound escaped. An embarrassing hiccough that made me straighten my back, pocket the offending cellphone, and glare at a stranger who happened to look me in the eyes as they passed on the street. I shook my head, dispelled the images of Carl falling backwards over the cliffs at Melons Bay, and took one step after another towards Pierce.

  Knowing I needed to get my shit together. Aware my discombobulated state would be written across my face for all to see. Resigned to the fact that I was losing it. Emotions. Memories. Words. All of it a jumbled mess inside my head I could no long
er tell what was truth and what was Carl’s meddling.

  My fingers shook when I raised them to tuck a strand of my hair behind an ear. I slipped them into my pocket, one hand still clenching the flyer, the other fisted and digging nails into flesh.

  Cawfield spotted me first. A sneer twisting his full lips as a glint of amusement entered his piercing blue eyes. He pulled expensive looking sunglasses down from on top of his head, the better to watch me unobserved behind. A tanned hand scrubbed at the blond stubble along his chin, then chiselled arms crossed in front of a broad chest, stretching the fabric of his t-shirt tight around his biceps in a move he’d perfected, probably as a teen.

  The man wore his superiority complex well.

  “Long time, no see, Keen,” he called out, loud enough to garner the attention of those colleagues also at the scene.

  There was his long time partner, Robbie Simpson. A nicer version of Joe Cawfield. Currently eating an iced bun of some description, crumbs raining down on an otherwise clean polo shirt. Trevor Jones was also here, cowboy hat perched ridiculously on top of his bald head, whiskers styled in a long droopy moustache framing warm smiling lips. And Pierce. Glowering at me.

  Never let them see your fear, Sport. Attack before they notice the shaking in your limbs.

  I think Carl had been referring to the criminals, but as Cawfield was still my number one suspect for the CIB traitor, the advice fit here.

  Of course, taking any advice from my once upon a time partner seemed so wrong now.

  “Just been doing your job for you, Cawfield,” I drawled. “Someone has to, otherwise the clues would never be found.” I held up the flyer to punctuate that point, making sure to wave it, hiding the slight tremble in my hand.

  Pierce’s face lost the glower and he strode immediately towards me. Unfortunately, so did Cawfield.

  I watched the latter man’s face as they both read the advert, trying to decide if it was surprise or calculation I saw there. Cawfield was an enigma. Despite the Criminal Investigations Bureau being a predominantly male environment, his misogynistic behaviour seemed out of line for a guy who spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror. He liked women. There was no denying his penchant was for the opposite sex. Hell, he’d even propositioned me. More than once. But he did not like women to outshine him. Be that socially or professionally.

  I couldn’t yet tell if the feeling of unease I had regarding the man was due to this dichotomy or more nefarious reasons. Or simply due to the fact I was slowly going insane.

  “And how’s this a clue?” he demanded, giving the flyer a disgruntled look and turning dismissive eyes towards me.

  “Last night would have been quite a draw card,” I explained, as though speaking to a child. It only infuriated him further. A muscle ticked along his jaw. “Enough of a distraction for the murderer to do what he pleased on this side of the street,” I swept a hand out indicating the murder scene and crime lab set-up, “while all eyes were across the way.”

  “What about this club?” Cawfield argued, nodding towards The Whiskey Lounge. And it rankled that he had a valid point. Cawfield might be a slimy bastard, but he was a well trained cop.

  “This club closed beforehand,” Pierce announced, saving me from making some lame excuse up, just to piss Cawfield off. “Sweet Hell clearly had dispensation from the city council to remain open until ‘the birds start singing,’” he added, reading directly from the flyer.

  “So, some time between 4am and when her body was found at six,” I offered. “Do we have a more accurate time of death?”

  “Four-thirty,” Pierce said quietly, lowering the flyer and looking back towards the now fully hidden body.

  “And no one from this Sweet Hell would have seen a thing?” Cawfield demanded.

  “I guess we need to find out,” Pierce said, lifting his eyes to look across the street.

  “You think they have security cameras?” I asked.

  “Worth a crack.”

  “Or bouncers,” I added.

  “Good call.” Pierce thrust the flyer back at me. “You and Jones go knock on their door. See what you can find out.”

  I could have kissed him. I’d handed Pierce the ball and he was running with it, passing it back to me. He could have insisted I head to HEAT and work on my non-case. Hell, he could have insisted I go over there with Cawfield. But he was giving me a chance to dip my toe back in the turbulent waters of CIB.

  And also giving me the chance to work with a detective I hadn’t had the honour of doing so too closely.

  Cawfield couldn’t be my only suspect. I needed to dig deeper than the superficial pretty peacock who continually fluffed his annoying feathers at me.

  “Oh, and one more thing, Keen,” Pierce added. “The ME thinks she was murdered in situ.”

  Fuck. We had a performer. They tended to go out big.

  Pierce turned away first, but Cawfield took his time. Just as Pierce was far enough away not to hear him, he said, “This creep gets off on it. Pretty girls under his thumb. He stares them in the face, probably gets a hard on while he watches the light fade from their eyes.”

  “Your point?” I asked, because sure as eggs, Cawfield had a fucking point.

  “You’re a pretty girl, Keen.” That was not a compliment. “Watch yourself in there.” He nodded off towards Sweet Hell. “I hear the membership is made up of all walks of life. Lawyers. Accountants. Cops.” Pause. “Firemen.”

  He held my eyes on the last and then turned and sauntered away.

  Now why would you go and say a thing like that, Peacock?

  Jones jogging over thankfully cleared my head, his wicked looking moustache twitching with his enthusiasm.

  “It’s just you and me, Keen. Bet ya never thought you’d get a chance to work with the King.” He rolled his Rs when he spoke, definitely not regal, and pointed a thumb proudly at his chest in case I didn’t get the inference.

  “You think you’re the King, huh?”

  “Better believe it,” he said jovially. “Of course, I was only a prince until Carl left, so I guess you did work with a king, after all.”

  Even now. Even after everything. It was still hard to hear someone else saying his name.

  “Come on,” I said, a little too abruptly, and started heading across the street.

  “How do you wanna play this?” Jones asked. “Good cop or bad cop?”

  I huffed out a laugh. Everything Jones did was to elicit a smile. He no further believed the good cop/bad cop routine applied to a fact finding mission than I did that Carl would hand himself in.

  “How about concerned cop and professional cop?” I offered.

  “Have it your way. But you ain’t seen nothin’ ‘til you’ve seen my bad cop. Grrr,” he added with a wink.

  Somehow I couldn’t picture Trevor Jones selling out CIB.

  But I also wasn’t a rookie cop. I was the daughter of a cop. The granddaughter of a cop. And if Jones was hiding something, sooner or later I’d see it. Being a detective, it flowed through my veins. I was born into this world, which was why being pushed out of it for the past three weeks had sent me slightly ‘round the bend.

  Maybe Pierce had picked up on that. He was my liaison with the department. Through him Inspector Hart would know everything. Maybe Hart already knew I was back.

  Three weeks. That’s all I’d lasted. Three weeks and I was back working a publicised CIB case.

  Trevor banged on the closed door of Sweet Hell three times. The wood thudded dully. Obviously thick and solid, no rattling to be heard in the frame.

  “No door bell,” he mused, banging again three times and receiving the same dull thud in reply and little else.

  “Try the back? There’s always a back door to these places.”

  He nodded and started heading towards the side of the building. “You’d know, Keen. Back door events, I hear, are just your style.”

  “And they’re not yours, Jones? I swear that moustache and a black polyuretha
ne crotchless and cheekless leotard would go so damn well together.”

  He shuddered. “Tell me you didn’t see anything like that at Zero Gravity?”

  I’d seen a hell of a lot more at that club, when I’d attended a mystique night with Damon. A hell of a lot more than I cared to discuss with a colleague. But CIB was a boys’ club and although I tended to float above the more base layer of its intricacies, I also knew that gutter talk was just part of the job description.

  An outlet. Nothing more.

  “Whips and chains and paddles that would make a whore blush,” I offered.

  Jones shuddered again and then rapped three times on the back door to Sweet Hell.

  I glanced around the carpark, secured behind a chain-link fence. A Lexus, a BMW, and a Rolls Royce of all things, sat sparkling in the mid morning sunshine. My eyes swept over the potted box hedges and topiary trees shaped like silkily dressed women and groping men, and settled on the small nondescript sign to the side of the door. Black with gold writing.

  Enter at your own risk. For here lies the sweetest of miseries. The hottest of infernos. The nine circles of Hell.

  “Well, that’s welcoming,” I quipped, nodding toward the sign.

  Jones glanced at the golden writing and then the rest of the well maintained back area. His hand reached out and he fingered the leaves on a nearby tree. I think he’d managed to get the woman’s breast, but I wasn’t sure.

  “More upmarket than the front,” he commented.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, taking another look at the Rolls Royce. “This is where the big boys come to play.”

  Locks behind the door began to clunk and clink as if being unbolted. My eyes flicked around the alcove that covered the rear entrance trying to find cameras. If they were here, they were discrete. Hopefully like the front of the building. Which meant we could have a picture of our perp by the end of the day.

  The door opened on well oiled hinges, darkness meeting our eyes.

  I flicked a glance up at Jones, his hand was already on his gun, at his hip. Not even trying to hide the weapon behind his jacket now. Jumpy. I didn’t realise Jones was jumpy.