"Three weeks," I said, staring down at the remains of Thomas - Tommy - Withers. But not many people knew his surname, only me and Carl, that I was aware.
And he'd had a fractured right lower arm for three weeks when I last saw him alive.
I'd inherited Tommy when Carl left. He'd been one of Carl's favourite informants. A drifter, living on the streets from the time he ran away from home at the age of fourteen, having suffered multiple fractures from an abusive father. Carl had arrested Robert Arthur Withers and sent him to prison eight years ago. Tommy refused to give evidence, but Carl was a tenacious cop.
Tommy told me, after Carl left, that he felt safe for the first time ever in his life. It was the only time he opened up personally to me, and it was because he was mourning my partner as well. Eight years of peace he'd had, until last night.
Did he know his time was near when I spoke to him on Curran Street under the Harbour Bridge last night? Did I miss something in his behaviour? Could I have seen this eventuality and not recognised the warning because I was too tired to think straight?
I ran a hand over my face and realised I was being watched by both men who had remained silent after I'd spoken. No doubt aware I was walking down memory lane and needed to do it alone. But not now. I was back and staring at compassionate aged blue eyes in Liam McIntyre and suspicious, wary brown eyes in Damon Michaels.
"You knew the victim," Michaels stated.
I didn't offer up any kind of response, verbal or silent.
"You knew who he was back at the scene as well," he added, and I lifted my chin to look him in the eyes.
His were accusatory now.
"Is there a reason why you kept that information to yourself, Detective?" he asked.
I held his intent gaze a few seconds longer then turned to the doctor. "Anything else I need to know?"
"No, dear," McIntyre replied carefully. "But you'll be the first to get my report when it's done."
Damon stiffened, turning to face the pathologist and no doubt insist he get the report before me, due to his clear assumption that I was behind the eight ball on this one.
I was, but McIntyre wasn't letting a HEAT investigator outrank a seasoned police detective.
"You'll be the first, Detective Keen. Now, go get some breakfast, you need to eat more."
I huffed out a breath, thankful for the doctor's distraction.
"Is that your medical opinion?" I asked, heading towards the door.
"If you pass out from lack of nutrition who will I have to banter with in the middle of the night?" he replied, dismissing me with a wave of his hand and the recommencement of his recording device hanging around his neck.
I smiled to myself despite the heavy revelations our meeting had just uncovered and decided it was best if I took the doctor's advice on the way to the station.
I'd need all my faculties about me when I faced my boss.
Chapter 3
"Two does not a serial killer make."
I hadn't considered I'd be walking into a battlefield and be facing more than Detective Inspector Hart.
Breakfast seemed inadequate when I finally strolled into the station at seven-thirty and was immediately advised that the Inspector was waiting for me in his office.
And that he was in a foul mood.
Surreptitious looks from various on station detectives around the open plan room only added to the impending sensation of doom. Inspector David Hart was a tough old bugger. He'd had the utmost respect for Carl, but then Carl had been in this division for fifteen years. He was a veteran, much like the Inspector.
I was the young daughter of a prominent South Auckland Police Inspector with something to prove. It wasn't so much that I was female, but God knows that did play a part in the old boy network of policing. It was more to do, though, with the fact that I hadn't proven myself yet. According to Detective Inspector David Hart.
If Carl cajoled me to improve my detection skills, Hart browbeat me instead. The man was a dog with a bone when he got an idea in his head. And lately he'd been doing a hell of a lot of snarling and snapping in my direction.
But then, lately I'd been stealing his bones.
I didn't knock on the door, he was expecting me, if the pitying looks from various guys around the room would attest. So, I just pushed the door open and strode on in, chin up, benign smile on my face, hands held loosely at my side. I was ready for anything the Inspector chose to throw at me.
Except that.
"Keen! Where the fuck have you been? We've been waiting half an hour for you to get your arse in here."
My eyes skipped over the imposing frame of Inspector Hart, his neatly slicked back greying hair, crisply pressed shirt and tie letting me know he'd started the day on the right side of the bed. Had the tie been missing - or even crooked - we were in for a whole hell of a lot of trouble. Reassured that Hart wasn't going to slice and dice me right there and then, I turned my attention to the real threat in the room.
Damon Michaels. Now why the hell would he be here?
"Sir," I said, nodding towards Hart. "Michaels," I added, because it was expected.
"Investigator Michaels has been advising me of the body in the car on Curran Street," Hart explained in a patient voice dripping with anger. "Why have I not heard about this from you?"
I purposely looked at my watch. Four hours had passed since Pierce called me in for the case. Four miserable, cold, middle of the night hours.
Hart was testing me. I was sick and tired of the tests.
"You were my first stop when I arrived, sir," I said pleasantly. "I didn't come directly here from the scene."
"No. From what I heard you made an appearance at the morgue, at the same time Michaels did. Yet he's been here for over an hour. Waiting."
"Investigator Michaels has one case, sir. I was following up on the underground club case, while I checked on a few things with one of my contacts pertaining to this case." I hated explaining myself. I hated more doing so in front of Michaels.
"Actually I have five cases on at the moment, Detective Keen." I couldn't shoot Damon, so I just offered a cold stare instead.
"Would you like to discuss the case now, sir?" I asked the Inspector.
"Cut the polite crap, Keen," Hart growled.
"Yes, no need to put on a show for me," Michaels added, from his leaning position against the far wall.
Hart was the only one sitting. I hadn't bothered, too riled with the reception to show that kind of devil may care attitude. Why Michaels was still standing, I had no idea. But he loomed in the corner of the Inspector's office, silently sucking out all the available air.
I was trapped and if there was one thing Carl had taught me, when you're backed into a corner you might as well sit the fuck down and enjoy the ride.
I approached one of the hard backed chairs in front of the Inspector's desk and lowered myself to a sitting position. Hart watched me with what I can only assume was mild amusement, Michaels just smirked.
"The body in the car is Thomas Withers, one of Carl's informants."
I knew the statement was inflammatory, but aside from 'enjoying the ride' Carl had also advised to come out guns blazing. Inspector Hart would be able to put two and two together, and I didn't really care if Michaels understood the implications or not. He was raining on my parade and police detectives are territorial.
"Fuck," Hart breathed. "You think they're connected?"
Michaels stiffened in the corner, taking a small step closer to us, but not making a sound. I could sense his nearness. Not exactly a heat, but a knowledge that he had closed the gap and stood behind my shoulder, even though he hadn't made a noise or disturbed the air. For some strange reason I felt attuned to Damon Michaels, despite that being the last fucking thing I wanted to deal with right now.
"Two does not a serial killer make," I said, repeating a Carlism.
Hart held my gaze. "But they're both yours." I nodded, as he abruptly sat back in his chair.
They were my inf
ormants now, even if they'd been Carl's first. But Thomas Withers was only the latest fatality, three days ago Anton Burgess was found knifed to death in the Silo Park on Jellicoe Street. Four hours after meeting with me.
"Find a connection, Keen." There was already a connection. "I don't like coincidences. If it has something to do with that underground club scene you're looking into, I think it's time you partnered up."
I had expected the directive, so I straightened my shoulders and held his level stare.
"Take Michaels, we're short on the ground of available detectives and this could still all be fire related." I frowned, he leaned forward resting his hands on his desk. "HEAT has offered to aid us in any way we see fit. This is how I see fit. You got a problem with teaming up with HEAT?"
Was that a trick question?
"Well?"
"No, sir."
Hart looked up at Michaels then. "Can you give us a few minutes, Damon?"
"Certainly," Michaels replied. "I'll go grab a coffee." Hart nodded and waited for him to leave the room and shut the door at his back.
Silence replaced the vacuum created by Michaels. I held the Inspector's steady gaze waiting for the anvil to drop.
"When is your next appointment with the shrink?"
I hadn't expected that question, it totally threw me off balance. For a moment all I could do was suck air.
"I had one yesterday." I breathed out the words. "I don't see him again until next week."
"Is it making things better?" Was that concern I heard in his voice? Or just a department head doing what was necessary to ensure his staff were able to perform at their best?
"It helps," I offered.
Hart sighed. "You know Carl made me promise to look out for you."
Oh, now that was unexpected. What the hell Carl?
"In case you weren't already aware," he continued, "I'm not a fluffy, let's talk it all through kind of guy. You do your job well, I'll give you a pat on the back. You fuck up..."
I smiled, he didn't miss it.
"What's your gut tell you, Detective?" he suddenly asked, changing tack abruptly.
I slipped back into the more comfortable role of police detective with relative ease.
"The MO is only linked through the fact they are my and Carl's informants and I saw them within hours of their deaths at the exact location they were killed. How they were murdered differs, but the connection, for now, is me and Carl."
He nodded, spun his swivel chair sideways and leaned back, ankle crossing over knee. He tipped his head up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. A sure sign to keep going.
"I used both of them on the underground club scene case. Neither had any good intel, but I was covering my bases at the time. Neither gave the impression that their lives were in danger or anything was amiss either. My gut tells me," I finally concluded, letting the thought run full course inside my head before I voiced it, "that they won't be the last."
"So," Inspector Hart murmured. "Two does a serial killer make."
"But why?"
He swung back around to face me, feet firmly placed on the floor. "That, Detective, is the question."
He nodded towards the door, an indication he was satisfied with my report and it was time to go. I stood and took a step towards the exit and then hesitated. I was about to steal the bone.
"Michaels, sir..."
"He asked for you."
"But..."
"I've got a detective on probation, another gone for good, and several unsolved cases requiring more than one cop to investigate. Where do you suggest I find a suitable partner for you to work with?"
"These aren't both fire related," I felt obliged to point out.
"And I'm not the fairy fucking godmother of the police. I can't just pull another cop out of my arse, Keen. Michaels is a damn good investigator, and for now the car boot case allows his involvement. We need him," he added, after a slight pause.
I held my breath, because the look in his eyes right now told me he wasn't done.
"You need him, Lara." I started shaking me head to deny it. "My final word," he added, then pointed to the door. "Bring him up to speed. And shut the fucking door on your way out."
Dismissed.
I schooled my features before I turned the handle on the door and faced the expectant room. Some of what Hart had said had been loud enough for those outside the room to have heard a rumble. They wouldn't have known what exactly had been discussed, but they'd assume I'd had my butt chewed off.
Police detectives are a strange and unusual lot. If we can still manage to laugh surrounded by the fucked up things we see, then there's definitely something not quite normal about us. Taking pleasure at a co-worker's stripping by the boss is one of our more pleasant pastimes.
I walked out to a few cheers and shouts of, "She lives!" and the odd scrunched up piece of paper thrown at my head. The Police Force, much like any emergency service, was a male dominated industry. Time had made advancement for the fairer sex possible, but often it involved getting very dirty to achieve it. I wasn't above rolling in the muck, but I also wasn't here to prove a damn thing to anyone but myself.
Screw my father and his expectations. Screw the Inspector and his warped sense of moulding my career path. And, quite frankly, screw Carl for leaving when he did.
Without him everything was harder, but I could take solace in the fact that my immediate associates here in the Criminal Investigations Bureau, or CIB, had accepted me. Female or not, I was one of the boys.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "There's still some flesh attached."
"Let's see!" someone shouted. "I'll check," another leered. And OK, I was accepted as part of the team, but my ribbing was clearly not quite the same as what the others experienced.
I threw myself into the chair at my desk effectively closing down the opportunity to 'investigate' the state of my chewed up butt any further. I checked my emails and then as Michaels walked back in the room from the direction of the coffee machine, I picked up my phone to clear my messages.
"Hey, Keen," Eagle's voice sounded out over the line. Younger than he appeared in person. Almost as though you could hear the child that had been lost in the man. "Gotta tip for yous. Meet me tonight at the usual. And, just so y'know, Rooster says y'looked hot that time he saw ya at Zero. Wear what y'had on then, I'm fuckin' pumped to see what a cop thinks looks slutty."
I snorted as Michaels sat in the chair across from my desk. Not the one to the side where I occasionally place members of the public. But the one Carl used when he was still here. I stared at where he sat for too long, then finally shook myself out of the memories and replaced the handset on the phone.
A coffee cup was pushed across the space between us. Not a word offered, just the drink.
For a moment I considered ignoring it. I was that pissed off with Michaels barging on in here and putting himself up for partnering. But the allure of much needed caffeine was too great. Not enough sleep, too many memories, and a case that was threatening to do me in at such an early stage meant coffee was going to be a constantly needed companion for the next few days.
I snatched the cup up and took a sip, infuriated to note Michaels remembered exactly how I liked it. The cup met the surface of my desk with a disgruntled thump.
"So," he said, as though we were about to have a casual conversation. "What's next?"
I raised an eyebrow at him and leaned back in my chair, surveying all that is Damon Michaels. He'd not changed since the car boot scene, same faded, worn jeans and equally faded blue suit jacket, over a trendy white button down shirt, a small smattering of chest hair peeking out of the opening at the neck.
I stared too long at the damn spot.
Clearing my throat I took another sip of coffee and then let out a sigh. This was actually going to happen whether I liked it or not. I had a job to do, and if I had to do it with a shadow, then so be it. But I didn't trust the investigator’s reason for being here one little bit.
; Suspicion, another good police detective skill.
"What's in it for you, Michaels?" I asked, studying his face for a tell.
"I want to catch the bastard who burned Thomas Withers to a crisp in the back of that car."
"Too smooth. You didn't have to even think about it. A rote answer and nothing more."
"Does there have to be an ulterior reason, Keen?"
"There's always an ulterior reason, Michaels."
"How cynical, and at such a young age. You know," he said, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his thighs. It was at once a casual stance and a calculated one. Nothing this man did wasn't planned. "I requested teaming up with you because I respect your work."
"Is that right?" I asked sceptically.
"Still a hard sell, I see." He sat back in the chair, placing distance between us.
"You know what I think?" I asked, but didn't wait for him to reply. "I think you want something. Right now I don't know what, but for argument's sake, let's say it's me..."
"You flatter yourself, Detective."
"...and if it is, then you should know, I'm not available."
"Funny, I wasn't aware the world revolved around your shapely arse."
"You see, mentioning my arse just proves my point."
"It's a nice arse."
"Why are you here?"
"The case..."
"Fuck the case, Damon. Why now?"
We stared at each other, a stand off across the desk. For a moment I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes; weariness, contemplation, resignation. And then it was all gone, replaced with his usual over-confident gleam.
"What's next?" he repeated.
If that's how he wanted to play it, then that's how we'd play it.
I stood up and donned my jacket, rifled through my drawer for my notebook and pen, all the while watched intently by Damon. Once I was satisfied I had everything I needed I started towards the door.
"Come on, Investigator Michaels," I said over my shoulder, loud enough for those in the large room to hear. "Let's go solve your case for you."
Catcalls and wolf-whistles sounded out as I weaved between the desks.
"HEAT needing a little help there, Detective?"
A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 3