I huffed out an unamused breath of air as I crossed to the kitchen behind the table and found myself a clean mug in the cupboard above the coffee machine.
"Make yourself at home," Michaels murmured, I was sure his tone hinted towards sarcasm, but he hid it well. "I'll just be five minutes and then we can get going."
"Don't mind me," I replied, sitting down at the table with my prize. "The lads and I have a lot to catch up on," I added for good measure and received various "Oh, yeahs" from the guys and a few moving closer to sit at the table with me.
Damon stilled for a moment, no doubt some arrogant command on the tip of his tongue, then he shrugged and turned to walk down a corridor that I knew led to his office. We all waited until we heard the door snick shut and then several pairs of hands reached for the Alfredo at once. I won.
"Grab some forks," I instructed, while I opened the box and let the scents of Italy out. It wasn't that I was hungry, far from it in fact. I just liked fucking with Michaels.
Clearly, so did his team.
"So, where you been, Keen?" Marc asked, throwing a bundle of utensils down on the table's surface. I swiped one and took a forkful of pasta, then shoved the box on to the next person at the table.
"Here and there. Heard you guys busted a large lab over in Grey Lynn last week."
"Yeah, what a beauty. You would have loved it. The ammonia and acetone could be smelled all the way to Ponsonby," Jude muttered around a mouthful of Alfredo. "Shit this stuff's good," he added as he took a second bite.
"Haven't been to a bust for ages," I commented as I watched the guys devour Damon's lunch.
There were six of them here, all Prevention. Rescue and Investigation must have been out and about, or on down time, usually there were a hell of a lot more lounging about or working out in the gym downstairs. HEAT didn't do shifts like the watches on the engines. They were on call twenty-four/seven, altering their hours to suit their current cases. I wondered just what Damon had his Investigation guys doing, and if it had anything to do with whatever was happening in his office right now.
I waved the dwindling container of pasta on as it was handed to me, letting the conversation wash over my skin as I sat back and sipped my coffee. I had always felt welcomed and relaxed around the HEAT guys. Even after Damon and I went our separate ways. None of them ever judged or passed comment, all of them seemed genuinely pleased to see me when our paths crossed. A nicer bunch of men you couldn't meet, and it certainly helped that they were a testosterone laden group of muscle bound firemen. The stuff of wet-dreams.
"So, is it true that you're burdened with the boss for a while?" Gus asked. Slightly smaller than Jude, but just as tall as Marc, Gus was all about the image. Currently wearing a HEAT uniform of dark blue overalls, the shirt part tied around his waist so his white singlet showed off his tanned upper arms and shoulders.
"Seems like it," I said into my coffee.
"And how's that going for you, Keen?" Marc asked with a knowing smirk gracing his lips.
I raised an eyebrow at him. "Day one and we haven't killed each other yet."
"There's still time," Jude mumbled in his deep, velvety voice.
"If he doesn't prove his worth I may consider it," I replied, deadpan.
"Go easy on him," Gus offered. "It's been pretty tense around here lately." That received a look from Marc. Gus ignored him. "He's hardly slept."
"Is that so?" I murmured. "And why would it be any more stressful here than usual?" It's not as though HEAT's workload was mundane, and these guys normally thrived on adrenaline.
"Just some office type shit, that's all," Marc said, interrupting whatever Gus was about to say.
If I had the time and inclination I'd corner Gus alone and get the info out of him, but did I really need to concern myself with whatever crap was happening at HEAT? As long as Damon did his job and we solved these cases, then I'd leave well enough alone.
Curiosity didn't just kill the cat, it also fucked with the police detective who wasn't focused as well. Another insightful piece of advice from Carl. There was always a fine line between investigating a case you're on with gusto and getting distracted by irrelevant minutiae.
I was vaguely intrigued as to why Damon had dropped everything to come back here and not explain a thing. But really, it wasn't pertinent to the cases and if I showed too much interest I'd be asking for a shit load of trouble, I was sure. Just how much did you encourage a man like Damon Michaels? The answer: Not at all.
And speaking of the devil, just then Damon stormed out of the hallway and took in the sight of us sitting around the table with an empty takeaway container from Angelo's sitting directly in front of me. I glanced over at Jude and offered a glare. I was sure he had that blasted thing just before Damon waltzed back in here. Jude just smiled flashing white teeth.
"Was it good, Keen?" Michaels asked, heading to the coffee pot instead.
"Angelo outdid himself," I supplied. "Really put a little extra flavouring in there to make it something special. You would have loved it, take it from me."
He spun around with coffee mug in hand and leaned back against the kitchen bench. His dark eyes rested on me. For a moment no one said anything, then one of the guys started whistling, another shuffled magazines on the table top lining them up, while still one more cleared his throat and stared at the floor. All of it done at top volume and with a little too much effort to make it look natural.
"Flack's taking care of it," Damon suddenly said, turning his gaze to Marc.
"Was it who we think?" Marc asked, and Damon nodded. "This is getting out of hand, Damon."
"Not now." Damon placed his cup down on the bench with a little too much force and then turned to me. "If you're done corrupting my men, shall we head out?"
"What an offer," I muttered, standing up from my seat and taking my mug slowly to the sink with the utmost care. I washed it out, humming while I did it, and stood it upside down on the draining rack, and only then turned my gaze to Michaels.
"Are you purposely trying to piss me off, Keen?" Michaels whispered, his back to the group of men avidly watching this exchange. "Because it's working. And you know how I get when I'm mad."
I chuckled, which seemed to infuriate him more.
"Sorry," I murmured, watching as his shoulders relax a little and then I added, "I'm just picturing you turning green like the Incredible Hulk."
Marc and Jude burst out laughing, while a few of the other guys tried to unsuccessfully hide their reaction.
"Bloody hell," Damon muttered, heading toward the door that led back downstairs and outside. "God, give me strength," he added under his breath as he started to descend the stairs themselves.
"He's so damn tetchy, isn't he?" I said with relish to the guys, making them all burst out laughing loudly. "Kinda cute, really." That received a couple of snorts and more laughter.
"I heard that!" Michaels yelled from just down the stairs. "Move your arse, Keen. We've got cases to solve."
I tried not to notice it was no longer a 'shapely arse' and then scolded myself furiously for letting things get so out of hand. I didn't normally behave like this, I was much more serious and controlled. But the combination of having Damon and the HEAT guys back in my life was doing a real number on my sanity right now.
I couldn't afford to lower my guard like this, but since Carl had left I'd had precious little reason to joke or smile. Sure, I offered the obligatory comebacks to the CIB boys, shared a snide remark with Eagle from time to time. But laugh? Tease? To this degree? I couldn't remember the last time I'd let myself go like that.
No. I did remember. The night before Carl disappeared.
I sucked in a fortifying breath of air, pushed the memories back and said my farewells in a much more subdued manner. If the HEAT guys noticed my sudden change in behaviour, they didn't comment.
Michaels was waiting by my locked car when I made it outside. It had started raining, a light drizzle, but he still hadn't taken cover. I cr
ossed to the vehicle and unlocked the doors, sliding in without making eye contact. Enough of the strained tension and sexually loaded innuendos, we did have cases to solve.
"So, I was thinking..." I started, only to be interrupted by Damon saying, "Is it going to be like this the entire time we work together?"
Oh, and didn't that just get my hackles up.
"I'm not the one who requested we team up," I pointed out through gritted teeth.
"I'm not complaining," he shot back. "I just want to be prepared. Do I or do I not flirt back? I'm all for the foreplay, sweetheart, but if you persist in this I will take you up on it. Is that what you want?"
"What I want," I said, speaking each word clearly, "is to figure out why the hell two of my informants are dead. I didn't ask for your help, if you can't..."
"Yet as soon as you're in front of my men you act as though nothing has changed between us, when you know damn well that it has."
I was fuming, I knew it. And letting myself get so affected by him was a huge mistake. But damn it, Damon made me so fucking mad sometimes that I just couldn't shut the connection down between my emotions and my mouth.
"And you pressing up against my body reminding me of how it felt is not the same?"
"Oh, no you don't, Lara. You pushed me against that wall, not the other way around. I just took advantage of the situation."
I let a long breath of air out. There was no arguing with the man.
"Then let me make it simple for you, Damon. There is nothing between us. Nothing."
"There once was and it was good. It could be again."
"Delusional."
"Stubborn and unforgiving."
I snorted. "Oh, I forgave you, Damon. I just didn't forget."
Silence. Thick and full of meaning, weighted in what ifs, shrouded in reality. I wanted to close my eyes and forget the past year had ever happened. I wanted to sleep for a week and pretend I didn't feel so damn alone.
Only two people had ever truly let me down in my life. One of them was gone for good. The other was sitting next to me right now. I lowered my side window and let the rain come in. It was better than being surrounded by Damon, every sense I have invaded by his presence, by him.
I hadn't realised it was going to be this hard. I'd successfully avoided him for months now. When I did see him across the room, across a crowd, I found a way to escape. Last night was the first time he had attended a case I was assigned to. Every other fire related crime I'd investigated had been under another of his team's care.
Damon Michaels had been out of my life for six months and suddenly he's entrenching himself back again. Why?
"What's going on at HEAT?" I asked, my gut pushing me to a place I didn't really want to go.
"Nothing."
"Damon."
"No, you can't have it both ways, Lara. Push me out and expect me to let you in."
I sighed as I pulled the car onto Queen's Wharf, parking in a emergency vehicle only slot. He was out of the car before I could ask more, not even aware of why I had brought us here, just eager to get away from me. I closed my window with another sigh and shut down the vehicle, following him out onto the wharf itself.
"Why are we here?" Michaels asked when I made it to his rigid side.
"I have a contact I use who frequents the clubs. He works in The Cloud."
"I thought The Cloud only did scheduled events. It doesn't look like it's currently in use."
"He's a security guard, he'll be around. He's got nowhere else to go."
I started heading over to a side door on the long, undulating white building. A few people milled around the wharf, most of them tourists coming to see the oversized billboards featuring the All Blacks rugby team. During the World Cup this building had been overflowing with fans, now it sat a little forlorn, taking up too much space and patiently waiting to be used again.
I banged on the staff only entrance and waited to see if my guy would turn up. The rain started to fall in earnest, making a hollow tin sound as it hit the side and roof of the rounded cloud-like structure, it competed with my further fist banging to be heard.
"Looks like he's not here," Michaels commented.
"He's always here. Come on, let's try around the front."
We walked down the length of the building towards the waterfront where The Cloud had bi-folding glass doors, floor to ceiling almost in height. If Tank was here, he could be lounging in the atrium, taking in the view. I cupped my hands over my eyes and leaned against the front windows trying to see into the darkened interior. The place did look deserted, but sometimes it just took Tank a while to trust that it was safe to come out. He wasn't meant to overnight in the structure, but no one had the heart to turf him out.
It had been a while since I'd last used him, I hadn't realised he liked the night club scene until Tommy mentioned it just last night. Carl had certainly never divulged that Tank was a sub in the back rooms, but before Tommy met his fiery death, he'd hinted that Tank was more involved in that scene than we'd obviously realised.
Thoughts of Tommy left me feeling cold, the water dripping down from the overhang where we stood only added to the chilled feeling through my bones. I rubbed both hands up and down my arms, then felt a contrasting heated sensation down the back of my neck.
I spun and faced the edge of the wharf, my hand on my weapon under my jacket. I hadn't pulled it, but I'd released the safety latch on the holster, prepared.
"What is it?" Michaels asked, moving to stand closer to me. And in a stupid, uselessly gallant move, placing himself between me and the rest of the world, The Cloud at our backs.
"I'm the one armed," I pointed out, stepping around him.
"And yet you haven't pulled your gun," Damon whispered. "What did you hear?"
I shook my head, tilted it and listened. Just the low level hum of a big city mixed with the chopping of waves against the edge of the wharf and the splatter of rain on concrete. I glanced over my shoulder into the atrium of The Cloud sensing eyes on me from every direction.
Sometimes a cop has to trust her instincts with nothing more to go on than her gut.
"Something's not right," I finally whispered, a truth which was voiced way too late.
The glass at our backs shattered before the gunshot was actually heard. I had my weapon out and aimed at nothing by the time Damon had thrown us both to the ground, his body covering mine. But no more bullets were fired, just our over-loud heartbeats and breathing competing with stunned silence and Auckland city on a rainy winter's afternoon.
Chapter 6
"If you bury it deep enough, it can't climb back out and bite you on the arse, can it, Sport?"
Uniforms swarmed Queens Wharf, strobing red and blue lights from their cars down the Quay Street end. Yellow police tape cordoned off the crime scene, the crunch of shattered glass under booted foot adding to the delightful atmosphere of an attempted murder in the CBD. Detective Inspector Hart strode over towards where Michaels and I stood huddled under what protection we could gain from The Cloud's overhang, steam wafting off the top of our take-away coffee cups.
"Talk to me," he barked, even before he'd made it to our sides. The directive to me, not Michaels.
"We were trying to connect with one of my contacts, a Tyrone (Tank) Anderson who does security guard work here at The Cloud."
"He here?" the Inspector asked and I shook my head.
"No one's inside the building, but there's evidence that someone slept here last night."
"Your guy?"
"At a guess. He usually stays here when he can't find an available bed to share some place else."
"What did you want with him?"
"Info on the club scene, he's a back room sub. Or, so I believe, from what Thomas Withers told me last night."
The Inspector stared down at some of the glass that lay scattered across the concrete, lights glinted off the faceted sides of the debris, making them seem more like jewels than little pieces of broken window pane.
<
br /> "The bullet been found?" he asked at last.
"A .38 Special, common enough round."
"At least it's something to go on," he commented, then raised his eyes to look me in the face. "I'd suggest taking the rest of the night off, but the pathologist's report has just come in from the car boot crime. It's waiting on your desk." And with that he spun on his heels and headed over to talk to Ryan Pierce who was standing off to the side conversing with a member of forensics.
I ran a hand over my face, closing my eyes for a second and then straightened my shoulders. But I didn't make a move to walk back to my car.
"Two informants dead," I mused aloud. "One sliced with a serrated hunting knife severing his carotid artery, the other burned in the boot of a car. Exact cause of death apparently sitting on my desk. And now a .38 fired at us. Or me. What's the motive?"
"I don't know," Michaels murmured. "Connections?"
"Informants. Two dead, one staying here, right where we're shot at. It revolves around the informants."
"Common thread?"
I blinked into the rain, watching the lights of the Waiheke Island - or was it the Devonport? - ferry flash in and out through the drops.
"The clubs." I shook my head. "Neither Anton nor Tommy had much to go on. Anton nothing, Tommy just Tank's name. It's thin. It's not enough."
"It's a start. Let's get out of this rain and check out that report."
I nodded, my mind still rolling through possible motives, tangling threads and loose connections. None of it was solid and my gut was telling me none of it was nearly enough to figure this all out yet.
We rode in silence up the hill toward Central Police, parking this time under cover in the garage beneath the ten storey building itself. I felt drained and bedraggled, rather like a cat who'd been thrown in a swimming pool and spent too much energy finding my way out. Before I exited the car, I grabbed a hair tie out of my glove compartment and hastily tied my hair back in a loose and decidedly messy bun. No one could accuse me of being too fashion focused.
Wisely, Michaels didn't comment as we rode the lift up to CIB's floor, but I'd have to make an effort to tidy up at some stage, even police detectives are expected to carry themselves with a little decorum in their dress. My trousers were two days old, creased, dirty and now sported a rip in the knee where I'd grazed my skin as we hit the concrete on Queen's Wharf. My shirt wasn't faring much better, and my jacket, well, it was close to a write off.
A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 5