"I don't know. I didn't even know he was going there, I hadn't spoken to him in days."
"And why's that?"
"I don't know," she insisted more firmly.
"I think you do. Going at it like rabbits. Fucking all night long. Come on, Sharon. You know."
Her hands had fisted on the table's surface, her chest was rising and falling too quickly. Damon flicked a concerned look towards me, I gave a minute shake of my head, and then pushed off from the side of the cupboards and stepped toward the table itself.
I could feel Damon tense as I leaned in and rested my hands on the sticky surface, staring down at an increasingly upset Sharon Hunt.
"Sharon. What did he do? What did he say? To make you boot him out for a week."
Her bloodshot, too big eyes came up to glare at me.
"He had five thousand bucks in cash in his back pocket when I went to wash his jeans."
Hello. No snitch got that sort of money, and Tommy was not gainfully employed last I knew.
"Where'd it come from, Sharon?" I asked, working not to show any reaction on my face.
"He wouldn't say. I kept at him, but he just got angrier. Then he left."
"Come on, you can do better than that. Why do you think he had that cash. A lot of cash, Sharon." I glanced around the shitty kitchen. "Could use a bit of it yourself, huh? Did he share?"
"What the fuck would you know?" she spat, picking up her smokes and slapping one out into her hand to light. I waited for her to draw in a deep, calming breath, then tapped the table once to bring her eyes back to me
"Five thousand, not Tommy's usual haul."
"He wouldn't say," she stressed, flicking a small amount of ash onto the floor.
"Then what did he say?"
A pause, then in a voice that was hard to hear, she mumbled, "That it had better be worth it." Her eyes came back up to mine and she insisted, "That's it, OK. That's all I know. Now, get out. Get the fuck outta my house! I gotta grieve."
I stood upright as she came to her feet in an unsteady lurch. I didn't reach for her, just held up my hands in a sign of peace.
"OK, we're going." I pulled my card from my jacket pocket and placed it on the table, knowing it would hit the trash as soon as we left. "You think of anything else, call me. I pay well."
"Fuck off," she mumbled, staggering over to the rust spotted fridge and pulling out a bottle of beer. The clink of it against glass let me know it wouldn't be her last.
I nodded to Damon and we both slipped out while Sharon drowned her sorrows alone.
Before I started the car I disinfected my hands with one of those tiny bottles of sanitiser. I offered Damon some, which he seemed glad to accept. I may have been somewhat accustomed to residences like that, but they never failed to affect me. I'd been in homes where the occupants had never cleaned the toilet bowl in years, thick stains turning the once white porcelain a brown/yellow. I'd seen bare, worn wooden floors with piles of cat shit and piss everywhere, ending up on the soles of my shoes. I'd climbed over copious amounts of faded newspapers in stacks four or five feet high. I'd walked through thick, dust laden cobwebs and had birds crap on my jacket shoulders from where they perched in the gaps of broken ceiling tiles. I'd smelled some truly unnatural smells.
And all of it seeps in. Into your clothes. Into your skin. Into your head. Into everything.
Half the world has no idea how some people live. Hell, even your next door neighbour could be living in squalor and you wouldn't know it. We live solitary lifestyles, sharing no more than a smile and wave with the person who resides one door down.
It's the way it is. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
"Did you know it would be like that?" Damon asked, as I navigated the Panmure roundabout.
"Suspected, you never really know until you're there. But Tommy wasn't exactly a well presented kind of guy."
"Those are always the most hazardous of houses when filled with smoke," he supplied. "God alone knows what she had down the back."
"Pot, at a guess. Cultivating nicely. Sometimes the filth is just a mask."
"Good deterrent." I shrugged. "Five grand in cash. What did you make of that?" he asked.
"A pay-off."
"Or a payment."
I nodded, that actually made more sense. "Whatever it was, he wasn't sure about it."
"What makes you say that?"
"Hope it's worth it," I repeated Sharon's words. "What was worth it? And why was he uncertain about it being worth a whole five thousand dollars in the hand now, and who's to say not doubled when whatever he was charged with doing was done."
Damon thought about that for a minute and then sighed.
"We're still no closer," he admitted.
"Didn't really think we would be, did you?"
He let a huff of air out and shook his head, small smile on his lush lips.
"So, what's next?"
Enee, meenee, minee, mo.
I glanced over at him, wondered if I should push for more info on what was up with HEAT, then squashed that in favour of the case we were actually working on. As curious as I was, and as sure as I was that I needed to eventually find out what was up with that, I had to stay focused.
I hadn't seen any more of my informants lately, so had to hope no more would get their lives taken tonight. But three dead was more than enough to keep my mind occupied.
"Let's go see what McIntyre has to say about Tank," I suggested. "Then we'll need to check with forensics back on station. When's the invite for the back room for?"
"Tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow?" I squeaked out, nowhere near ready to face that scene yet. Then struggling to cover, I added, "You work damn fast, Michaels. Great, thanks, that's really good. We need to get on to that."
"You're rambling, Lara."
"No I'm not."
"You've also gone bright red."
I gripped the steering wheel. "It's hot in here?" I suggested lamely.
"It'll be hotter in the club." Oh, great. Just great, here's the innuendo. "Have you got an appropriate outfit to wear?"
"Oh, I'm sure I can rustle up something," I managed, working on lowering my blood pressure. I was a senior detective at the most well respected Criminal Investigations Bureau in the country. I'd seen all manner of borderline immoral things. Hell, I'd caught glimpses of Eagle servicing his clients; some of the stuff that boy did was not fit for innocent eyes. I could handle a sex club back room.
I was sure I could.
"Just in case, I'll have something sent over to your apartment," Damon murmured.
"What? No you won't. You're not picking out clothes for me."
"Then perhaps I should see your wardrobe, make sure you have an outfit that would let you blend in. Standing out wearing the incorrect attire in a place like that is not something you want to do," he pointed out casually, but I could see the smirk hinted at the edges of his lips. "Especially when you'll be trying to fly under the radar while investigating their illegal activities in plain sight."
God, did he have to sound so reasonable?
I concentrated on driving for a while, not bothering to answer, hoping silence, in this instance, was an effective tool. I should have known better.
As I parked the car at Auckland City Hospital and climbed out to join Damon, he said, "That's settled then. Dinner at your place tonight. I'll bring the wine." Then promptly started walking towards the lifts.
Oh, no he didn't.
"OK," I said, catching up to his longer stride and making him falter at my easy acquiesce. "Just make sure you bring whatever it is you wanted to show me about HEAT's little non-problem, then."
The lift door opened and I stepped in, turning back to face a bemused Damon.
He stood there for so long that the door began to close, his arm shooting out to stop the motion. Still looking at me with a strange mix of amusement, relish and respect on his face, he murmured, taking my breath away completely, "I have missed you, Lara. So very much."
<
br /> Then stepped into the way too small confines of the lift with me. Bringing heat and him and sucking out all the available air.
Chapter 10
"If you keep looking backwards, you'll eventually trip up and fall hard on your arse."
"There you are," McIntyre announced when I pushed through the door into the main autopsy room. "And you arrive together," he added, when Damon entered at my back. "A team, no less. Congratulations."
"I'm not sure it's meant to be a celebration, Doc," I pointed out.
"The fact that you both appear in one piece is always a cause for celebration," the pathologist countered.
I decided it was best not to mention the dinner date planned for tonight. I was certain one of us wouldn't survive it.
"What have you got for us on Tyrone Anderson?" I said instead.
"Ah," the Doc muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose and turning away from the sheet covered body he'd obviously only just brought out of cool storage. He walked over to his computer station in the corner and signed into the Mortuary's network, finding the relevant details quickly.
"The bullet in his chest killed him, severed the aorta and buried itself in the right atrium. The one in the head was delivered post mortem and lodged itself in the frontal lobe. Both bullets were .45s and have been sent on to ballistics. But you would have suspected all of that, Detective. Am I right?"
"You're always right, Doc," I offered, buttering him up. "What else can you tell me?"
"No defensive wounds. Toxicology is clear. He died instantly from the first shot. And GSR was found on his right hand. I sent samples off to your crime lab, but I'm sure they had taken their own at the scene." He turned back to look at us both. "I'm afraid there's really little else I can tell you that will help in your investigation, unless you're interested to know that he had fast-food for dinner. A cheeseburger and fries, mixed with a chocolate milk shake. About two hours prior to death."
"There's a McDonald's on Quay Street," I mused. "A couple of other fast-food restaurants as well. We'll check out security camera footage there and see if he shows up. You never know, maybe he met with someone prior to his death."
"You're reaching, dear. Is it that dead end a case?" McIntyre asked softly.
"It's got more twists and turns than a Formula One racetrack, Doc," I replied. "Nothing is adding up."
"Now you wouldn't want it too easy, would you, Lara?" He turned his attention to Michaels as I shrugged non-committally in reply. "And how about you, Investigator? Enjoying your sojourn beside our star Detective?"
"Of course. Beats a burned out building any day."
I smiled widely at Damon's backwards compliment and received an equally wide grin in return, with the add on of a raised eyebrow.
"Well, if there's nothing else?" I said, flicking my gaze back to McIntyre and finding him glancing between Damon and me.
"No, that's it," he confirmed, "But you know I appreciate you calling in here in person. I do love these little get-togethers."
"All in a day's work, Doc," I said, taking the printout of the autopsy he offered and offering a wave as I turned to leave.
"I can't be sure," the doctor added before Damon and I had made it to the door, "but I'd swear there was differing matter on his right hand."
"Differing matter?" Michaels asked.
"More than one type of gunshot residue," McIntyre explained.
"How could you tell?" I asked.
"Because the small burn associated with the first discharge of his firearm had already pinked and started to heal in spots. By the time the second GSR met skin, it was overlaid on top, creating a mishmash of different shades of burned skin. In addition," the doc went on, "there appeared to be areas where more unburned primer existed compared to others, where the ratio of unburned to burned matched. It's only a guess mind, but it makes me think there could have been two different guns fired from the same hand several hours apart. Your crime lab should be able to confirm more."
Then he turned back to his waiting cadaver and lifted the sheet off the body without pause. I'd seen enough of the dead for one day, so I murmured a, "Thanks," and headed back out the door.
"Two guns fired hours apart," Damon commented in the lift of the carpark.
"Don't jump to conclusions until we check with forensics," I pointed out. "Doc McIntyre's good, but even he was making assumptions back there."
Damon nodded thoughtfully. "Would your crime lab have something for us already?"
"Here's hoping. Let's go find out."
We navigated the multi-storey hospital carpark and headed out onto Grafton Road before either of us spoke again.
"So, to recap," Michaels said, sounding like a true blue policeman. "We've got three murders, all informants of yours."
"And former informants of Carl's," I interrupted him to add.
"OK, former informants of both yours and Carl's. All three met with, or close to met with, you and within hours of that were found dead at the same location."
"Within inches of the same location."
"You think that's significant?"
"How can it not be? Especially when you consider the bullet shattered that glass in The Cloud's doors, and then Tank was posed leaning against the temporary measure to fix that damage. I'm well aware of coincidences, but that's got to be a message."
"You mentioned the way Thomas Withers was killed was a message. I couldn't pick up one in the reports and notes you gave me last night for Anton Burgess. Did you?"
I shook my head. "First murder. The perp's gained momentum since then, developed a taste for it."
"OK, so what's the message in Tyrone Anderson's murder?"
I offered a shoulder shrug as I pulled into the carpark at the crime lab attached to Auckland Central Police. "Hard to establish at this stage, but the posing of the victim says a lot, as does the fact that he had, what I'm guessing is, the murder weapon in his hand. As well as, another guess until we get in there," I said nodding to the doors into forensics, "the weapon that fired at us the night before. Staged and quite arrogantly left for our assessment."
"So, the perpetrator is arrogant, competent with various forms of fire starting chemicals, as well as guns, and quite capable of making a murder look like a suicide, indicating intelligence."
"Agreed," I stated, turning the car engine off. I sat there for a second without reaching for the door. "Three deaths connected through me and Carl as informants. I approached all three regarding the club scene case, but Anton didn't have any intel of use and I never made contact with Tank."
"It's still a connection, if the perp is part of the club scene and knew you were there to gain information on that front, then they could have thought it necessary to kill the informants immediately. Either before they gave up info, after they gave up info, and even when they didn't give up info, just in case they did."
"Very thorough," I commented.
"And quite unstable."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, wouldn't you make sure it was worth your while before you actually killed someone? It just looks like they did it in a fit of angst, just in case."
"Hmm," I murmured. "Three dead informants, connected to me, possibly connected to the club scene case, all killed in increasingly elaborate ways. For attention? Or just because they enjoy the challenge?"
"I guess that's the question."
"Anything else you picked up on in the files I sent through?" I asked. We seemed to be going around in circles, this case just wasn't making progress, despite the fact we'd added to the death count.
"No, you were pretty exhaustive in your notes that the reports detailed. I tended to agree with all your attachments. Sorry," he added. "Nothing popped out."
I nodded, I hadn't really held out any hope that Damon would miraculously uncover some important gem. But there was always a chance I'd missed something. I'd worked alone a lot lately, and without someone to bounce ideas off, sometimes things got missed. I had Ryan Pierce when I
could grab him, likewise he had me, but I missed having a permanent partner, someone you got to know really well, could tell their quirks, finish their sentences for them. Knew how they liked their coffees and even better, knew when a whisky was preferred.
I'd had that with Carl. He was twenty years older than me, from a different background and a veteran in CIB, but we'd understood each other. Within six months of starting to work together we'd developed a routine. He called me Sport. I called him Old Man. It had worked.
Was it any wonder I'd avoided picking a new partner yet? Hart had tried, a suggestion here or there, but I'd found reason after reason to not permanently hook up with each detective he assigned me to. And it didn't help that Ryan and I gravitated towards each other because we both felt the same way. He was waiting on Harvey's return. I was waiting to accept that Carl was gone for good.
If you keep looking backwards, you'll eventually trip up and fall hard on your arse. Carl was right. I needed to move on. I needed to forget my wise, sometimes cantankerous, often strange, always caring, old partner from the past and find someone new to bounce ideas off.
Not a tall ask.
"You've gone very quiet," Damon commented as we waited to clear security and enter the labs themselves. "And you've got that look on your face."
I turned slowly and stared at him.
"What look?"
"The one that makes me want to wrap you up in my arms and soothe your pain."
"Damon," I said on a sigh. "You're not helping."
"I could, if you let me." I shook my head. "Fine," he added. "Be stubborn. But I can be just as stubborn too."
Thankfully we were ushered through the electronic doors and the conversation died a natural death.
"Two guns fired from the same hand approximately twelve hours apart," Balthazar Matheson, the head of CIB forensics said, after we'd finally hunted the white lab coat wearing geek down. For a science nerd, he fit the bill well. Spiky tufts of brown hair standing up at odd angles, smudges of lunch on his polo shirt front, and thick horn rimmed glasses finished the ensemble off. But he was good, very good at his job. Had to respect that. "Residue matches both weapons, the older sample for the .38, the more recent GSR for the .45."
A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 9