His decision to spend his days at the skatepark in Victoria Park instead of using his quick mind in a more societally acceptable way was what had made Anton Burgess an interesting subject. But I wasn't naive enough to believe it hadn't been an educated choice on his part. Anton did business here, it just wasn't always financial.
I'd questioned many of these kids at the time of Anton's death, but maybe I just hadn't been asking the correct questions. This time I had a definite goal in mind, but that didn't mean I could just barge on in there and hound the fuck out of them. This would take a little time.
It was already seven in the evening, the sun was low in the sky and the shadows long over the concrete dips and curves, sharp edges and overhangs of the skatepark. I watched from a short distance as a kid of about sixteen grabbed the base of his board as he flew up into the air, hanging suspended for a moment, and then gracefully arced back down to land on the wheels with a small squeak of rubber and plastic.
Poetry in motion. You could appreciate the aesthetics of the dance, but underlining it was a dog eat dog competition to out-do the next show. I took in the groups of kids, the appraisals each made when a particularly complicated manoeuvre was performed, the condescension, the catcalls, the purposeful snubs. If I was interested in psychology, I'd find study of the behavioural habits of skatepark participants an interesting thesis.
Instead, I just wanted to pick the right mark to start with.
I found him off to the side, surrounded by sycophant admirers, lording over his peeps with a superior air. They called him Jet. I guess, as in he could fly like one.
I walked over, making sure I was spotted well before I made his side. He cocked his head, crossed his baggy jeans clad ankles and watch my approach. His highly stylised board was resting wheels out against the concrete wall to his side. It was scuffed and marked up, badges of honour.
"Got a second for a few questions?" I asked, flashing my badge so everyone could see. Several on the fringes pulled back and disappeared, probably carrying some weed about their person. "It's regarding Anton Burgess," I added, gaining the remaining audience's attention.
"Dude, you found out who did him?" the head skaterboy asked.
"We're investigating a few leads," I replied, non-committally. "I spoke to you last week, didn't I? Jet is it?"
He nodded, crossed his arms over his chest defensively.
"I'm Detective Keen."
"I remember."
Not exactly a seal of approval, but the fact that he'd acknowledged me, confirmed we'd spoken already, paved the way for those who looked up to him to feel sufficiently comfortable answering my further questions. I'd probably be here a while.
"There's just one thing that's been bugging me," I admitted, reeling them further in. "Maybe you can shed some light on it for me."
"Sure," he said, the tone slightly sarcastic. I'm not certain what is with today's youths, but it's like drawing blood from a stone. I'm positive when I was young, if a cop came up and asked you a question, you'd rush to offer a reply.
No, maybe that was because my father was a cop and I was never able to hide a damn thing from him.
"We never found his board, don't even have a description. He always had a skateboard with him. Do you remember what it looked like?" I asked.
"Hell, yeah. It was a refurbished Comet Shred 35. Had some wicked art done by Shark over on Great South Road in Penrose." The exact description of the skateboard we had in lock-up.
"Yeah, I remember seeing him with that in the past. He only had the one?"
"Nah, he had several, but that was his fave. He'd just bought a sick Element BAM live and a Zoo York Westgate deck, but that was just to trade." So, Anton was into drugs, yet the toxicology results were clear.
Stepping up in the world, Anton? Pushing not using, what a way to capitalise on all that brain power.
"Trade?" I'd play dumb.
Skaterboy shifted, scratched at his straggling beard, and shook his head. "Not like you lot don't know what sketchy trades go down here." I admired this kid's guts.
"And Anton was into the trades?"
"Started to be, yeah, dude."
"Gotta have a bit of cash to play that game," I commented.
"Oh, he had the cash, all right."
I rocked back on my heels, hands in my pockets, the look of casual ease.
"That right? Wouldn't have picked him for loaded."
"He wasn't," the kid agreed. "But somethin' must have changed, 'cause suddenly he's all big-shot trader, hangin' with the posers, fleecin' them, no doubt."
"No doubt. When did he start doing that?"
"About a week before he bought it."
Sudden show of wealth, buying top name-brand boards, entering into the nefarious drug trades skater scene, all within a week of being killed. Damn. Three informants, paid big bucks, to do what?
I spent the next hour and a half questioning the rest of the crowd at the park, coming up with more and more references to the apparent change in Anton Burgess' finances. I hadn't gone this route with my first sweep of the park, back when Anton had just died. No one had suggested his circumstances had altered recently back then, but sometimes a little time and distance was all it took for the shock and fear associated with a murder to wear off and the questioned to open up.
Skaterboy had been more forthcoming this time than last. Not entirely unexpected, and if you don't ask the right leading questions, often an interviewee won't stray too far from the path. The right questions had elicited the right answers this time.
Anton Burgess, Thomas Withers and Tyrone Anderson had all come into large sums of money prior to their deaths.
Another connection. Just what the hell did it mean?
Chapter 12
"The job will pull you in and hold you down, unless you find a way to shut it the fuck off. A hobby, alcohol, mindless sex. Doesn't much matter, Sport. Just don't let it suck you dry without living a little first."
My cellphone rang again when I climbed into my car. I expected it to be Michaels, so had the call swiped open before registering the caller ID was not from his phone.
With nothing left to do but go with it, I said into the mouthpiece, "Keen."
"Hey, Keen. Heard ya been dodgin' flyin' bullets. Don't they teach ya better than that in police woman school?" He said 'woman' in a husky tone.
"Eagle." I suppressed the smile on hearing his voice. "Now how would you have heard a nasty rumour like that?"
"I ain't just a pretty face, baby. 'Course, you'd know that if ya just took me up on my many offers."
"Not gonna happen and you know it."
"Man can dream, eh? Someone's gotta dirty y'up a bit. Or, word is, maybe that job's gone. Got yourself a invite to the mystique."
How the hell did this kid know these things? It was no wonder he was top of my list of informants to go to every single time.
"Seems like it."
"Whatcha gonna wear?" he asked in a singsong voice.
"Never you mind. Why the call?"
"Always business with you, Keen. One day ya gonna realise there's more to life than the job."
The job will pull you in and hold you down, unless you find a way to shut it the fuck off. A hobby, alcohol, mindless sex. Doesn't much matter, Sport. Just don't let it suck you dry without living a little first.
Carl had been a good, dedicated cop, but he drank a little too much whisky, and he had a couple of regular ladies he liked to visit on his nights off, and his hobby of choice was bugging the fuck out of me. And yet when he'd said those words to me not long before he disappeared, I'd just laughed outright in his face.
What life, Old Man? This is life. Couldn't be a grander cause, catching criminals, cleaning up the streets. That's life. That's my life. Had been, since before I was born.
He'd shaken his head, adjusted his slightly protruding belly - those whiskies maybe catching him up at last - and said, One day you'll ask yourself, why? Why did I give my heart and soul to something that
just fucks you right back?
I should have known it was an omen. I should have read the message between the lines. But it was Carl. Steadfast, consistent, reliable Carl.
Even police detectives can miss the obvious, can have it staring them in the face and waving a damn flag, and still miss the fucking clues.
"Y'there, Keen?" Eagle drawled, pulling me out of my dark memories.
"Yeah, I'm here, Eagle." I'm always here. "What's on your mind?"
"Roofies've picked up again."
"Why the sudden change?" I thought they'd have continued to be careful, if they'd heard wind they were being watched.
"Don't know, that's for you to detect, ain't it? Just heard they're back. Coupla scenes last night got pretty loose. Like they wanted it on the streets. Like a message, eh."
Not careful, not even arrogantly sure of their safety. It was a trap.
"Good to know, thanks for the tip. I'll swing by and pay up when I can."
"On the house," Eagle generously offered. "But it ain't the end of the news."
"Never is, Eagle."
He chuckled. It sounded so fucking young.
"Pat's askin' for yous."
"Patrick O'Malley? Down at the docks?"
My back had gone rigid as chilling ice encased my spine.
"Yeah-hah. The one and only old sea dog."
I hadn't used Pat for anything lately, after Carl left he'd refused all contact with me. Blamed me, some said. I couldn't fault that assessment, so I'd left the old git to himself. And now he wants to see me?
An informant. One of Carl's. Asking for a meet. I wondered, idly, if he'd come into any cash recently too.
"All right," I finally replied. "Any idea why?"
"Nah, just been askin' if ya been on the streets."
"What did you tell him?"
"That he got no skills to getta hot woman like you."
"Very flattering, Eagle."
"Always am. Want me to flatter ya person to person? I do a good body rub."
"I'll have to pass on that, but the image is intriguing."
"See, I'm wearin' ya down, Detective."
Chuckling, I offered, "Take care, Eagle," and ended the call.
What to do? What to do? What to do?
It was closing in on nine. Pat usually did the night shift on the container ship cranes, Carl had always met with him up in his cab, metres above the docks. You couldn't really see in there from the ground if you sat in just the right spot, and getting up there was inside a covered, all weather ladder. It was as good as any dark alley for meeting with a snitch.
But I'd never climbed the ladder, nor sat in Pat's smoke filled cabin in the night sky. He wasn't my informant, he was Carl's. And I certainly never inherited him. But that's not to mean he hadn't got some useful information and decided it was time to mend bridges and pass it on. Or he might have just needed the cash.
I drummed my fingers on my steering wheel, checked my watch again and then let out a long breath of air.
I couldn't risk it. Just asking if I was on the streets was hardly enough to the risk the guy's neck over.
And then of course, at this point, Inspector Hart's words filled my head.
"Something to consider, Keen. You'd keep him safe, watch over him for the duration. One small risk to prevent the deaths of many."
God, I couldn't think straight. For once, in my not very illustrious career, I didn't know what path to tread.
I banged my head back against the headrest in the car a couple of times, then aware I'd run out of options, picked up my cellphone and dialled Michaels. I needed a sounding board. I needed someone who wasn't quite as close to the heart of the case as me.
Ah, fuck it. I needed to hear his voice.
But I didn't let him talk first.
"The Birdcage on Franklin Road. Take a taxi, then you can drive my car afterwards."
"Is this a date, Detective?" he asked in a slow drawl.
I sighed. "Just be there. You know where it is?"
"I am a fireman, Lara. I've been to the Emergency Service's favourite bar before," he explained patiently. "I know exactly where it is."
"Good. See you there." I hung up before I changed my mind or he told me he was busy. It was a coward's way out, but it was time I cut myself some slack.
I found a booth seat in the corner, one where I could watch the door, and therefore Damon's approach, and had a wall at my back. I'd had to pull rank and badge on a couple of off duty paramedics who had unwisely chosen that particular seat, but they were quick to oblige my request. I had a feeling it had nothing to do with the badge and everything to do with the look on my face.
I pretended to be interested in the décor; old photos of policemen holding up beer steins, arms wrapped around firemen as though one big happy family. The ambos had missed out. The orangey red brick interior, which pretty much matched the outside, black painted beams, stained glass windows and gilded birdcage hanging proudly in the centre of the pub.
There was just something about the Birdcage that made you feel welcome. I'm sure a lot of patrons weren't cops or from the Fire Service or St John's Ambulance. But we'd made it ours. And it felt like it. I'd come here often with Carl.
I realised, as I spotted Damon weaving through the tables, stopping to acknowledge a greeting, have a word or two with someone he knew, that I hadn’t been here since Carl left.
A night of firsts.
I nursed my whisky, my eyes following Damon's movements, his confident stance, his winning smile. He schmoozed the room. Should have been a politician. But I guess to head up all of HEAT he had to have some social skills to speak of. Politics and career climbing went hand in hand.
It was fascinating to watch though. The way he gave eye contact, made them think they were the most important thing in his world, but how he knew exactly where every single person was located in that room.
When I took another sip from my glass, his eyes found mine. But the person he currently spoke to didn't notice. When I waved a waitress down and ordered the whole bottle, his back stiffened, even though he didn't look like he was aware of me. When I poured a generous helping into my glass, he distractedly placed an order for some food. Always looking out for my health.
I gave a mirthless laugh as I downed most of my newly poured fire-in-a-glass and watched as he commandeered a bowl of chips off a fireman's table and sent them my way instead. The waitress banged the basket down in front of me with a bemused look.
"He does it to everyone," I sympathised, but just received a curious glare.
I'm feeling now, Old Man. The whisky's burning. Is this what you meant?
Or that feeling I had inside my chest, tightening the muscle, sending shooting pains deep into my bones and up into my head, could have been because of something else entirely. The disapproval I could see in Damon's eyes.
No, that was a lie. It wasn’t disapproval. I wanted it to be. But it wasn't. It was weighted concern.
Ah, damnit.
I swallowed the last of the glass, refilled it, amused to note Damon scowled, and pushed it aside to concentrate on the chips.
They were cold and greasy; I hadn't tasted better in years.
I'd finished most of it by the time Damon extricated himself from the hangers on and slipped into the bench seat at my side.
"I ordered us cheeseburgers and more chips," he said, helping himself to the whisky. "I gather you haven't eaten yet tonight?"
"You gather correctly." Not a slur in sight.
One thing you learn growing up in a cop's household; how to hold your liquor.
"How's Marc?" Damon seemed surprised I'd remembered to ask. I may have been a slightly socially awkward person at the best of times, but I did have manners.
"He's... ruffled."
"I bet. That was his only hot rod car?"
Damon relaxed into the seat, one arm slung along the back behind my shoulders, not touching, but close enough to feel his body heat. He sipped at his whisky, pensively.
"No, he has several in storage, but that was his baby. He's ropeable right now."
I pushed the empty basket away from me and dusted my hands clean on the jeans covering my thighs.
"There are napkins," Damon offered. I shrugged.
"Sort out everything at HEAT?" I asked, delaying the real topic I wanted to discuss for now.
He leaned forward, removing his body heat, and rested his elbows on the table top. "I wouldn't say sorted."
"Going to tell me what's going on?"
His head turned quickly and dark intense eyes held my gaze.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on with you?" he asked.
"What makes you think there's something going on with me?" I shot back.
He tapped the side of the whisky bottle, but didn't bother to say a word.
I rolled my eyes. Then shifted under his continued gaze.
"OK," I said, on a breath of disgruntled air. "I need a sounding board."
"I'm honoured, and here I thought it was my body you were after all along."
It was actually easier that he was making jokes, somehow it lessened the pressure on my chest. Let me draw in a full breath of air. Feel a little more even keeled.
"I'm still pissed off at you," I whispered.
"I know," he whispered back. "And I'm sorry, Lara. It was an... underhand move. And I fear it failed anyway. You still look exhausted, and my guess is that's the first food you've eaten all day." He indicated the empty chip basket with a nod of his head.
"A chocolate bar at the station," I offered, pathetically.
"Well, here comes the burgers. Maybe we can be each other's sounding boards after we've gotten more than just carbohydrates in our bodies."
"If that was meant to be a sexually loaded sentence, it fell a little short."
"I'll try to up my game, then," he said with a wicked smile.
We ate in surprisingly companionable silence, watching the patrons and the ever increasing drunkenly behaviour of Emergency Services personnel unloading after a stressful day. And when the empty plates were taken away, we both sat back with a satisfied sigh, picking up our drinks and taking a - in the case of me, large, and for Damon, small - swallow.
A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 11