A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1)

by Claire, Nicola

  "Afraid of getting stuck up there when the killer strikes," I countered and received nods of approval from all four men.

  "Good call," Pierce added. "Where do you want us?"

  "He's a hard nut, Pat," I pointed out. "Would never meet with Carl when I was around. The fact he's asking for me now could mean any number of things. From a desperate need for instant cash, a sudden attack of conscience..."

  "Or he's luring you into a trap," Michaels offered. I swung my head to look at his face, noting the set angle of his chin.

  He expected me to argue the point, but I couldn't. I was jumpy about this as it was. But what choice did we have? We needed to corner this killer, and if Pat O'Malley was offering himself up as bait, then we'd accept. But we'd also do everything in our power to protect him. Just in case this was a favour he felt obliged to carry out on behalf of Carl.

  It could be an entirely innocent request for a meeting.

  Or not.

  My eyes trailed over Damon's face briefly, then down his body because I couldn't seem to help myself. He was dressed in black casual trousers, black shirt and a coffee coloured suit jacket. It worked. He looked good. He looked a damn sight better than Cawfield and Simpson anyway. Pierce was passable though, in jeans and a blue jacket like mine.

  I cleared my throat and looked back at the three detectives.

  "Spread yourselves around," I suggested. "Find decent vantage points, where you can observe but not be seen. If it turns nasty, head on in and save my arse. Otherwise, once the meets over and Pat and I go our separate ways, start following him. We'll keep a tab on him for the next twenty-four hours, if the killer plans to strike, he'll do it tomorrow night here."

  "Sounds reasonable," Pierce agreed. "I've got walkies for us all, we'll use channel forty, stay off the main Comms line. Volume down low, and in the case of you, Keen, off entirely. Until after the meet."

  He handed out small, short range walkie-talkies to each of us, including Michaels. I checked mine with the others and then switched the volume off and slipped the device in my jacket pocket. It would be useful to connect after the meet and take over the first few hours of surveillance. The guys would have to look after our quarry this evening, when Damon and I would be at Zero.

  "Everyone set?" I asked and received various nods and confirmation murmurs. "OK, you lot head out and get into position. I'll approach Pat's crane in another ten minutes."

  "Sounds good," Simpson said, climbing out of the car and dusting pastry crumbs off his t-shirt.

  "We'll be watching your arse, Keen," Cawfield offered, making an exaggerated jerk away from Damon when he saw my partner clench his fists. Pierce just whacked Cawfield on the back of the head and offered a nod to us both.

  They all set off to their hidey holes, leaving me alone with Damon. For a moment neither of us said anything. Then he reached forward and drew me into the circle of his arms, resting his chin on the top of my head.

  "Are you ready for this?" he asked into my hair.

  "This is what I do, Damon."

  "I know. I'll always worry though, so get used to it."

  I let a long breath of air out on a sigh and he pulled back, placing a finger and thumb under the point of my chin and lifting my head up to look him in the eyes. His were dark and fierce.

  "You will get used to it," he said, voice low. "Because I'm not going anywhere ever again."

  "You're so sure," I commented.

  "I'm sure I made a mistake letting you walk away, yes."

  I ran a hand over my face and stepped back out of his touch.

  "I need to get to work," I said, then because it looked like he was about to explode with frustration I added, "I'll see you afterwards?"

  His body slowly relaxed. "Yes. Afterwards."

  "You better get into position, too. I'm going to start heading through whatever security they have and out onto the wharf." Simpson, Cawfield and Pierce would have bypassed security, I was sure. And I would a hazard a guess, that Damon could easily manage the same.

  I wanted my appearance to be documented. So one last look at Damon, eyes holding fast to mine for several seconds, and then I made my way to the gate.

  It took three minutes to convince the Port Authority staff to let me through to see Pat. By the time I made it to the base of his crane, an escort in tow, the whistle was about to blow for change of shift. Pat's replacement had apparently already climbed the ladder and was in the cab with him right now.

  Once at the base, I convinced the guard to leave me alone with Mr O'Malley, mentioning the fact that the interview was sensitive and police business only. He agreed easily, quite keen to get back indoors as a light drizzle had begun to fall.

  I sheltered under the crane's belly waiting for Pat to exit the door at the base. I couldn't see Pierce and the guys. But I knew they would be watching me from where they hunkered down. I scanned the surroundings, not in an effort to place them, that was trained out of you at an early stage in your career, but to familiarise myself with the location; hazards and accessways, complications that could arise should things turn to shit.

  Rows and rows of containers were standing a short distance away; red, blue, rust stained, yellow. Stacked five or six high they made sheltered alleyways between them, some of which were clogged with trucks specifically designed to shift the containers to beneath the cranes themselves. As this ship was being loaded, and not unloaded, there were no road worthy container carrying trucks to be seen on this particular wharf. It was all in-house Port Authority vehicles. Flashing orange beacons, beeps sounding out when they moved.

  It was busy, and jam packed, easy enough to get lost in amongst. I shifted my shoulders, aware that more than just my back-up could be hiding in that rabbit warren of concrete and tin. Suddenly I felt like I had a bullseye on the back of my head. I moved to stand partially covered by the crane's struts. If someone wanted to shoot me they'd have to be aboard the container ship to achieve it right now.

  The wind picked up, small flurries of debris twirling around my feet, some chains hanging on the side of the crane rattled in a particularly nasty gust. Rusted paint flaked off the crane as the huge metal links clanked against it.

  I shook my head, thinking what with the rain, the hidden alleyways, the clanking of metal on metal and the fact that I felt like I was being watched, and knew I was too, made for an ominous atmosphere. It was time to settle into my cop persona and forget everything else.

  Focus on your surroundings, but don't let them distract. Use a location to your advantage, never the other way 'round. Be ready. Be aware. Be a fucking cop.

  Carl's voice hadn't left me, even though last night I'd kind of hoped it was done. I'd spent too long in the old man's company. I'd idolised him, my shrink had said. And then I blamed him for getting shot, for leaving me. Hell, I couldn't even manage to say the actual words: Carl is dead. More often than not I said he'd left. Left. A euphemism for dead.

  My shrink was working on that.

  I wished him luck.

  I rolled my head on my shoulders, shifted my weight ensuring circulation to my feet, and readied myself as the door at the bottom of the crane opened, spilling out Patrick O'Malley, in all his smoke-riddled checked shirt and beer gutted frame.

  He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me, a sneer quirked the side of his split lips. Grey stubble decorated each cheek, his eyebrows bushy and wild. He was missing a good portion of his hair, but what he did have was swept back and covered in some sort of hair product, the front part yellowed from nicotine.

  "Patrick O'Malley," I said, stepping forward and displaying my badge, but not so close as to be caught by a wayward punch. "Detective Keen, Auckland CIB."

  "I know who you are, girlie. Carl spoke often about ya, he did."

  "Likewise," I countered. Then cutting to the chase, "Heard you've been asking around about me."

  "Maybe."

  "Well, here I am. We doing business?"

  His eyes darted about the part of the w
harf we were on, jittery, a little too wide. He was rattled. It wasn't an entirely unusual behavioural pattern for a nark. Being caught talking to cops had bad consequences for some, they often kept glancing over their shoulders. For now, I put O'Malley's nervousness down to just that.

  "What if I did? What you paying?" He took a step closer, which led me to believe he was warming to the idea, willing to trade info for cash.

  "Going rate, I'm sure you remember what that is. First, what have you got for me?"

  "It's big." He licked his lips, looked around the dock again. Took another step closer. "Worth more than a pinkie." New Zealand's one hundred dollar note was a reddish-pink colour, often referred to as a pinkie. Or a Rutherford, the person who fronted the bill.

  "One hundred's the going rate," I pointed out, not playing ball.

  "Yeah, but this is something big," he emphasised, and took another step closer.

  He was within reaching distance now, a quick jab and he could knock me on the jaw or in the guts. But his nervousness had settled, he was clearly getting into the idea of talking the going rate for an informant up. Whatever he thought he had to exchange, he obviously felt it was worth the effort to negotiate.

  "Tell me then," I said, offering a shrug of my shoulder, not willing to give away the upper hand just yet.

  "It's about Carl," he finally said, making my breath hitch as he looked around the wharf yet again.

  "What about Detective Forrester?"

  A small, nasty looking smirk twisted his lips. He licked them, eyes jumping from my face to my breasts to my neck and then back to my face. I forced the shudder that wanted out back down. This guy was definitely giving me the creeps, I was glad Carl had dealt with him alone in the past.

  "You and he were close, eh?" he asked, stalling.

  "He was my partner."

  "He tell you everything?"

  "What's that got to do with your information, O'Malley? Spill."

  "Yeah, he told you everything," he said, ignoring my command. This was going nowhere fast. I was beginning to suspect old Patrick O'Malley had lost the plot and was currently wasting my time.

  I reached up to scratch my head, getting ready to give him the flick, when it happened.

  He took one last furtive look about the wharf, his continued agitation making me glance around the area too. Had he seen something? The moment I took my eyes off him, he struck. There was no way I could have expected the level of violence. I was on guard, I was focused, but he'd not given the right signals for such a brutal attack.

  But I'm well trained. I can adapt in an instant. And the moment his hands wrapped around the length of chain hanging over a hook underneath the crane, I threw myself out of the way. The metal loops rattled and clanked, and the air swished ominously over my head as he swung the fucking thing towards my neck. Instant strangulation. Thank fuck he missed.

  My gun was in my hands the second my back hit the concrete, the air burst from my lungs so I didn't offer a warning before I fired. I aimed for his thigh. My shot was true. Blood gushed from the wound, but didn't pulse. I'd missed the artery.

  He howled, swung again with the chain, eyes glinting evilly, snarl on his lips, and I finally managed to suck in enough air to yell, "Drop it! Drop the fucking chain now!"

  The metal connected with my foot as I dragged myself backwards. I knew fairly much straight away that he'd broken a toe. Sweat dotted my brow, my stomach threatened to expel its contents. But I had more important things on my mind right then, like what the fuck? And where the hell is my backup?

  In the next instant, O'Malley split. Limping, favouring his shot leg, but dragging that fucking chain with him towards the alleyway created by containers. I watched him for a heartbeat, relief coursing through my veins, then reality set in. He'd tried to kill me. The second informant to do that.

  I couldn't let him get away, I needed answers. Now more than ever.

  Scrambling upright, I tested my weight on the aching foot, able to bear down if I kept the toes off the ground. It meant my gait was lopsided, rather like O'Malley's. I fished my walkie-talkie out of my jacket pocket as I limped after the chain wielding prick, turning the volume up and hearing loud chatter. My breath was already choppy.

  Pierce shouted orders over the unit to Simpson and Cawfield, giving directions as to where O'Malley had gone. Another wave of relief washed through me, making me feel chilled after sweating for so long. Or maybe that was the agony in my toe, I couldn't be sure. Trembling had started in my extremities as well, I willed the shaking to stop. Mind over matter.

  "Lara, you're closer. Can you see him?" Pierce asked over the cracking line.

  "No, but I'm right behind him. Where are you?"

  "We're on the way, Cawfield's closest to your location, he'll be right behind you. I'm going over the top to see if I can get a visual from above. Simpson's approaching from the East." The other direction from Cawfield and me. "And I have no idea where Michaels is."

  "Thirty seconds away," came Damon's clipped response.

  I slowed as I came to a corner, turning the volume down on my walkie-talkie and getting low to the ground to peer around. Not that Pat had a gun last time I looked, but I sure as hell wasn't taking anything for granted right now. A quick jerk of my head, eyes only around the corner, a split second to see the view before I was back, breath escaping in short, controlled huffs, my head and chest starting to ache.

  But the alleyway was empty for the entire length, so I slipped around the corner, gripping my gun in a two handed hold, hugging the sides, going as fast as my hobbling gait could manage. Halfway down I heard a noise from above. Directly over my head. My heart missed a beat, my breath all but stalled, I thought of Pierce getting a bird's eye view, and then a grunt preceded a rattle of chain.

  I rolled away from the edge as the length of chain O'Malley had tried to throttle me with came down the side of the containers like a coiling snake. Snapping and slithering and puddling in a loud pile of rattling links, the echo of it clanking against the siding ringing in my ears.

  Heart in throat, breathing through my mouth in quick, short bursts, I had my gun aimed at the top of the containers in an instant. But no one was there. I was stuck fast with the realisation that had I not moved quickly, I would now be dead.

  I licked my lips, worked to control my rasping breath, growled low in the back of my throat, and pulled my radio out, turning the volume up again and letting the others know he was up on the top of the containers, but now without his weapon of choice.

  I took one last withering look at the pile of chain and moved off down the alleyway, making sure to look up and around, and keeping an ear out for any sounds. I'd been in tense situations before, moments in time that felt surreal due to the level of fear I experienced or the amount of brutality I saw, but this ranked right up there with them.

  My heart beat unmercifully in my chest, my legs shook with too much adrenaline, a bitter, metallic taste filled my mouth, making me want to spit. Sweat coated my brow, dripping annoyingly into my eyes, making me have to stop and run my forearm over them, wiping my vision clear. My ears were ringing from the effort required to hear the minutest sound in amongst the beeps and engine roars back out on the dock itself. Not to mention the harsh respirations I was making.

  This man wanted me dead. It would have been so easy to turn tail and run. But that's not who I am. The part of me that wanted to figure this out, overruled the part of me that wanted to hide like a frightened child. Mixed in with that was a deep seated sense of anger. How dare this bastard make me fear.

  Just because you have courage and you know what precautions to take to make your survival more achievable, doesn't mean you stop feeling any fear. Fear is what makes you a good detective. But mindless terror kills.

  I wondered, as I rounded yet another corner, checking low, checking high, listening out, if Carl had felt terror when his body rose up and over that cliff ledge. Or if he had only felt fear.

  I'd never know. He wasn'
t here to ask. And talking to his memorial plaque at the cemetery wouldn't cut it either.

  Another corner, a long stretch of torturous, shadowed alleyway, and another and another. It went on forever and my quarry had simply disappeared. The fear had settled into a low hum of heightened awareness now. I was ready for anything. Sweat soaked, wrung out, but aware.

  And then I found him.

  Leaning back against a container, in the centre of an intersection of several alleyways. Legs outstretched on the concrete, eyes closed. Blood had soaked his thigh from the bullet I'd fired. But it wasn't what had killed Patrick O'Malley.

  No, that was the long, heavy, rust stained links of chain wrapped securely around his neck.

  I sucked in a deep breath, looked up, looked to the sides, and then finally lowered my gun.

  "Well, fuck," I muttered, just as Damon came careening down another alleyway on the left. Followed by Pierce and Simpson.

  Cawfield must have gotten lost.

  "Shit," Pierce exclaimed, Simpson offering a similar expletive. "Well, that's that, then."

  Nobody said anything for a suspended moment, the consequences of this grisly discovery settling into our minds.

  Damon turned from looking at the body, his fists still clenched, his face paler than it was before, he held my eyes with his. Worry, consuming fear, concern all flashed through the dark brown.

  "Where's the complexity in this?" he finally asked, obviously referring to how the killer had escalated on each murder scene until now.

  I glanced back at the body and let out a shaky breath, then flicked my eyes up and around all over again. The others followed my movements with their own agitated perusals. Every nerve ending on high alert.

  "The complexity," I offered, my throat dry, making the words sound gritty, "is in the fact that it was done right under our noses."

  This killer was bold and very quick. Able and strong. And he was laughing in our faces right about now.

  I looked around the containers, just to be sure, all over again.

  Chapter 16

  "Fear is what makes you a good detective. But mindless terror kills."