It took a few of hours to clear the scene. The Ports Of Auckland not at all happy about closing down a wharf to accommodate a murder enquiry. The paramedics tended to my foot, but as the toe wasn't dislocated I knew there was little a doctor could do. The medics splinted with gauze and dressings, offered some over-the-counter pain meds, and left me to my bandaged, unsightly fashion accessory. I couldn't wear my shoe, so my limp was rather pronounced.
Whenever possible Pierce made me take a seat and elevate my leg, bringing witnesses to me to interview. Damon remained suspiciously quiet. The occasional glance in my direction, but something meaningful was working behind those dark and brooding eyes. If he couldn't handle a minor injury such as this, then he and I weren't going to last long.
And the fact that I'd actually thought that at all left me puzzled beyond measure.
But an hour into the clean-up Inspector Hart appeared. He threw all the witnesses and everyone else out of the Port staffroom I'd commandeered and shut the door with an ominous click. If he was just after a report, he would have allowed Pierce and Damon to remain.
So this was no casual update, this was a reprimand.
I almost didn't have the strength to battle it. I scrubbed my face with a palm while his back was still to the room, taking advantage of his delay tactics. The Inspector liked to use little ploys such as that to put you off your game. Sometimes he'd just stare at you until you buckled.
When he turned back to look at me his face was blotchy and red. Increased blood pressure. Fuck it, he was about to blow.
"Tell me," he said in a level and controlled voice, "why I shouldn't just pull you completely from this case?"
My stomach plummeted to the floor, pooling around my bandaged foot morosely.
"There was no way to have predicted he'd react like that," I pointed out, and then thought to add a belated, "Sir."
Hart harrumphed and started to pace.
"Twice now, you've been targeted," he started. I opened my mouth to suggest it could have been either Michaels or me who was the target at The Cloud, but Hart spun back towards me and pointed a finger at my face. "Don't give me that distraction bullshit, Detective. These were Carl's informants. They were both aiming for your head."
I'd thought the same, but hearing my experienced superior officer say it aloud made the whole situation more real. I'd been scared out there. And it was a different fear than the angst I've felt in similar situations before; chasing down an armed suspect. This had been personal. The way O'Malley had gone for my throat. The way he had looked so fucking smug. Like he knew something I didn't, and my gut was telling me it was something to do with Carl. My partner. My idol.
How much more personal did it get than that?
"Sir," I began, and for a moment I thought Hart was going to silence me, but he just sucked in a deep breath and glared, waiting for me to go on. "We can't rule out that this is still some kind of coincidence." He just raised an eyebrow, but thankfully didn't interrupt. "Carl's connection could be the red herring. This could still be tied up with the roofies at Zero."
"I'll give you that, Keen. But answer me this," Hart said, arms crossed over his still broad chest. The man may have been getting on in years, but he kept himself fit. "How many of these informants knew anything pertaining to Zero?"
I sat back in the chair as the implications of his statement sank in. Anton had known nothing. Tommy had offered minor intel. Tank hadn't had the chance to trade info, but it had been suggested he was known on the club circuit. But no one had mentioned Zero as his preferred locale. And there was just no way I could even see Patrick O'Malley turning up at a sophisticated, invitation only back room of a sex club.
"One, possibly two," I finally replied.
"One confirmed, three unproven," he countered, and then let out a beleaguered breath of air. "Keen. You're a good cop. One of the best. You have an instinct some detectives never manage to cultivate in all the years they work CIB. You're a natural."
He'd never praised me before. I had no words to offer in thanks. Besides, you didn't thank Inspector Hart and you sure as hell expected there to be an ulterior motive to any show of approval.
"But," and here it was, "this is too personal. This is too close to your heart. You know what they say," he went on, and I just knew whatever came next couldn't be good. "If you can't detach from the emotions, you can't be expected to remain objective."
Not a Carlism, but true nevertheless.
"I want you to take a back seat on this, let Pierce take over on lead." Demoted. At least he'd chosen Ryan and not Cawfield. "Get a psych evaluation on this killer from Hennessey." My shrink. Now why didn't Hart pick one of the other department psychologists for the profile? "Work the case from the bottom up, go back over the notes and reports, put together an offender profile and see if we can attack this from a different angle."
"Sir," I tried.
"If I let you out there again, it might not be the informant zipped up in a black bag."
"I can increase my security," I offered.
"No."
"The club, we've got the invitation."
"We'll have to hold off on that."
"Sir, it's their mystique night. Masks providing an element of anonymity. We won't get another chance like this to observe without giving ourselves away any time soon. How long do you think we've got before the killer strikes again? With or without me on the streets."
He hesitated. I pushed my advantage.
"I'll stay in the background for everything else. Work the profile, double check what we've already got. But there's no way Michaels can get into that club with Cawfield or Simpson on his arm. It isn't that sort of place."
Hart actually huffed in amusement.
"One night, sir. Then I'll hole up at CIB for the duration. I'll even get Pierce his coffees and doughnuts, like a good little secretary."
"Cut the facetious crap, it doesn't suit you."
"Sir," I almost whined.
"All right," burst out on a now frustrated breath of air. "You're fucking focused, I'll give you that." His hands went to his hips as he stared down at me, took in the scuffed up jacket, the wet patches on my jeans, and the bandaged foot. "That going to fit in high heels?"
"I'll make it."
His eyes came up to my face. For the first time ever I saw respect, mixed with weary resignation.
"You watch, you don't interact, you get the fuck out of there if you so much as see someone affected by drugs. Remember," he added, voice again fierce, "this could be a waste of our time. We don't know for sure that any thing is going on there, and we sure as hell don't know if it has a connection to these murders. But if it does, we just need to be aware of it. The rest can be obtained by warrant."
It was a good speech. A noble speech. Protecting his staff member, making sure I was as safe as could be. But we both knew, that if there was a roofie problem at Zero Gravity, I'd have to gather evidence then and there for it to stick. A warrant would be too late, they'd hide the drugs before we could even say, "Open up, it's the Police." And any connection to the murders was likely to show in a more visceral way.
Bottom line. Hart knew we had to check this avenue out, cross it from the list. And there was no one else in the department who could do it. Sometimes being the only female in CIB did have its perks.
Hart grunted, gave me one last once over, and then opened the door and barked at Pierce and Michaels to come back in.
As soon as the door shut in Cawfield's face Hart said, "You're on lead," to Pierce.
Silence followed the statement.
"Sir," Pierce started after a long pause. "Detective Keen handled herself extremely well, given the situation. There's no need to remove her from primary."
"You think I was born yesterday, Pierce?" the Inspector growled. "This has nothing to do with Keen's aptitude or lack thereof, and everything to do with the fact that she almost got killed. Twice."
Amusingly relief replaced concern on Pierce's face. No one like
s taking over a case from a colleague under strained circumstances.
Still, the demotion, for whatever reason, hurt. Damon offered a small smile, clearly seeing the distress I felt at this turn of events. I looked away before I started doing something pathetic, like tearing up. An emotional officer was the last thing Hart needed to see.
"You're still on for tonight," the Inspector said, directing the statement to Damon.
"Only with Lara," Damon shot back, revealing a little too much of himself in that curt reply.
Pierce smirked, Hart scowled. But no one pulled Damon up on his protectiveness. If anything, it made him look like a real partner, not just a temporary one.
"OK. Get to work. You know what to do," Hart said and then stormed out the door like the whirlwind of immense power that he was.
Cawfield skulked into the room as soon as the Inspector left, Simpson at his back, again eating. The man never stopped.
"What's happening?" Cawfield asked.
Pierce looked at me, giving me a necessary second to prepare.
"I'm lead on the case," he said finally, my back rigid waiting for Cawfield's taunt.
I decided not to give him an opening. "I'll visit with Hennessey, see if he can profile our perp."
"I want you two to continue here for now," Pierce said, following my lead and shutting Cawfield down with that directive. "Then follow up at the morgue and crime lab. Get back to me with the findings as soon as you can. That's it. Let's go."
I rose from my seat, tentatively placing weight on my bandaged foot, feeling the throb ricochet up my shin. I could tell Damon wanted to reach for me, offer an arm to lean on. Thankfully he wasn't that stupid to do it in front of the guys.
I hobbled out of the room, Pierce already talking on his cellphone, Damon a step behind at my back. I didn't make the doorway.
"I'm surprised you're not crying like a sissy, Keen," Cawfield commented, leaning back against the wall. "Can't be easy standing aside for a man."
"Joe," Simpson chastised.
I turned slowly and looked at him, in his too tight t-shirt, hard worked for muscles on display. Cawfield was a peacock. Pretty, but ineffectual.
"Hey, I'm just showing some support. I'd fucking be ropeable if I had to hand my case over to Pierce," Cawfield defended. I was sure he didn't sympathise at all.
I shrugged. "It's just a case, Cawfield."
"Now, that ain't what Carl taught you. He'd stand up for what's his," he drawled.
Maybe it was the mention of Carl, maybe it was the fact that I was feeling pissed off about being side-lined. Or maybe I was just sick and tired of Cawfield's jokes. The heckling had been escalating, on station and off. The man had never actually indicated he had a problem with me being in CIB, he was too good to slip up like that. But something about me irked him enough for him to show his true colours every now and then.
I took two strides towards him, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain in my foot. With my finger poked hard at his chest, managing to push him back a half step - or that could have been the feral look on my face right then, I had him running scared - I asked, "Speaking from experience, Cawfield? How many men have walked over you in the past? Or, hold on, maybe it's not men at all."
"Fuck off, Keen," he growled.
"Got a problem with women, Cawfield? Feel ineffectual around a tight female arse?"
"Keen!" Pierce pulled me back by a firm hand to my shoulder. "Get out of here and cool off," he instructed.
I jerked my shoulder free and scowled at Cawfield, who now wore an irritating smirk.
"Fuck you," I spat and pushed past a stone-faced Simpson, trying to hide my limp as I stalked off down the hall.
I'd made it four feet when I heard the sound of fist meeting flesh, followed by a grunt and then a groan.
Loud shouts sounded out in the room, a scuffle, deep rumbling voices, all indistinct, and then Damon stormed out of the room shaking out his right hand. I raised my face to the ceiling and just breathed, then when he came alongside of me, not reaching out to touch but hovering nearby, I shook my head and slipped out the exit, making my way to the car.
"What the hell were you thinking?" I demanded, once we'd finally made it to my vehicle. "I can handle my own battles. I don't need you riding on in there and making me look weak."
"How did I make you look weak?" he said with a frown, holding my angry glare across the top of the sedan with an impassive one of his own.
"What part of fighting my own battles did you not get?"
"That wasn't for you," he pointed out. Ridiculously.
"Then who the hell was it for?"
"That was because I can't stand chauvinistic men. The world has progressed beyond his type of bigotry."
I snorted, unlocking the car.
"You made a bad situation worse, Damon," I said, sounding a little more defeated than I had meant.
I slipped into the car, buckled up and waited for him to enter before I started it.
"You were just standing up for yourself," he pointed out when he eventually calmed enough to join me.
"I retaliated. I lowered myself to his snide, gutter snipe level. I should have walked away."
"He was out of line," Damon said softly as I navigated the last of the Port and drove out of the ornate red iron gates.
I let a long breath of air out. Feeling the weight of everything that had happened in the past six months catch up with me. I wanted to close my eyes and scrub my face clean, but the lights had turned green and cars were backed up behind me.
There was no escaping my past. No escaping the mistakes I'd made. The things I'd seen. But I should have known better than to add to them with Cawfield. The man did not deserve the sacrifice of my career, should the Inspector get wind of my behaviour in there.
I acted out of line, provoked or not. I was better than this.
"I shouldn't have done it," I said simply, blinking away the memories, wanting desperately to rub at my chest to ease the heartache within. "I'm better than that," I added.
"Lara," Damon said quietly from the side. "You are so far out of that man's league, you're in the stratosphere. There is no comparison between how he behaved and you."
"I still shouldn't have done it," I countered in a whisper.
And when he reached over to lay a hand on my jeans and opened his mouth to argue, or bolster me up, I shifted. Moved my leg away from his touch.
Silence echoed in the car for several long minutes. My mind, conversely, a noisy jostling of much hated memories. Carl. Damon. The woman I'd caught him with.
One word glued to the tip of my tongue: "Why?" But I didn't say it, I didn't ask what I should have asked all those months ago when I walked away from us. Fear still rode roughshod over me, terror snapping at its heels.
I gripped the steering wheel, watched the blood blanch out of the skin on my knuckles, and turned the car into the driveway of the nondescript house we'd arrived at.
The last time I was here I'd faked my stable mental health easily. Somehow I knew today Dr Hennessey would see through the act within a second of me walking in his door.
If I could just keep the conversation on the killer, I'd be OK.
With single-minded determination I slid from the car and approached the house entrance, a silent and oppressive heat at my back, waves of Damon's anger rolling off him toward me. Had he known what I was thinking? What I was remembering? He'd always been able to read me like a book.
Straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin I walked through the door sure I was heading into one of my recurring nightmares. The one where the shrink tells me it was all my fault.
The one where the guilt catches up and swallows the fear.
Chapter 17
"Do I need to shake some sense into you, Sport?"
There are few things that really scare me. I pretend they don't exist. Denial, as they say, is a beautiful thing. But if I were to be truly honest with myself, open up to that degree, I'd say seeing a psychologist is right up
there. Somewhere near the top of the list, next to watching your partner get shot and fall off the side of a cliff, and letting your ex-lover have the chance to explain what really happened back when he tore out your heart.
I'm a fairly simple creature. I live for work. I eat to live. Sleep is a necessity I whittle down to its most abbreviated form. Everything else is categorised as pertinent or irrelevant in the scheme of things.
But Doctor Andrew Hennessey, BPhil, MPsy, DClinPsy scared the shit out of me. Too many letters after your name could not be a good thing. From the moment I first walked through his office door four months ago I was sure the department shrink could see me. All of me.
But I would never let him know it.
"Good of you to see us on such short notice, Doctor," I said, shaking the offered hand he held outstretched.
The room was moderately decorated, four comfortably upholstered chairs surrounded a low square coffee table which housed a box of colourful tissues and a bowl of glass marbles. One wall was full of psychology texts, self help books, and a few the good doctor had penned himself. The window was covered with Venetian blinds, a big leafy tree offering shade in the summer, shelter in winter, could be seen through the slats. A potted palm sat in the corner on a brass stand, a coat rack complemented it to the side. There was one painting on the stretch of wall next to the door. It depicted One Tree Hill. The solitary tree seeming to taunt you with its isolation if you stared at it too long.
Everything was chosen with purpose.
"Detective Keen, I'd be happy to help," Dr Hennessey said in his soft, non-confrontational voice. The man was in his early fifties, blond hair greying nicely, cleanly shaven tanned face, crisp cream button-down shirt over tan casual trousers. He was wearing loafers on his feet. A mix of well-to-do and guy-next-door that was designed to make his diverse clientèle feel at ease.
As if what he wore really mattered once you were in here.
"This in Investigator Michaels from HEAT," I said introducing Damon. Both men shook hands, the doctor not missing a thing.
"HEAT. That would be because of the second murder."
A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 15