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

by Claire, Nicola

  "Did you know Tane Collins prior to this evening's events?" Pierce tried again.

  For a moment I thought Damon wouldn't answer, but maybe because he'd already indicated as much to me at Zero, he sucked in a breath and said, "Yes."

  "How did you know Tane Collins?"

  "I knew him as the barman in the back room of Zero Gravity."

  Pierce didn't even pause. "When did you last attend Zero Gravity and see Tane Collins?"

  Damon's eyelids fluttered, as though he wanted to look at me, but stopped himself short.

  "Mr Michaels?" And here was the formality.

  "I last saw Tane Collins at Zero Gravity ten months ago."

  Ten months ago, that was about one month before we started dating. Did that mean he hadn't been to Zero since then? He had said it had been a while. I wanted to believe it back then, I wondered if I should now.

  "And how many times had you seen him before then?"

  "Never. Only that one time." One time. Just like he said in the club.

  "So, you only knew him through your association with Zero Gravity?"

  "Yes," Damon clipped.

  "And why were you at the club?" I think we all held our breath, even Damon.

  "Is that relevant?" he finally murmured.

  "Yes," Pierce said, but there was understanding in his tone. "Help me to help you, Damon. The truth has to come out."

  Damon sighed, ran a hand over the back of his neck. His tell for a deflection about to occur.

  "I went there to get laid. See what all the fuss was about."

  "Liar," I said, barely a whisper, but both men heard.

  Damon glared at me, Pierce offered a frown. I waved him over.

  With reluctance he stood from his chair and walked to where I stood, hiding my face from Damon's view.

  "What did you see?" he asked, picking up on the fact that I knew Damon well and trusting that I could judge his mannerisms.

  "He has a tell. When he tries to deflect or hide something."

  Another raised eyebrow. "Remind me to play poker with him."

  I smiled. It made my eyes well. Pierce's face softened.

  "What's the tell, Lara?" he whispered.

  I licked my lips to soothe my aching throat. Then realised it was my heart that hurt, nowhere else.

  "Rubs the back of his neck, right before he delivers the lie."

  Pierce nodded, reached up and squeezed my shoulder, and then turned back to Damon and took a seat at the table. Damon's eyes were on me. I couldn't hold his gaze.

  "Let's try this again, Michaels," Pierce said, calling his attention back to him. "Why were you there?"

  "I told you..."

  "A lie, according to Detective Keen, who knows your tells."

  "Fuck!" Damon burst. "Lara! Don't do this!"

  I shook my head, kept my lips sealed, and pleaded with my eyes for him to cooperate. Ironic, isn't it? He'd pleaded with his at the scene for my help, I think. I couldn't have felt more wretched if I had stabbed him through the heart with a knife. Instead I was doing it metaphorically.

  "Damon," Pierce said, again calling his attention away from me and back to him instead. "You weren't there for the sex, were you?" Nothing, just fisted hands on his thighs, a frown on his face, and a paling of his skin. "Were you there to retrieve someone?" Pierce fished, and Damon's whole body jerked.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. I had a feeling this might start to make awful sense.

  "Were you there to rescue someone?" Pierce pushed.

  Damon started to rock slightly in his chair. I took a step away from the wall without realising, Pierce twisting his body to hold his hand up, stilling my unwitting approach. His eyes hadn't left Damon's face.

  "Who was it, Damon? Who was it you had to save from Tane Collins?"

  My arms wrapped around the centre of my body, I was sure a tear was about to topple over the edge of my lid, so thick they welled inside.

  Damon didn't answer, but realised he'd been rocking and stilled all motion. Instead he became a statue. A stalwart image of a trapped man.

  "Someone close," Pierce pushed. "A lover?"

  I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking. I shut down.

  "A sister," Pierce offered, seeing something in Damon's stillness that I had missed. The lover theory worked, why had Pierce moved on from it? "Was it your sister? And did Tane Collins do something she didn't like?"

  Damon's hand came down on the table, fisted. Pierce didn't jump, but I did.

  "He lured her into that scene," Damon said, voice thick with some remembered emotion. "She was a good kid, just lost her way after our parents died."

  Oh, God. It was his sister. Younger sister, who he was protective of, and who seemed to irritate the crap out of him at the same time.

  "What happened, Damon?" Pierce asked gently.

  Damon lifted tired eyes to Pierce. I might as well have not been there.

  "She didn't want anyone to know," he whispered. "I promised on our parents' graves."

  Oh, dear God.

  "It's time to tell," Pierce encouraged. "Would she want you charged for grievous bodily harm?"

  "I still will be, won't I? What difference will talking about this make? Carole won't want to press charges. She's just got her life back on track at last."

  "Damon," Pierce said carefully. "You either talk now, or I'll be forced to approach your sister myself."

  "You bastard!" Damon growled, but thankfully didn't leap up out of the chair. His restraint had returned at last.

  "You trust me," Pierce said out of nowhere.

  "How the fuck do you figure that?" Damon snarled.

  "Because I'm not wearing one of your fists. You know I'll respect your sister's wishes. Not like Collins did. That's why you couldn't hold yourself back. When you knew he'd taken advantage of another defenceless woman you snapped. But maybe part of you thinks Carole got herself into that situation."

  Damon growled and I glared at the back of Pierce's head.

  "However, when you saw proof that another woman had been attacked by that piece of shit, you couldn't hold back. Were you angry you'd doubted your sister?"

  "I never doubted Carole."

  "Then why wait to throw the punch? Why not have done it before now? You could have gotten to the man easily enough. At Zero or out of it."

  Damon's bloodshot eyes came up to Pierce's, staring across the space of the table between them. His hands clenched in fists on the surface, a twist of fury on his lips. He was hating this.

  "The woman was blonde," he finally said, voice a low growl.

  "What woman?" Pierce asked.

  "That woman. Tonight. Stacey Lawrence."

  "So? Is your sister?" Short shake of Damon's head.

  I took a step backwards. Damon's eyes flicked to my face. My hair. Pierce turned slowly in his seat.

  "Motherfucker," he whispered, taking in the colour of my hair, a close match to the tousled blonde on those sheets. "You pictured Detective Keen," he added.

  Damon sank back into his chair, silence echoing through the room.

  "He kept looking at her, while she questioned Stacey," Damon said eventually. "He..."

  "He what?" Pierce again. The man never stopped.

  I wanted him to. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what came next.

  "His eyes," Damon murmured, ran a hand over his mouth. "Kept darting to Keen's hair, back to the bed, over to the restraints. Again and again and a-fucking-gain."

  "He was picturing Detective Keen in those restraints."

  "He had a fucking hard-on."

  "Did he not have an erection when you walked in the room?"

  "Yes, but it abated when Keen took control of the scene and ordered him to untie the woman."

  "He got aroused again when he was looking at Detective Keen's hair, the bed, and the restraints?"

  "Yes," Damon bit out.

  Pierce sat back in his own chair. "It'll be on camera."

  Damon only grunted.

  "OK.
We'll call it a night for now. I'll have to confer with my superior officer. You'll be escorted back to the cells until we can formalise charges and organise bail. Interview ended, oh four-fifteen."

  It seemed wrong, that he would still be charged. I knew Pierce felt it too. It was wrong. But justice is never the law. Carlism 101.

  Pierce stood, opened the door and ushered a uniformed officer inside the room. Damon stumbled up from his chair and walked around the table. I took a step closer, no idea what I was about to do.

  But Damon just said softly, "Don't." Shook his head, his back now to me, and then walked out of the room.

  I had a sudden and horrible realisation, that it was out of my life too.

  Chapter 22

  "Life keeps chucking rocks at your head. Sooner or later you're gonna get hit."

  Six months he'd been out of my life, but the thought of him being gone from it forever chilled me. I couldn't function for the weariness, heartache and fear.

  "Go home and get some sleep," Pierce ordered, standing beside my desk. "Tomorrow we push Collins with Carole Michaels, use it to catch Smith. And maybe crack the connection to the murders as well."

  "She doesn't want to get involved," I said hollowly.

  "Maybe, maybe not. Michaels is the protective sort. For now though, we just use her name, use our knowledge of what went down, to shake Collins up."

  It made perfectly reasonable police interviewing sense.

  It sucked.

  "Go home, Keen. You look like shit."

  I felt like shit. Disloyal, useless, confused shit.

  "OK, I'm going home."

  I walked out of CIB in a daze. He'd attacked Collins because of me. I'd never had anyone do something so drastic - and so deranged - because of me. It wasn't to protect me. I was in no immediate danger. It wasn't to revenge me. I hadn't been wronged. It was simply because of the picture of depravity he saw in a man's eyes when that man looked at me.

  It was because Damon couldn't stand, even for one moment, to think of me on that bed instead of Stacey Lawrence. It was madness. It was incomprehensible. It was... God, there was no way that could be called love.

  And yet, there was something darkly chivalrous about what he had done. I beeped the lock on my car and snorted out loud. Fuck, I needed to sleep.

  The journey home was torturous. The lights of oncoming cars almost blinded me. My eyes stung, gritty, too tired, wrecked. I wiped at them ineffectually, pursed my lips, and let out a silent sob.

  "You must think I've lost the plot, Old Man," I whispered into the empty car, imagining Carl sitting next to me, like he always did.

  It's been a long day, Sport.

  A tear escaped. I let a noisy, ragged breath out.

  "Now you're just being kind."

  Not kind. Real. Life keeps chucking rocks at your head. Sooner or later you're gonna get hit. Now's just your time.

  "I don't know what to do," I admitted.

  And you're asking me?

  "You're not even here," I whispered, rolling my car to a stop in my drive.

  "I'm talking to myself," I added.

  "You left," I accused.

  I couldn't halt the tears this time. I couldn't swallow the sobs. In my police issue sedan, in the driveway of my home, at five in the morning, I finally broke down. I hadn't cried when Damon and I broke up. Nor when Carl had left. Died, dammit. I could blame it on the lack of sleep. It had been over twenty-four hours since I last caught some shut-eye. But I knew better.

  He did it because of me. The stupid, idiotic, reckless fool risked his career, his freedom, because of me.

  And I had hung him out to dry.

  Bile pooled in my mouth and I stumbled out of the driver's door. Somehow managing to not vomit all over my Gerberas and beep the locks closed on the car. I tripped going up the single step to my front door, landing hard against the doorway frame. I wanted to slide down the wall and give in to the need to collapse. But my neighbours would be rising soon, collecting their papers from their porches or driving to work. Seeing the police detective next door crumpled on her doorstep was not a good look for the area.

  I fumbled with the lock, managed to get it after the sixth try and staggered inside. Cool, dark and quiet met me. Cocooned me. I leaned back against the closed door and just breathed.

  My head hurt. My body hurt. My heart hurt. Everything was so fucked up. Four murders. A killer sending me messages, possibly setting me up, possibly trying to help. A DFSA bust. A partner assaulting a suspect. Caught on film. An ex-partner threatening my sanity, even though he's dead. And none of it - not a single bit - made sense.

  I was beyond tired. An emotional and physical wreck. There was nothing I could do tonight. I could hardly walk, let alone think. So I stumbled to the bathroom, stripped, showered, used the loo, then zombie walked to my bed. I don't think I even managed to climb beneath the sheets. I was out like a light before my head hit the pillow.

  I woke to birds in the trees outside my window, the curtains still open, a weak winter sun streaming through the leaves of my neighbour's tree. I blinked sleep away, stretched, yawned and then lazily rolled over and stared at the bedside clock.

  Two-fifteen, it said. That would be in the afternoon. It must have been a weekend day, but for a moment I couldn't pick which one.

  And then the past forty-eight hours sank in.

  I groaned. I'd slept for close to nine hours. Naked, on top of my bed. With the curtains wide open. I groaned again and then crawled off the bed, making my way to the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later I was fully dressed, fully armed, and munching on a breakfast bar from my pantry as I walked down my front steps. I'd chosen comfortable shoes, ones that didn't torture my angry red toe. I wore fitted navy twill trousers, a lemon blouse and a dark blue trench coat with a wide belt. For once I wasn't flouting the no jeans rule. My gun was secure in a chest holster, easily accessed through the low V of the collar, but hidden in the line of the jacket itself.

  I took the time to stop off at my local coffee shop ordering the largest triple shot caffeine loaded wake-up beverage on their menu, plus a full fat muffin to top the breakfast bar off. By the time I pulled in at Central Police I was almost human again. And had a mission.

  I'd been thinking about it as soon as I woke from my dreamless sleep and recollected yesterday's events. I wasn't sure I was going to achieve it, but I was sure I would do everything in my power to get Damon the necessary aid he needed. And that included confronting Inspector Hart and insisting we help the Investigator too.

  I knew it was a long shot, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. There was video footage of the assault. Credible witnesses to the event. Even if I refused to add my testimony to Damon's case, which I intended to, at the very least, do, he was facing impossible odds. But HEAT were our allies, there for us when we needed their help. I would embarrass myself, if I had to. I would even beg. To get Inspector Hart on Damon's side.

  It occurred to me, as I approached CIB, that I was about to ruin my reputation with one of the most important people in my professional life. David Hart carried a lot of clout. His acceptance of me in CIB was already borderline, and I was about to put more pressure on that.

  But Damon's desperate and haunted look, when he'd held my gaze in that private room, kept flashing before my eyes. I ran a hand over my face, feeling the uselessness of the situation. I had a plan. And I knew the plan sucked. But what else could I do? Sit back and watch a good man fall?

  I'd done that once, in the literal sense. I couldn't face seeing Damon fall off a metaphorical cliff for this. For me. Because of me.

  I just couldn't.

  I heard the buzz of aggravated excitement before I reached CIB's doors. The room was packed. No detectives out beating the streets, hounding their narks. They were all here, and I was clearly late to the party. I frowned as I wound my way through the open plan arrangement of desks, trying to comprehend snippets of animated conversations. I searched the room for P
ierce, but came up blank. Spotted Simpson and Cawfield over by the water filter machine, gossiping. No surprises there. So, slipped into my seat quickly to avoid their detection.

  A swivel chair rolled across the floor to bump against mine. Trevor Jones giving me a playful shove with his elbow. Unlike Cawfield, Jones was an easy-going guy. Mid-forties, slightly balding, but he kept his blond hair cropped short to his head, so it was hard to tell where the natural receding hairline began and the artificial one ended. He had a moustache to make up for the lack of head cover, it rivalled those of old school firemen; hooked, long and worn with pride. He also spoke with a slight twang, a roll of his Rs, like they do down in Gore.

  "Missed all the hullabaloo, Keen," he drawled. "Inspector's rantin', throwin' things 'bout the place. Pierce is in there havin' his arse chewed off. You'll be next. Might wanna head on out and make yourself scarce," he suggested, in what would have been genuine concern for the state of my arse and the potential for it to be chewed off next.

  "What's happened?" I was a detective, I could handle an arse chewing.

  "Evidence locker got broken in to."

  "Holy shit. Caught on security?"

  "Nah. Just smudges of some big guy in a floor length coat and a fedora hat. He knew where the cameras were, he dodged 'em all. Never got a facial."

  "What did he take?"

  "Nothin'." I frowned. "He doctored the video evidence of yesterday's DFSA bust."

  The walls in the room closed in. I could feel them moving toward me. Sounds became muffled, like listening to someone yelling beside the pool, when your head was under water. My chest constricted, my palms began to itch with sweat. I couldn't swallow.

  "My bust," I managed somehow to say.

  "Yeah, but Pierce didn't want you called in. Said you needed a break. And here you are, fresh as a daisy. Ready for a whippin'."

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. What the hell did this mean? How was it doctored?

  "How the hell did he do that?" I asked, thinking aloud.