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

by Claire, Nicola

  Jones shrugged, leaned back in his chair without a care in the world. Clearly enjoying the upheaval this turn of events brought.

  "Had some techno stuff with him. Ran the disc, cut out the last part, returned it to the shelf. Then logged into the system under Hart's password and made sure there was no further trace of the thing anywhere else."

  "We just had the one copy," I murmured.

  "Yep. Hadn't had a chance to make a back-up yet. Pierce had decided to check the footage in the mornin'. Apparently he was pretty knackered last night too."

  Pierce had been up as long as me. And he had a wife and kid to go home to.

  My eyes swept over the room to Hart's closed door. The blinds shut on the glass window that made up one wall facing the open plan room where our desks sat. Good God. I needed to get in there. It was my case. My partner on that film. Oh, crap. Had Damon's assault of Collins been what was wiped?

  Who would do that? One of us? I glanced around the room, looking at each face on each of the detectives I'd come to know over the past few years. All of them like family. Some closer to me than others. No. We wouldn't have done this. Surely not.

  And oh, Christ. Would they think I had? Michaels was my partner, assigned to me. And what if they knew we'd been intimate. We'd kept our relationship quiet the first time around, only Carl had known how close we'd become. But now?

  I rubbed at my stomach, feeling like the coffee, muffin and breakfast bar were about to come back up. I had a very bad feeling about this.

  But I also had nothing to hide.

  I rose on shaking legs, Jones saying something about, "Don't do anythin' stupid, Keen." And started toward the Inspector's office door. It felt a million miles away. I was sure, as one by one those detectives in the room realised I was present and walking to my death so started to hackle, that I'd never make it.

  Taunts and teases were thrown out one after the other, some good natured, some in support. And in the case of Cawfield, some downright disgusting.

  I didn't look at any of them. I pretended my face wasn't burning, my hands weren't shaking, and my heart wasn't trying to leap out of my chest. I tucked my hair behind my ears, considered knocking, and then reached for the handle and just opened the door.

  The voices inside stopped mid-sentence, I sucked in a deep breath, crossed the threshold and shut the door at my back. My eyes settled on Pierce, who looked strained, and then the Inspector, who looked thunderous with rage.

  "Sir, Sarge," I said, with a firm nod of my head to each respective man. "I believe there's been a development to my case."

  "A development," Hart murmured. His voice soft and more lethal because of it. "I'd say there's been a development. There's been several."

  "Several?" I asked, purposely moving closer to his desk and taking the seat beside where Pierce sat.

  My body was strung so tight, I thought if I shifted wrong and bumped the edge of the chair I'd shatter.

  "You've heard about the intruder we've had last night?" Hart asked.

  He wasn't leaning back, legs crossed at the knee, face tipped to the ceiling in his contemplative stance. He was resting his elbows on the table, his palms flat on the surface and leaning forward as though he was about to leap across the desk and throttle me. Or possibly Pierce, I couldn't exactly tell.

  "Got wind of it out on the floor, sir. Not specifics."

  "I'll give you specifics, Detective," Hart said. I held his gaze. It was fucking hard to do. The man was more irate than I had ever seen him before in my life. "At oh-six-twenty-seven this morning the evidence locker was opened by an unidentified source. Who proceeded to locate your back room club scene case, and no other, then pulled out the video evidence from the events in the private room. He ran the disc through a laptop he had brought with him. Our cameras show the back of his head while this occurred and little else. He returned the disc to the evidence box, and then accessed our secured mainframe using my password and login information. He checked the on-line files associated with the case, possibly to determine there was no copy of the disc made. Once satisfied, he logged off, exited the evidence locker and left the building. We do not have a clear shot of his face."

  Pretty much what Jones had said, but delivered in a decidedly more terrifying manner.

  "Do you have anything you'd like to say about any of this, Detective Keen?" Hart asked.

  I slowed my breathing down with concerted effort, then said, "What part of the footage was tampered with?"

  "Interesting question," Hart replied. "The part that shows Investigator Damon Michaels beat the crap out of the suspect. Just that. We still have footage of what happened prior. The events inside the room leading up to you breaking down the door. You taking control of the scene, the questions you asked the victim. Even coverage of Tane Collins and his reaction to you."

  I didn't even blink. I'd known this. Jones had said as much at my desk. Not specifics, but enough to work out what part of the disc had been altered, wiped clean.

  "But the footage is blank right before we believe Investigator Michaels crossed the room to throw the first punch," Hart continued. "Right up to the end. Our computer forensics team has assessed the disc. There is no chance of recovery. It was permanently done."

  I let a slow breath of air out, feeling light headed, despite the fact I had food in my belly and had slept well.

  "But that's not all," Hart said. "Tell her the rest," he instructed Pierce, finally sitting back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes a moment later and didn't reopen them. His superiors would be breathing down his neck. This was an Inspector's worst nightmare. Corruption of a case.

  I turned to look at Pierce, who was scratching at his goatee beard. Looking just as tired as last night. I wondered how much sleep he'd gotten, or whether he was called back before he even made it to his home in Gulf Harbour, way up north of the Harbour Bridge.

  He let a breath of air out and leaned forward in his chair, elbows to knees. "The witnesses have recanted," he finally said.

  "All of them?" I asked, incredulously.

  "All of the credible ones. The security guards who were in the room. Now they're saying Collins resisted arrest, and Michaels was helping to subdue a violent offender."

  "But that's..." I started to say and Pierce shook his head once, his eyes flicking to Hart's face. The Inspector hadn't opened his eyes yet, still leaning back in his chair pinching the bridge of his nose.

  I looked back at Pierce and frowned. Was he in on this? Oh my dear freaking God. What the hell was going on here?

  "You have nothing to say to that, Detective?" Hart asked, eyes still closed.

  "I'm stunned, sir," I murmured.

  "Aren't we all," he said, finally opening his eyes. "This is what we're going to do," he added. "Pierce you fucking hound those witnesses, see if you can shake out the truth. Keen, you follow up with the HEAT guys. One of them could easily know their way around here. I'll look into where our staff were last night, discreetly. The rest of this remains between us three. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir," Pierce said immediately. I mumbled out my own, "Yes, sir," feeling like I'd fallen down the rabbit hole.

  "I need to know if there's corruption in our midst, or if we've been targeted. And if so why," Hart said softly. "I'll hold Michaels as long as we can. But we've pretty much got shit on him now. Might as well cut him loose and see if he leads us anywhere. But I want you, Keen, shaking down HEAT before he gets out. You've got about two hours tops, before his lawyer springs him."

  "He lawyered up?" I asked.

  Hart grunted. "One turned up uninvited first thing this morning. Michaels looked surprised." He shook his head. "Like we have time to investigate this fuck up, we've got murders to solve."

  Tell me about it. There was just too much to comprehend right now, too many factors, too many interweaving, or confusing, things.

  It made you wonder if it wasn't all connected somehow.

  Some master plan to scre
w with CIB.

  Chapter 23

  "We're your family now, Keen. Don't think on where you've been, just think on where we'll take you. Your life began when you joined CIB."

  I cornered Pierce in the hallway outside of CIB. We were alone. The others finally returning to earning their living appropriately.

  "What the fuck is going on?" I demanded, rounding on him and blocking his path to the exit.

  "That's what I'd like to know," he replied, taking in my stance and holding himself ready.

  "I meant in there, with Hart. Why did you stop me from speaking out?"

  He lifted a hand up and ran it over his beard and then scuffed up his hair at the back as though scratching an itch.

  "Are you involved in this?" I asked in a hiss.

  "God, Lara! No!" he ground back, his hands now down at his sides, fists clenched. "This is my department too."

  "Then what the hell?"

  He sighed, shook his head, took a step back. And then promptly moved forward and leaned in.

  "I have no fucking idea what's going on," he whispered. "But you cannot deny this is an ideal opportunity for Michaels to slip through unscathed. All I was suggesting, was some circumspection with what you voice aloud from now on. If it doesn't need to be said, then don't say it. Lara," he added, probably seeing the mystified and shocked look on my face. "He's one of ours. I don't give a shit if he doesn't carry a gold badge. He's worked on more cases with you, me, Harvey and Carl, than any other of the HEAT guys. He's practically part of the family."

  "He beat a suspect," I pointed out, I think more for me than him.

  "A suspect who took advantage of his sister. Had a woman naked and bound to a bed, ball gag in place, and was filming the entire scene about to be directed by a sick fuck in a chair to do God knows what. And," he emphasised, "was eyeing you up and measuring you for restraints. Give the man a fucking break."

  "You've changed," I whispered, all I could think of to say.

  His face softened, his fists unclenched.

  "Life takes on new perspective when you've got loved ones you'd die for to keep safe."

  I stared at Pierce's soft brown eyes and then nodded.

  "I was coming in here to beg Hart to defend him," I found myself admitting. "To do something, anything, to help him out."

  Pierce lifted his hand and rested it on my shoulder. "Then go tell him you're going to do just that."

  "The Inspector wants me to question the HEAT guys," I reminded him.

  "And as your lead detective, I'm saying take some time to reassure your man, then go have a friendly chat with the HEAT team, get a feel, give them the heads up, but don't bust a gut."

  "Jesus Christ, Pierce," I muttered. "I don't think I even know you." He only laughed.

  "By the way," he said, starting to walk off down the hall, "you don't look like shit anymore."

  I smiled. It felt a little stiff.

  "You do," I shot back.

  "Gee, thanks." He offered a wave over his shoulder and walked through the door at the end of the hall, leading to the lifts.

  I stood there a second or two longer, debated with myself if this was what I was really going to do.

  We're your family now, Keen. Don't think on where you've been, just think on where we'll take you. Your life began when you joined CIB.

  And I turned in the opposite direction and headed for the cells.

  The officer on duty in lock-up didn't even bat an eye when I requested access to Damon Michaels' cell. He led me to the correct one, checked the glass window that was never covered - no privacy in Central cells - and then rattled his keys to announce to the prisoner that the door was about to be unlocked.

  He swung it open and stood back for me to enter. I nodded and walked into the small two-metre-by-two-metre pale blue room. There was a toilet and sink behind a half wall, and a cot, with a plastic covered mattress and pillow, and standard issue grey, coarse woollen blanket.

  And Damon, lying on his back, one leg cocked, foot to mattress, arm thrown over his face to block out the garish recessed mesh covered light, eyes closed. He hadn't even looked to see who was being let in. He was pale, from what I could see of his skin, dressed in paper-like white overalls and bare feet. He'd been stripped of his clothes and possessions, even though these were only holding cells and normally detainees were left in what they arrived in, minus whatever was in their pockets. It could have been he had requested replacement clothing for his blood splattered outfit, and this is what he would have received.

  "Just bang on the wall, Detective, when you want out or if you have problems," the uniform said.

  I nodded, not removing my eyes from the supine body on the cot. The door clicked shut behind us, the lock clunked back into place, and silence settled in the room.

  He still hadn't opened his eyes.

  "Michaels," I said, and his body jerked. Just one minute movement and then nothing. "Damon," I added, and he lowered his arm, linked his fingers together over his stomach and stared at the ceiling.

  Not at me.

  "How are you doing?" I asked, taking a step closer, unable to resist the draw.

  "Not so good, Keen," he murmured, and then swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up.

  The stubble on his face was thick. Even more dense than usual. I wanted to touch it, see if it was soft or scratchy. He ran a hand over his mouth and finally lifted tired eyes to mine.

  "God," he said on a breath of exhaled air. "You look good."

  "I slept," I whispered, feeling suddenly guilty for that. I shifted on my feet.

  "What's going to happen, Lara?"

  I raised my gaze from the floor where it had fallen and said, voice a little more scratchy than I had intended, "I'm getting you out of here."

  "What?" he looked around the room, up to the high window in the door. Then he was off the cot and across the space between us, hands to my upper arms, wild eyes looking directly into my face. "Don't you dare do anything rash. You hear? Do not risk your job for me."

  "You risked yours for me," I argued.

  "Dammit, Lara. I lost control. You're better than me."

  "Am I?" I asked, but the question wasn't for him. He took it as such, though.

  "God, yes. You're a damn fine cop, exemplary record. Don't screw it up for me. Lara," he almost pleaded. "I wouldn't have stopped." The words were nothing more than a whisper.

  I lifted my head to look him in his dark and so very sad eyes, and gave in to temptation, raising my hand to stroke his beard.

  "It's soft," I said, surprised.

  "Oh, love," he murmured, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and pulling me gently against his chest. "Lara, please tell me you won't do anything reckless."

  "Not me," I said into his chest, inhaling deeply. But he only smelled of paper-like overalls, recently pulled from a plastic package.

  "What do you mean?" he asked, laying a soft kiss in amongst my hair. My arms had found their way around his waist. I was clinging to him, as much as he was clinging to me.

  But I forced myself to pull back, put some space between us, in case the uniform on duty checked through the window in the door.

  "The security guards have recanted their statements. Changed them to say Collins resisted arrest and you were helping to subdue him."

  "Bloody hell," he murmured, ran another hand over his mouth. He took a staggering step backwards and sat down heavily on the cot.

  I followed and sat down next to him.

  "There's more," I whispered, checking the door.

  "Lara. You shouldn't be telling me this."

  I reached for his hand. "Pierce said you're one of us."

  "Would you cover for one of your own?"

  I've never had to. "If I knew what they were accused of was justified."

  "Was it justified?"

  "Yes," the answer was out before I even contemplated it. The conviction as strong as Pierce's.

  He turned to look at me, just a heartbeat away. I cou
ld feel his breath on my lips. He searched my eyes, looking for a reason to believe I meant what I said. I tried to convey my certainty. I tried to reassure him that things would be all right. I'm not sure I achieved either.

  "Someone broke into the evidence locker," I whispered, then watched his eyes dart down to my lips and linger there. "They doctored the camera footage from the private room." Eyes shot back up to mine. "Wiped the assault completely."

  "There's no video evidence?" I shook my head. "Who would do that for me?"

  I grimaced.

  "What?"

  "Could one of your team come in here?"

  "Is this Lara, the woman I love, asking?" What? He loves me? "Or Lara, the detective?"

  I stared at him. I'm sure my mouth was open. "You..." was all I could manage.

  He smiled, it was slow and not quite his usually wicked grin. His eyes darted over my shoulder, toward the door, and then he leaned in, looking deep into my gaze, and pressed his lips to mine.

  It was so sweetly chaste. A stolen kiss. A brief press of lips to lips.

  "I'm not here as a detective," I said on a soft sigh. He chuckled. "But I'm beginning to think that things are going a little crazy right now."

  His face sobered.

  "You've got more on the murders?"

  I shook my head. "No. But..."

  "You've got a feeling?"

  "Not as such. Just, how much more complicated does everything have to get before it falls into place?"

  "Will it though?" he asked.

  I rubbed my face.

  "You're still tired," he commented, concern dripping from each word.

  "Why cover for you?" I asked, ignoring his statement. This wasn't tiredness, it was a bone deep exhaustion one good night's rest would not alleviate. "If not your team, then who and why?"

  "It won't have been the team. They don't even know. I used my one call to tell Flack I had a migraine and wouldn't be in." His eyes flicked to mine, he shrugged his shoulders at the question there. "I didn't want them to know yet that I'd lost it so disastrously."

  "So who called your lawyer?"

  "I thought you did."

  "No. Did he not say?"

  Damon shook his head, shoulders rigid. "Are we being played?"