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

by Claire, Nicola

  "So you have done it before?" Pierce confirmed.

  "She wanted it."

  "Not what we heard."

  "She's lying," Tane shouted, the lawyer trying to get his attention and shut him the fuck up.

  "You tied her up, after giving her a roofie," Pierce said, "and then sexually assaulted her. We know this for a fact."

  Not really, but close enough. We can read between the lines. The point is though, Tane believed Carole had told us those exact words. Rather like his lawyer whispering in his ear, Carole had whispered in ours.

  "She did want to do it," he insisted. "She just needed a little help."

  "Like Stacey Lawrence needed a little help."

  "Mr Collins, stop talking now," the lawyer said. My cue to jump in.

  "Here's what we think, Collins," I said in my best bad cop voice. His head spun on his shoulders and he got the big eyes oh-fuck look on his face. "You've not only done this before with Carole Michaels, but there've been others as well. A string of them in fact. Now, if you did it all alone, that's a hell of a lot of jail time on your shoulders. Tell us who else was involved and spread the load a bit."

  "Smith. Smith was involved," he shouted, the lawyer flinging himself back in his chair with disgust. "Every time. Every single time. He purchased the rohypnol, I put it in. We did the women together. We've been doing it like that for months. It's his thing. He likes to watch. Doesn't like to get his hands dirty, but he likes to watch."

  Squealing like a stuck pig.

  "And these?" Ryan said softly, opening the folder and spreading the graphic and gory pictures of the dead informants across the desk.

  Collins recoiled. Muttered an "Oh my fuck," while the lawyer leaned forward and said, "What the hell are those?"

  "Anton Burgess," I supplied, pointing to the first picture. "Thomas Withers." The next, my voice whisper soft. "Tyrone Anderson and Patrick O'Malley. Did you do this, Tane?"

  His head was shaking from side to side so much I thought it would fly off.

  "Oh, fuck no. No, no, no. Not me. You can't pin those on me."

  "Did Smith?" Pierce asked.

  "Are you kidding? The guy gets a soft-on if there's any blood on the girls. They gotta be bound, but you can't rough 'em up. Trapped and resistant, but never damage the goods, he says."

  "I think you should shut the hell up now, Tane," his lawyer instructed. "Are you charging my client?" he asked Pierce.

  "Yes," Ryan replied.

  "For the murders or just the DFSA?" the lawyer asked, and I swear if there hadn't been a desk between us, I would have throttled the prick for saying 'just'.

  "The Drug Facilitated Sexual Assault," Ryan replied, eyes stone cold, enunciating each word crisply.

  I ran a hand over my face. Despite the adrenaline rush - not to mention the blood, sweat and fucking tears - of the past few days, we were now back at square one.

  Collins and Smith weren't our murderers. Rapists, but not murderers. There was no connection between Zero Gravity and the dead informants.

  We had nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

  The dots did not connect at all.

  Chapter 25

  "Sometimes all it takes is a gentle shove in the right direction. Sometimes it takes a two-by-four to the head."

  It took four hours to finish processing Collins, having uniforms pick up Smith, then charging him with the DFSA, further charges pending, and complete the paperwork. Not all of a detective's life is an adrenaline rush.

  Smith's lawyer appeared as soon as his client was pulled into Central Police, making the whole process drawn out and a little messy. Despite having had a good night's - or morning's - sleep, I was exhausted again.

  But we had them. Collins' lawyer wanting to make arrangements for a deal; information including locations, dates and numbers implicating Smith as well, for reduced sentencing. It was something for another day. Tonight, I needed to file my paperwork and get the hell out of here to clear my head. The DFSA at Zero Gravity might have been all tied up with a nice neat bow, but the murder of the informants was wide open and riddled with holes.

  I was sitting at my desk finishing off the last of my notes in the system when a shadow fell over me. I expected it to be Pierce, who'd disappeared for a phone call half an hour ago. But it wasn't.

  Inspector Hart took the seat across my desk. Carl's seat. It was strange seeing the older, sterner looking man in my mentor's chair. I respected the Inspector, he usually ran a very tight ship. The evidence locker incident the only time I had seen him appear less than certain how to proceed.

  I wondered if this was the cause of the personal visit.

  "I'm heading home, Keen," he announced, flicking the edge of a desk calendar in front of him. "The wife had a thing on this evening. I missed it. Marriage to a cop can be a hard ask."

  I had no idea what to say to that.

  Hart looked up, directly into my face. His was not soft, nor was it irate either. Just the standard gruff, hard look he usually wore.

  "I can't have Michaels back in here for a while. You understand?" he asked.

  I forced a breath out and said as steadily as I could manage, "Yes, sir. I understand."

  Damon may not have been charged, but he'd been implicated, and we all knew he was guilty of assault. Not that the powers that be breathing down Hart's neck right now were one hundred percent aware of that. Damon would still be persona non grata, though, until things either settled down or got swept away.

  Neither outcome a comfortable prospect for a detective who had once operated strictly by the book.

  "Still, you work well together," Hart added, making my eyebrows rise up my forehead. He stood up then, looked around the room, possibly to see if anyone was listening, then said, not looking at me at all, "Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to take the files for the informant case home with you. Work remotely for a few days. You can liaise with Pierce that way."

  "You want me out of the office, sir?" I asked to clarify. Was I being quasi-suspended?

  "Just while this runs its course," he replied, then finally looked down at me from his looming height standing over my desk. "Who you work with out of here though, is entirely up to you."

  "So, I'm still on the case?"

  He frowned.

  "Of course you're fucking still on the case. They're your informants." And with that he spun away and stormed out of the room.

  I leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded. What the hell was that all about? I was still staring after the long gone figure of Inspector Hart when Pierce walked back in the room with a file box in hand. He thunked the thing down on his desk, a few feet away.

  "You OK?" he asked. "You look kind of vacant."

  "Vacant," I repeated with a huff. "I guess it's better than spaced out."

  "Or bombed."

  I smiled. "Zonked."

  "Smashed," Pierce offered.

  "Wasted."

  "Wrecked. Oh, hold on, all detectives look wrecked. It's part of the job." He smiled, pulled the lid off the box and started removing thick folders.

  "What's all that?" I asked, closing down my work station and preparing to grab my own assortment of files as per the Inspector's strange instructions.

  "The King spill-over case," Pierce replied, adding another and then another folder to his pile.

  "Bloody hell, you're not going through that tonight are you? We've got enough on our plate without getting lost in a closed case."

  "Not so closed, as it happens."

  I stilled. The King spill-over case was one Pierce, Carl and I had been working on when Carl was killed. Declan King, Auckland's former premier criminal left a quagmire of inter-related and extremely messy illegal businesses operating after his demise. Our investigation had implicated a few very high profile and otherwise legal-looking people in the city. By the time Carl was shot and fell off that cliff, we had enough evidence to move on some, but not all, of those associated in King's many front operations. Hart chose to go with wha
t we had, it was better than nothing. But I'd always wondered who we were letting get away.

  "What's happened to reopen it?" I asked.

  "The Crown Prosecutor, that's what," Pierce growled. "He's found a discrepancy in some of Carl's evidence. I've got to go back through each note, each file, Carl wrote and cross check it before this reaches court next month. I just wish Carl had time to file his last report."

  I paled, my heart clenching too tightly in my chest. My throat closing, making it hard to swallow. Carl couldn't file his last report because he'd been shot returning from a nark's house in Howick.

  Like looking at an old style movie reel, memories flickered haltingly through my mind. He'd called me to meet him in Mellons Bay that night, said he wanted to follow up on a lead his informant had given him before it ran cold. He didn't tell me what the lead was. His only comment that registered on the what-the-fuck meter was, There are times when I truly believe humanity will not survive.

  And when I arrived at the rendezvous spot, he was being robbed.

  A fucking robbery. Hands up, give me all your cash. Oh, and your watch. The stupid fucker hadn't picked up on the strobe lights along the rear window ledge of Carl's car. He thought he'd found himself an easy mark, alone on the side of the road in a top end suburb. He was tweaking, no doubt about it. Carl thought he could talk him down, though, so didn't pull his service weapon fast enough.

  By the time I arrived the drugged up and enterprising mugger had somehow managed to get Carl out of his car and backed up to the edge of the cliff, an unregistered gun aimed at his chest. The image of Carl with his hands up, a surprised and incredulous look on his face, as he was slowly walked backwards, will stay with me for eternity.

  His shout, to distract the assailant, of, Run, Lara! Run! will haunt me forever.

  The fact I shot too late is a guilt I must always bear. My shot took out the mugger a split second after he'd taken out Carl.

  The mugger's name was Kenny Tyndall. A long list of priors, mainly drug related and a few thefts. Otherwise unrelated to anything Carl and I had ever worked on. He bled out before the ambulance arrived. Because he was conscious for some of that time, I couldn't go to Carl. There was no point anyway, Carl had been shot in the torso, I'd seen the blood splatter, and then fallen over the side of a twenty metre drop. I wanted to though. I stared at Kenny Tyndall and willed him to die, so I could go to my dead partner lying in the surf below.

  Even if Carl hadn't died, I'd killed an assailant. My sessions with Hennessey began not long after that. It was the one time Damon broke my no contact rule. He phoned, left a message, then turned up at my house when I didn't reply. I couldn't handle him and Carl's death and my guilt all at once. I slammed the door in his face and told him never to see me again.

  He did what I asked. Until a newspaper with an article of me in it looking tired turned up on his doorstep. Had he just needed a reason to disobey my demand that he stay away? How long would he have remained a distant observer of my life if the killer hadn't engineered him seeing that snippet on me? Sometimes all it takes is a gentle shove in the right direction. Sometimes it takes a two-by-four to the head.

  Carl. I closed my eyes and shook my head to clear the memories.

  "Sorry," Pierce muttered, clearly aware he'd sent me back to that time. "I'm slipping," he added. "Ignore my selfish ravings and head on home. I'll deal with this. Really, there's not much I think can be done. The Crown Prosecutor’s just dotting his Is and crossing his Ts."

  "You'll let me know if I have to follow up on anything?" I asked.

  "Sure," he said, not sounding like he meant it. Pierce was trying to protect me from more pain. It was bad enough I had to still give evidence on the King spill-over case, the only reason I could think of for why Carl was out visiting his informant in Howick that night. Pierce obviously didn't want me to have to delve any deeper into that time, too.

  It all brought it back. So much brought it back. And now Carl's informants were all dying.

  I frowned, looked at the box I'd pulled out from beneath my desk and then started to add all the murder case files into it.

  "Hart said I should avoid CIB for a while. You OK with that?" I asked, when I was done.

  "He and I agree on this," Pierce surprised me by saying. "There's no other way to have you working with Michaels while not being scrutinised by the big guns."

  "Hart wants me to work with him?"

  "Yeah, didn't he say?"

  "Not in so many words, no."

  "That'll be Hart. But Lara, who else would risk their life to protect you right now? We couldn't think of a better partner to team you with, while this plays out, than Michaels. Or would you rather I push Hart for you to team with Cawfield?"

  "Ha! Very funny. I'm going home."

  "Good. I'm sick of seeing your cheery mug around here. Now beat it!"

  I smiled at a grinning Pierce and swiped my box of files off the desk, heading out of the room. The carpark was lit with artificial white light when I crossed to my vehicle. Several other on station cars dotted here and there. I spotted Pierce's, as well as Jones', but the rest were from other departments so I wasn't as familiar with them. Hart's had gone from his named spot.

  As I shoved the box into the boot of my car a door creaked open across the way. Always aware of my surroundings I closed the lid of my boot quickly and had my hand on my weapon, holster released, but gun not drawn, inside my coat.

  "Jumpy aren't you, Keen?" Cawfield muttered. Speak of the freaking devil.

  "I thought you'd left for the day, Cawfield," I said, removing my hand, but leaving my holster unlatched. Cawfield did make me jumpy. I walked to my driver’s door and opened it. It would provide a passable shield.

  "Forgot something," he supplied. "Just thought I'd grab it before some arsehole stole the fucking thing while dressed in a fedora hat."

  "It was a nice disguise," I murmured, thinking back on the killer covering his head and body with a long coat and rimmed hat. I studied Cawfield and wondered if his muscle-bound physique could match the perp's hazy image on the video we'd pulled from Central's CCTV.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, head cocked, a seemingly genuine puzzled look on his face.

  "No reason," I replied, getting ready to slip in the car and get the hell out of there. I leaned in, eyes still on Cawfield, and inserted my key in the ignition.

  "You've been acting more fucked in the head than usual, Keen," Cawfield pointed out. "Twitchy as shit. Go take some Prozac before you stroke out or something."

  "Perhaps I will," I said evenly.

  "Jesus," he muttered. "How the fuck did Carl put up with you?" Then he stormed off toward the Station carpark door.

  I watched him go, wondering if there was an element of truth to that fact. Cawfield was a misogynistic bastard, but he was no killer. The guy lacked the balls, I was sure.

  I slipped into my car, locked the doors, then started the engine. I needed a bath, a glass of wine, and then a few hours sleep. Tomorrow I'd hit the case files again and see if anything stood out.

  I spotted the HEAT vehicle parked outside my address as soon as I entered the street.

  Damon.

  I checked the clock on the dash and saw it was just after midnight, my heart increasing in speed, a small smile curving my lips. I purposely frowned. I was not a fifteen year old hormonal teenager getting excited over the fact that her boyfriend was waiting on the doorstep with a bunch of flowers. I pulled the car into my drive and took my time exiting the vehicle. Damon hadn't moved from his driver's seat, even though he must have seen my headlights in his rear vision mirror as I drove up the street.

  I studied the SUV. The only sound was coming from my sedan as the engine ticked itself cool. Damon's was quiet. Glancing quickly up and down the road, checking the shadows and any vantage points that stood out, I closed my car door with a thud. Still no movement.

  My heart sped up some more, this time for a totally different reason.
>
  I loosened my jacket, my hand slipping inside the V, checking my gun. The holster was still unlatched from my run-in with Cawfield, I pulled the weapon this time. Keeping the safety on I approached the HEAT vehicle, rounding the bonnet, while my eyes scanned the environment and my ears strained to hear any sounds out of place.

  Nothing.

  I stopped long enough to check the temperature on the hood of Damon's car. Cold. It had been here a while. My eyes flicked over his face as it tipped back on the headrest in the car. In the light available from the street lamps he looked washed out. Like a movie scene filmed through a filter. He'd shaved though, no more of that delightful stubble on his cheeks, just a relaxed expression as though he slept. Or was dead.

  I sucked in a deep breath, checked my surroundings again, and then breathing a little too quickly approached his driver's door. It was locked. I leaned closer to the window and watched his chest.

  Three seconds later it rose and then slowly fell.

  I lowered my gun as I lowered my face to the tarseal. He was asleep and Cawfield was fucking right. I was losing the plot. I holstered my weapon, secured it in place and then tapped on the window beside Damon's face.

  He jumped. Muttered something indecipherable but no doubt a cuss, and then blinked at me repeatedly from the other side of the glass.

  "Open the door, Sleeping Beauty," I said loud enough for him to hear but not disturb the neighbours.

  He smiled slowly, making him a very nice sight for sore eyes, and flicked the lock, forcing me to step back as he opened the door.

  "How long have you been waiting?" I asked, searching his face to assure myself he was indeed well.

  Too much had been happening lately for me not to be affected by my wild imagination. Or over sensitised awareness of what could go wrong. I had the compelling urge to wrap him up in my arms and never let go. And didn't that add to the crazy concept Cawfield had been touting? Damon and I were not in perfect relationship territory. We had a history, and that history was not based on smooth sailing.

  He stretched as he climbed out of the car, arms above head, Henley shirt rising and showing off a very nicely developed abdomen. He yawned, blinked a few more times, and said, "What time is it?"