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

by Claire, Nicola

  "You're incorrigible."

  "But I'm your incorrigible."

  "That's not a correct sentence."

  "Lara!"

  "Yes?"

  "Kiss me, love."

  Oh, all right.

  My lips melded to his effortlessly, the pull too hard to deny. I nibbled and licked and offered little kisses all around his mouth until he growled low and pushed me back down on the bed, laying his larger frame over mine. He deepened the kiss, stealing my breath, laving me with fire and passion and everything I had known was good with Damon, but for some reason felt even better now.

  Clearing the air had been cathartic. A little painful, but well worth the discomfort in the end. He wasn't prepared to give up on me, and that said a hell of a lot in my book. I could be determined, single-minded, waspish on occasion, and saw things often as only black and white.

  But I was learning. Carl had given me the foundation. Something solid and truthful to work from. Now I just had to mould it into my foundation. No longer exclusively Carl Forester’s outlook on life, but Lara Keen's. Knowledge learned from the best of them, but expanded on by my own experiences and views on life.

  And as I let Damon prove just how much he could focus on a certain part of my anatomy, I accepted that he had his faults too. He could be argumentative, overprotective, used a brick wall on occasion to hide behind, and often acted in an extremely demanding way. But he was learning too.

  Maybe together we'd find common ground.

  "Damon," I moaned as he licked his way up my centre.

  "Hmm, you taste good," he purred against the crease at the top of my leg, then returned his attention to the apex of my thighs.

  A finger dipped in, crooked, and then flicked a certain spot. My hips jolted off the bed, he placed a flat palm over my lower stomach to hold me in place and then really got to work.

  Oh, he was good at this. Mind blowingly good. It took a matter of seconds before I was moaning and begging and writhing beneath him, and then as he reached up under the sheet and pinched my nipple, in that hard way he has, combining that with a soft bite in just the right spot below, I fell apart. Washed away on a tsunami of an orgasm, blinding me briefly, synapses sparking erratically inside my brain, my cry lost to lack of air.

  "Perfect," he whispered, crawling up the length of my replete body. "Lara Keen, you are perfect in every way."

  "Mmm," I managed, but meant really? Every way?

  "I was attracted to the detective," he whispered in my ear, I think seeing my thoughts written all over my face. He wrapped me up in his arms as he kept talking. "I fell for the woman. I will always regret letting you walk away." He kissed my temple, my cheek, the side of my neck. "I'm sorry," he added, holding me tighter still.

  I found my voice at last. Rolled over onto my side to face him and cupped his whiskered cheek.

  "I'm sorry, too," I admitted, meaning every word.

  "Start over?" he asked.

  "Sure," I said easily. His eyebrows raised at the use of his previous words and tone. "But this is what I'm really focused on right now," I added, wrapping my hand around his thick arousal.

  He groaned, fell back on the bed, and said, "Have at it, sweetheart."

  I made a disgruntled sound as I moved down his body. If it was the last thing I did today, I'd get him to call me something other than sweetheart.

  Six minutes later I won.

  "Lara! Fuck! Oh God yes, Lara! Ah, Love."

  Now that's how you start a day. And I hadn't even had my coffee yet.

  Chapter 28

  "Expect the unexpected, Sport. Then they can't use your surprise against you."

  "Where do we start?" Damon asked, coffee mug to lips, dark eyes on the large case box I'd just brought in from the hallway where he'd left it last night.

  "We go over each murder with a fine tooth comb," I replied, taking the lid off and chucking it unceremoniously onto my dining room floor. We'd set up at the large rectangular teak dining table, which was halfway between my open-plan kitchen and lounge. My house wasn't as impressively designed as Damon's, but it was comfortable and well worn.

  "How fine are we talking?"

  "Every report written, every piece of evidence collected, every statement made, every profile created. Then we cross reference."

  "Have you got a whiteboard?" he asked.

  I jumped up from the table instantly. "Good idea."

  "I'm full of good ideas," he quipped.

  "Don't I know it," I yelled from the hall. He'd proven just how good his ideas were this morning; in bed; in the shower; at the kitchen bench while the coffee brewed. Working remotely had never held such appeal before.

  I even felt optimistic about finding a heretofore hidden vital piece of evidence in amongst the plethora of files in that wretched box. For now, that's all we needed. I hadn't met with any more informants, and Pierce, probably via Hart, had suggested I stay locked down for now, to give us time to reassess what we had.

  The sex club case had thrown us, put us well behind the eight ball. We needed a moment or two to catch up. I only hoped the killer would remain on form, not deviate from what we had come to expect.

  Expect the unexpected, Sport. Then they can't use your surprise against you.

  I stopped wiping the whiteboard in my small office clean and stared at the reflection of the sun as it streamed through the unshuttered window; we were experiencing an unusual for winter sunny day. And wondered just when the Carlisms would stop.

  I was ready to move on, I think. Finally ready to stand on my own two feet. Damon, of course, had provided a decent crutch, a catalyst to help me take that first, hesitant step. But Carl wasn't done with me yet, it seemed. His voice as strong as ever in my head.

  "Need a hand?" Damon asked from over my shoulder. I jumped a little. "Where were you?" he asked.

  How long had he been standing there? How long had I been zoning?

  I offered a smile; he saw right through it.

  "You take this end, I'll go backwards," I said, getting into position on the end, closest to the door, of the big wheeled whiteboard.

  Damon followed my directions and we manoeuvred the device out through the door, navigated the hallway, and set it up next to the dining room table. It was starting to look like CIB in here.

  "Does it help to talk about it?" Damon asked. "Or is it better to bottle it up inside?"

  I glared at him for a second, saw only concern and wariness on his face, not challenge. Perhaps challenge would have been better. That, at least, I could fight. But this genuine worry?

  "I'm not good at talking," I said at last. "Ask Hennessey."

  "How does he get you to open up?" Damon wondered aloud.

  "I've been seeing him for four months," I pointed out. "He's only just discovered I'm a woman."

  Damon crossed his arms over his chest and raised an unamused eyebrow at me.

  I threw myself into my recently vacated chair at the table with a huff.

  "Can we just work on this, please?" I added the please a little too late. "You're not going to solve all my mysteries in one day, Damon."

  "No," he agreed quietly. "But eventually..." He left the sentence open.

  I ignored the implied threat. He cared, I told myself. He really did. And wasn't that something?

  "Anton Burgess," I said into the silence, pulling his file folder closer and opening it up.

  "Death by knife," Damon provided, allowing us to return to the job at hand and avoid any further personal dissections. I appreciated that he was prepared to wait to fix me.

  It wasn't the sort of task that could be completed in just one day.

  I was way too screwed up for that.

  "Sliced, left to right, across the neck," I said, reading from the autopsy report. "Severed the carotid artery. Bled out within minutes."

  "Found in the Silo Park, Wynyard Quarter," Damon threw in, looking at the on scene report.

  "Three hours after meeting me there," I offered, voice laden
with my own, perhaps misplaced, guilt.

  Damon called me on it. "How were you to know? It was the first murder."

  I nodded firmly. He was right. If I blamed every death on my actions I'd never get out of bed. Just because I was connected to the murdered did not mean I caused his death or held the knife.

  "OK," I announced. "We know the killer was either taken by surprise and acted reflexively, or something angered him and he lashed out. We also know Burgess had come into a sum of money, enough to enter the drug trade at the skate park and be noticed."

  "All right," Damon said reaching for another report. "Thomas Withers, found deceased in the boot of a burned out car. Second murder.

  "Same locale as a meet with me several hours prior."

  "Escalation in killer's routine," Damon offered. "Query; trying to send you a message?"

  "That he's clever? That he wants me to team up with HEAT?"

  "Both," Damon remarked, leaning back in his seat. "Hennessey said as much in the profile. The killer wanted your attention. Hey look at me, I'm smart. I know my way around accelerants. I know the system, because HEAT now has to get involved. Put that with the newspaper delivered to my door two days before, and he's engineered our get-together."

  "Two days before? So, the killer had already sliced Burgess, but had no idea I would meet with Withers. Why get you involved? At this stage it's not a serial."

  "Because he knew it would become one," Damon offered. "Brings it back to the first murder. Something happened to make him have a reason to go on and kill again."

  "What?"

  Damon shook his head. "It's enough to know that it definitely did happen. Maybe Burgess told him something. Maybe he discovered something and followed you, saw you meet with Burgess and then attacked."

  "No, the attack was where he learned this new piece of information. Knives are personal murder weapons, an extension of your hand. He sliced once, but not repeatedly, so we rule out passion. However the move was harsh, fast, and there was no indication of hesitation. He very much meant to kill him, he just grabbed the first thing on hand to achieve it immediately, receiving instant gratification through the knife. And he did it as soon as the reason for this killing spree became apparent."

  "What's the reason?"

  "That's the question, isn't it?" I replied.

  "OK," Damon said, reaching for another report. "Withers came into money too. Except he wouldn't tell his girlfriend where it was from, just that 'it better be worth it'. Both received money, a pay-off or a bribe."

  "Tyrone Anderson, large sum of money found on his person at the scene of his death. I wonder if Patrick O'Malley had any recent increase in wealth?" I reached for his file, but it wasn't complete. Cawfield and Simpson were still to follow up with a check on his home address when I left Central last night. Probably doing it right now. I did not want to phone Cawfield, so chose the senior officer on the case and dialled Pierce.

  "Keen, I bet you're still in your PJs," Pierce growled as soon as the call was answered.

  I glanced down at my worn jeans and faded classic Pink Floyd t-shirt, definitely not CIB approved wear.

  "No, but I do have my slippers on," I replied, making Damon look under the table to check. I wriggled my good toes at him - completely bare and fluffy slipper free.

  "I'm jealous," Pierce quipped. "Now tell me you've solved the case."

  "I wish," I muttered. "No, just checking on O'Malley's financial status. Did we find any large sums of money in his possession at all?"

  "Let me check."

  I heard him cover the phone and then muffled voices in the background. Something about Cawfield needing to hurry up and finish the damn report. Pierce came back on the line a moment later.

  "Things are not progressing as speedily as I am used to around here," he complained. Then in a lower, conspiratorial voice he added, "The sooner you're allowed back in here the bloody better. It's hard to get good help."

  Part of me was pleased to be appreciated. Another part was saddened to hear proof that I was on forced quasi-suspension after all.

  "Cawfield tells me that yes, several thousand dollars was found at O'Malley's home address in Penrose, as well as a couple of hundred in his locker at the Port. Totalled to four thousand seven hundred and fifty-seven. That what you're looking for?"

  "Yeah," I said heavily. "All four victims were in possession of large sums of cash when they died. We're querying a pay-off that the killer may well have been aware of."

  "A pay-off for what?"

  "That's the question, isn't it?"

  "And what makes you think the killer was aware?" Pierce asked.

  "OK," I said, placing the call on speaker-phone down on the table and standing up and walking to the whiteboard.

  I began writing all four names on the board at equidistant corners, Damon watching as I did so. I wrote as I talked, loud enough for Pierce to hear on the cellphone behind me.

  "Money on all the vics, for one," I said. "All four informants connected to me and Carl. Two of which I'd seen beforehand, one I'd attempted to touch base with and been shot at instead, the third I'd just been talking to minutes before. The gun from The Cloud is confirmed as fired from the third informant's hand, Tyrone Anderson. Fourth informant, O'Malley, used a chain to try to harm - let's say kill - me, and then was killed by that chain minutes later. The killer learned something at the first scene, enough to anger him and make him strike out with death. By the second scene he'd already organised for HEAT - specifically Investigator Michaels - to be involved; delivering the newspaper to Michaels' house knowing he'd see the picture of me inside and come running. This was two days before Withers' death. He chose car fire for Withers to draw HEAT in officially. Therefore the killer knew something, and that something he was aware of before Withers' death, and it ties in with me and the pay-off money in their possession."

  I stepped back and looked at all the notes I'd written on the board. How many repeated. How many linked back to me. How they all crossed over each other, interconnecting each murder, looking like a spider's web on the board where I'd meticulously drawn lines between each one in different colours to denote each piece of evidence.

  Pierce had remained quiet throughout, but spoke up now.

  "We can't be sure it's because of the money, but it is a good deduction to make. It certainly has something to do with you, though. Did Burgess, the first victim, behave differently when you met?"

  I sat back down at the table, leaving the phone on speaker for Damon to hear, and thought back to that night.

  "Not really," I said, finally. "He was jittery, but he'd been behaving that way for at least a week. It wasn't a sudden change."

  "Like O'Malley?" Pierce asked.

  "I can't say. O'Malley's not a regular contact for me. He was Carl's. I kept telling myself, when we were talking under the crane, that he was just jittery being seen with a cop. But maybe it was more than that. I must have failed to read the signs."

  "You didn't know him well enough," Damon offered, but thankfully didn't reach to comfort me physically. Even though Pierce was at the end of a phone call and not actually there to see, it was still too close to show that sort of tenderness. Or dependency.

  "I should have been more alert," I argued, staring at the cellphone, waiting for Pierce to remark.

  He didn't confirm or deny that I was right, he skipped over it completely. Which made me think he probably agreed, but didn't feel it necessary to punish me for my error right now.

  "OK," he said. "Let's say that between seeing you and getting killed something happened to Burgess. Maybe he received the cash and the killer observed."

  "Maybe he received the cash and the killer struck," Damon countered. "We've established the killer responded reflexively, anger making him kill for the first time. There'd be little delay in learning whatever has set him up on this course and completing the first kill."

  "The second part's true," I offered. "But Burgess wasn't found with the cash on his pers
on. He had time to get involved in the skater drug trade scene before his death. The cash came earlier."

  "Sleeper," Pierce offered.

  "What?" Damon asked, looking puzzled.

  "He'd already been hired," Pierce explained. "Didn't receive the go-ahead until that night. You said yourself, Keen, that his behaviour changed a week before. He'd already been contacted by the cash payer. We can assume then, that the others had been as well. Did you meet with any of them over the past week prior to their deaths?"

  "Only Burgess, the rest I met, for the first time in weeks, the night of their deaths."

  "This is more complicated than we first thought," Pierce commented.

  "And it had been pretty convoluted before," I offered.

  "You do realise what they probably have been hired to do?" he said carefully.

  I turned and stared at the whiteboard. Particularly at the last two deaths. Both of whom had tried to kill me.

  "Yeah," I replied softly. "I'm getting the picture. Burgess got the go-ahead the night the killer stepped up, but didn't have time to complete his task. Who knows when Withers' did, but he'd been reluctant from the start if his words to his girlfriend are to be considered. He might have been delaying, unwilling to see the job through. Anderson and O'Malley are the only two to have acted on their orders."

  Damon stared at me, head tilted to the side. "What have they been hired to do?" he asked, but the tone of his voice led me to believe he'd already joined the dots too.

  "Someone wants me dead and they've decided to use my informants to achieve it," I declared, silence my only answer. In the room and over the line. "Gotta ask who I've pissed off lately," I tried to quip, but the enormity of the situation was starting to hit.

  "Good question," Pierce finally said. "Wanna make a list?"