A Touch Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 2)

by Claire, Nicola

  Cawfield sighed and looked off into the distance.

  “I hear things. See things. I know things.”

  “God. Don’t go all Carl on me now.”

  He chuckled. It was surprisingly natural. As if he wasn’t a hairbreadth away from wearing my fist.

  I lowered my face into my hands. It matched my mood and the act I was still half using.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to go to Hart with this.”

  “So, you were warning me? By dropping off scuzzy photographic evidence in an unmarked envelope? There’s something seriously wrong with you, Cawfield.”

  “You bring out the worst in me.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I made the offer, you turned me down.”

  “God, you’re a creep.” I shook my head and looked out across the deserted street.

  “Where are you getting all this shit from?” I asked eventually.

  “I can’t reveal my source.”

  “So, you have a source?” I queried, looking up at him again. “This isn’t just something you’ve uncovered the old fashioned way?”

  “I’ve worked hard on this. I crossed my Ts before I came to you. I am giving you the heads up before it all hits the fan back at CIB. You can do without this shit. Your father’s involvement in the club will come out in Court. Your involvement with a murderous dom will ruin your reputation on station.”

  “You don’t give a fuck about my reputation,” I snapped back.

  He laughed. It lacked humour. “No, I don’t. But I can make this go a hell of a lot easier on you. Spread a few counter rumours. Let everyone know you’d been screwing him in order to help me solve this case.”

  “You are delusional.”

  “What’s it worth to you, Keen? Your reputation? Your standing with Hart? How far are you prepared to go to save it?”

  Those words, the same fucking words he’d said to Damon at the Irreverent Inferno. How far are you prepared to go?

  I shook my head.

  “How far have you gone to get this, Cawfield?” I said whisper quiet.

  “I’ve just been doing my job.”

  “Really? Because the way I see it, you’ve got a hard-on for Damon. He got the girl. So you’re gonna get him. Good and proper.”

  “You don’t know shit, Keen.”

  “So prove it. Who’s your source?”

  He shook his head, eyes flicking off to the side.

  “Someone at Sweet Hell?”

  Nothing.

  “Someone at the Irreverent Inferno?”

  His eyes snapped back to me.

  “What do you know about the Irreverent Inferno? We’re not investigating it.”

  I shrugged. “Saw the sign on the back of the building when we were questioning Kyan Marcroft about the murder across the street. Sounds like the type of place that would encourage riding crops and padded chains hanging from a roof.”

  He stared at me for a long moment and then said, voice devoid of emotion, “Carl always swore you had a sixth sense. A type of gut reaction to cases. Called bullshit on that a few times, but your close-rate was pretty fucking high.”

  “Is it someone in the Irreverent Inferno?” I repeated, holding his steady gaze.

  “I’m not revealing my source.” The words were spoken slowly and with purpose.

  “You know who this is?” I asked, tapping the photo he still held of Eagle.

  “One of your informants,” he said, lips twitching. “Heard he had a thing for your man. Didn’t believe it went both ways until tonight.”

  “Where did you hear it?”

  He smiled, it was snide and cocky. “Not telling,” he said, leaning forward slightly to deliver the words.

  “Will you tell Hart?”

  His smile slipped.

  “Anonymous sources are our prerogative.”

  “Not when it involves misleading evidence in a murder case.”

  “How is this misleading? The clues add up.”

  In a warped kind of way they did. I wasn’t sure of the time line exactly. But the circumstantial evidence was strong. No stronger than what we had though.

  “You’re being played,” I said, hitting the target with that one. I just knew it. “Is it a trusted source? One you’ve used before?”

  He looked at me, eyes searching, face impassive.

  “Yes or no, Cawfield. He or she come to you? Or you found them?”

  “What do you know?” he said quietly, and for a moment I saw the police detective. I saw him through the obnoxious arsehole and sleazy pervert. I saw the good cop I’d thought him to be. Arrogant and an utter bastard, but damn good at what he did.

  Was he the CIB traitor? Or the cog in someone else’s wheel?

  “Yes or no, Cawfield,” I whispered. “Do you trust this source?”

  “You are one fucked in the head, bitch,” he said, ruining all evidence that he was remotely decent.

  I shook my head, stood up off the ground, and dusted myself down.

  “And you’re a…”

  I didn’t get to finish that statement. In the next breath Cawfield’s house exploded.

  Chapter 23

  “When your emotions have been worn down to such a base level like this then it’s harder to think before you speak.”

  The sound was deafening and the percussive wave a hard thump against my chest. Then I was covered by Cawfield, his chest to my chest, his face and arms above my head, protecting me from flaming hot flying debris as it rained down around our ears.

  Sirens started blaring. His car. The neighbour’s house. Maybe even his fire alarm inside the broken, burned, destroyed shell of his home. Heat flared on one side of us, a vast stunned silence on the other. And then people were outside on the street, screaming, crying, yelling. And all I could see was the look of utter shock on Cawfield’s face above me and all I could feel was the way his body moulded around mine protecting me.

  This was not the act of a betrayer. This was the selfless act of a somewhat conscientious man caught off guard. It changed everything.

  And then he smiled, settled in a little further on top of me, and said, “Well, this was entirely unexpected.”

  Creep.

  I shoved him off and pushed up to a sitting position. His shirt was smoldering. I stared at the tiny tendrils of smoke as they twirled up into the sky, back-lit by yellow-orange flames licking up into the night.

  “You leave the gas on?” I asked, my head ringing, my balance a little shot, my throat dry making it difficult to talk without coughing.

  “I’m not on gas,” he said, patting absently at the smoke rising from his shoulder.

  My eyes scanned the neighbourhood. Half the people were in pyjamas, the rest in trackies and bare feet. They’d run out to see if anyone was hurt, not bothering to grab appropriate clothing. None of them stood out as an arsonist.

  I let a slow breath of air out on that thought, then pulled my cellphone out and called it in. Cawfield had risen to his feet, slightly steadier than me, and was looking at the devastation to his property. His police issue sedan was crushed under an entire side wall of his house. The lounge was exposed, blackened and still in flames. The chemical smell of plastic burning saturated the air.

  My skin felt like it might be blistering, so I grabbed hold of the back of Cawfield’s shirt and dragged him back across the street, closer to the neighbours. I watched as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling up the soot darkened blond strands.

  He looked in shock. Not even cataloguing the environment. Utterly stunned and, if I didn’t know any better, lost. I’d never seen Cawfield like this. I’d never seen Cawfield anything other than cocky.

  Sirens sounded out in the distance. Police and Fire. They have distinctive sounds. I could always tell them apart. One overlaid the other, twining together in discordant tones. They grew louder and louder the closer they came, until I realised we’d both been standing there, out in the open, easy targets for whoever had done this.


  I looked around warily, but no new faces had joined the crowd. Clearly we were both off our game though, so I raised my cellphone and shot off a series of images, taking in the still burning house, the crowd of onlookers, and a few more of the street, lined with parked cars.

  “Who would do this?” Cawfield said, but I got the feeling he was just speaking aloud.

  I let a long breath of air out and then promptly started coughing. By the time the first fire engine arrived I was doubled over and Cawfield was thumping my back.

  “Smoke inhalation, arsehole,” I managed, shrugging off his “help.”

  Police cars screamed into the road, beacons flashing, tyres squealing. Followed by three HEAT vehicles, one of which I recognised on sight.

  I stood up, taking an offered bottle of water from one of the Firies as they ran past, and took a sip as I watched Damon approach.

  His eyes scanned my body first, looking for injuries. Then my face, looking for a reason why I was here. With Cawfield. Outside his burning home.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, ignoring Cawfield altogether.

  “Bruises, flash burns, nothing serious.”

  “Get the medics to check you out.”

  I blinked. “I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “House blew up.”

  He raised an eyebrow and then turned to Cawfield at last.

  “You were outside?”

  “Obviously,” Cawfield growled.

  “Saw it happen?” Damon asked, glowering back.

  “Wasn’t looking at the house when it went up,” Cawfield said in a lazy tone of voice which told me what was coming.

  Damon either ignored it or didn’t know Cawfield well enough.

  “What were you looking at?”

  Cawfield smirked. “Keen’s tits.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes, but they stung too much from the grit that had been airborne. Besides, it only took Damon a split second to respond.

  His fist hit Cawfield square on the jaw and then they were tumbling. Arms swinging, shoulders connecting, elbows smacking, feet kicking. It was not pretty. I took a step towards them, intending to pull them apart, and the world suddenly twisted in a brightly coloured rainbow of psychedelic lights.

  And then I found myself sitting on the ground, ambulance blanket around my shoulders, head between my legs, as Marc Holland pressed a hand to the back of my neck and Ryan Pierce held both Cawfield and Damon separate by rigid outstretched arms.

  “You OK now?” Marc asked. I nodded my head and slowly looked across the ash covered street to Pierce. His chest was rising and falling too quickly, matching those of Cawfield and Damon. Sweat glistened on their faces; could have been from the heat of the fire, or from the exertion of the fight. Cawfield had a bloody nose, Damon had bloody knuckles, both wore more than a few cuts and bruises. Pierce even looked like he’d taken a fist to the cheek as well.

  “How long was I out?” I asked Marc.

  “Just a few minutes.”

  “They did all of that to each other in just a few minutes?”

  “They were both motivated,” came his unflappable reply.

  “What are you doing here, anyway? You’re Prevention.”

  “It was a bomb.”

  I lowered my head into my hands and just breathed.

  “The nature of the explosion led us to believe it was purposeful,” Marc went on to say. “Investigation scoured the scene and found evidence of a small man-made device. I was called in.”

  “A few minutes, huh?” I challenged. Marc smiled, showing off a dimple in his chin.

  “Maybe a bit more than that.”

  I tried to get to my feet, but Marc held me down with a hand to my shoulder.

  “Give it a bit longer, Keen.” I nodded and resettled on the grass.

  “So, a bomb,” I mused.

  “Won’t know much more until Damon’s team has finished their assessment and returned the evidence to our lab. But mine’s about to do a sweep and determine if there’s anything live in there still.”

  “A secondary device?”

  “Always a possibility.”

  I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, staring at a smoky sky. The house still smoldered and heat swept across the road in persistent waves, but the flames all appeared to be doused. I took one last look at a shrouded sky and then forced myself to my feet.

  Damon was before me by the time my vision had settled.

  “We need to talk,” he said levelly. No rechecking that I was all right. No explanation for beating the shit out of Cawfield. Nothing but a monotone voice.

  “OK,” I said, just as Pierce came up beside us.

  “Your thoughts, Keen?” he asked. “I’ve heard what Cawfield has to say, I want your take.”

  Damon’s jaw tensed, his back was rigid, but he didn’t say a word.

  I shook my head. It pounded.

  “It happened too quickly to have caught anything prior. The house blew up. The shock wave knocked us to the ground. Cawfield landed on top of me, covering my head and face with his arms.”

  Damon’s fists clenched and unclenched. Neither Pierce nor I missed the movement.

  “Any unusual smells or sounds beforehand?” Pierce asked.

  “Just whisky.”

  “Whisky?” both men said.

  I offered a smile. “Eau de parfum,” I explained. Pierce smiled. Damon just scowled.

  “He bought it?” Ryan asked, lowering his voice.

  “Hook, line and sinker.”

  “Who bought what?” Damon asked. Yes, we needed to have a talk.

  “Won’t give his source up,” I said to Pierce, saving confronting Damon until later. Putting off as much as I could right now.

  “But he definitely has one?” Pierce queried.

  “Yep. And my gut says he’s being played.”

  “Are you sure? That’s quite a turn-around,” Pierce pointed out.

  I shrugged, looking over at Cawfield as he talked to Flack, second in command to Damon’s HEAT Investigation team.

  “I’m getting mixed signals from him.” Damon shifted on his feet. I could practically feel his eyes boring into me. “He has no idea we’ve been watching the Irreverent Inferno. No idea we knew what happened tonight.” Damon stilled, all motion ceased. “And is determined to nail this thing on Damon.”

  “Excuse me?” Damon asked. And maybe there were better ways to “talk” about this. But it was getting complicated. Multiple suspects. No hard evidence. And now a bomb at Cawfield’s house, while I was there, dealing with tip-offs Joe had been receiving that looked like a frame-up of my boyfriend.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I said, wanting to pace, knowing if I took a step away, I’d probably fall over.

  “Talk us through it,” Pierce encouraged.

  I felt sick. Exhausted. Hungry because I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Nauseated because this was getting lethally dangerous now. One person murdered. Another assaulted to within an inch of his life. And now an explosion in a police detective’s home.

  I’d almost been killed tonight.

  I swayed, I think. I’m unsure. But the next thing I knew Damon had me in his arms and was walking fast towards the back of a waiting ambulance. I struggled when my wits returned. Feeling mortified to be held like a baby in amongst a plethora of my colleagues and peers. But his arms were bands of steel and his face was set hard. And underlying it all his eyes looked terrified.

  I let a breath of frustrated air out and stopped fighting his determined hold. He lay me down on a stretcher, said, “Out!” to the paramedic inside, and then slammed the doors in Pierce’s face.

  Ryan thumped a hand on the rear window, but Damon ignored him. Settling himself onto the stretcher opposite mine and running a hand over his head.

  Silence spread out between us. Filled with so many unsaid words.

  He looked as bad as I felt. Worn out. Bone tired. Lost.

  “What the hell is going on?” he whispered.
His head shook, his hands - those knuckles bleeding slightly - fisted. His jaw was hard as granite. “I can’t get anything out of that disgusting, vile place they call a club. I can’t find my sister. Nothing makes sense and now you almost got killed.” His eyes finally found mine. They were haunted. “Should I assume Carole is already gone?”

  Carole. It was always Carole. Even now when he was being set-up for a murder he didn’t commit, when his girlfriend had just escaped death at an explosion, his first thought was of his sister.

  “I don’t know,” I finally said, because I didn’t know anything anymore. I didn’t know where we stood. I didn’t know where the case stood. And I sure as fuck didn’t know jack shit about his bloody sister.

  I wanted to sleep for a week and pretend none of this was happening.

  I wanted to rewind the clock to before Friday morning and never let Damon out of my bed that day.

  I wanted Carl back.

  I wanted a childhood that hadn’t been so fucking lonely.

  I wanted a fairytale and fairytales don’t exist.

  But in none of it did I want Carole Michaels back in her brother’s life so she could fuck with it.

  God, there was something wrong with me.

  “Cawfield has a snitch,” I said into the strained silence. “He’s been feeding him information about you.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  I stared at the back door, at Pierce’s shape outlined in flashing red and blue lights on the other side of the tinted window. He was either guarding us, or waiting until we let him in.

  As he wasn’t a particularly patient kind of guy, I was going with guarding. Which meant he suspected someone was here who wanted access to Damon. Which meant Pierce was taking this set-up seriously.

  And how could he not? What with Cawfield’s house blasted to smithereens.

  I blinked. The dots connecting, but still missing big gaps. How did this tie in with Samantha Hayes?

  “Lara?” Damon called, drawing my attention back to the ambulance. “What’s going on?”

  “What time did you leave my place on Friday morning?”

  “The day of the Sky Tower climb?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Four o’clock. Why?”

  I let a slow breath of air out.

  “Did you go straight to the station?”