Damon made a choking sound and turned away. His coffee cup sat half empty on the bench. I could tell his arms were crossed over his chest, even though his back was to us.
I pressed on. This wasn’t enjoyable, but necessary. I had a murderer to find. An arsonist to track down. And, God willing, a missing woman to locate. I wasn’t convinced Carole was still tied up in Sweet Hell. But if Eagle had been lured there, then there was no telling what a barely reformed sex and drug addict would do.
“And the others?” Flack asked, his eyes on Damon and not me.
He knew too. That we had to do this. Work it out. But he was also worried about his friend.
“Greed, essentially because he chose to accept the offer of claiming that corner. Putting himself before any other initiate. Anger in the action of whipping someone, or in having to perform in such a way, at all. Heresy, carrying out an act that is not considered Christian.”
“And that act?” Flack pressed, when Damon just lowered his head and stared at the ground.
“Adultery,” I whispered.
“How is what Damon did considered adultery?”
“We’re not married, but we’re also not in an open relationship.”
“It looked like he cheated on you,” Flack said, astounded.
“To Cawfield and his informant, yes.”
“But you guys had broken up,” Flack argued.
Damon did turn at that, the brown of his eyes darkening.
“I passed the lust circle test with Lara.”
“Oh,” Flack said softly.
“Broken up or not, it would have been clear to Nathaniel Marcroft that we still had deep feelings for each other.” My hands had fisted, my words were clipped. I was breathing too fast.
“I’m sorry,” Damon mouthed from across the room.
I nodded, forcibly relaxed my fingers, and sucked in a deep breath, holding it for the count of three.
“I think we can safely say that cheating on your girlfriend at a sex club type scene is not a Christian act,” I said after a few long seconds, where both men ignored the fact that I was battling my own demons. “Therefore that just leaves violence. And I don’t think we need to explain how whipping someone, even for sexual gratification, can be construed as anything but a form of violence.”
“Holy shit,” Flack said. “So, Damon’s made it to the eighth circle of Hell.”
“I’m not going back,” Damon suddenly said.
I cocked my head and took a good look at him. He was serious. Doing what he’d had to do to Eagle had been too much.
“What about Carole?” I asked.
He adamantly shook his head.
“You can’t say my sister is not connected to Sweet Hell and then use her as lure to get me to be your undercover agent.”
“I didn’t say there was no connection,” I pointed out carefully. “I just said there was no obvious or official one.” I paused, then added, “We could still find out where she went after her Sweet Hell visit last weekend.”
“At the Irreverent Inferno?”
“You said it yourself,” I offered quietly, “Carole would have been drawn to a place like that.”
“Once upon a time,” he whispered back.
“Look,” I said, glancing down at my watch and then stilling.
“Look what?” Damon pressed.
“Is that the time?”
“Eleven-forty by me,” Flack helpfully supplied.
“Damn it. I’ve got to get a move on.”
“What about the Grand Master?” Damon asked. “You figured something out about Samantha Hayes just now. And it had to do with the Grand Master. What was it?”
I lifted my head from rummaging around in my handbag for my cellphone. I pulled the device out, dialling, as I said, “Death is the ultimate betrayal. Treachery. She knew her murderer. She trusted him.”
“The ninth circle of Hell,” Damon murmured, his face whitening. “Not erotic asphyxiation gone too far.”
“It was purposeful,” Flack agreed.
I placed my cellphone to my ear and listened to my father’s voice-mail message. Just over an hour until the banquet started. He’d already be dressed, probably on his way to pick up his date. I was so fucking screwed.
Hart was going to kill me.
I pocketed my phone and looked across the room to Damon.
“The Emergency Services banquet at the Town Hall,” I said.
He frowned. “Is that today?”
“Were you going to go?”
“No, Marc is, on my behalf. I can’t be bothered with that crap half the time. And you sure as hell don’t like attending those things.”
I laughed. It sounded a little crazy.
“Phone him,” I said. “Beg, steal, bribe. I don’t care. But we have to go.”
“We do?” he said, already pulling his cellphone out of his jacket pocket. I loved that about Damon; when he saw I was on a mission, he paved the way with gold. Didn’t even hesitate.
“The Marcrofts are going to be there,” I offered, as I waved good-bye to Flack and started for the door. Damon was on my heels. “And David Gordon with his submissive wife. Not to mention HEAT representation that ordinarily would have included you, if you didn’t have an anti-social girlfriend, that is.”
Damon chuckled behind me, then held open the door to the carpark by stretching his arm out over my head. I could smell his cologne. I wanted to turn into him and not cross the threshold. But then I noticed he hadn’t correct me either. So, I moved on.
“And,” I added, when I came abreast of my sedan, “I have a feeling that whoever is behind this will be unable to ignore the lure.”
“Why?” Damon asked, his cellphone already to his ear.
“Because my father will be there as well.”
“Hold on,” he said into the phone. “Just a minute.” He lowered it. “And that’s relevant because?”
“Because I haven’t been to a meal with him for over six years, and if all four suspects for the murder case are at this banquet, then I have be. And for me, that’s my kind of Hell.”
Damon stared at me.
“You’re saying the murderer is personally interested in you?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t sure what I was saying.
HEAT arsonist. Carole Michaels dragged into Sweet Hell. Damon forced to follow into the Irreverent Inferno looking for her.
Our relationship facing the greatest test of all.
“Not me,” I said. “You. And if I’m in Hell, you’ll be right there with me, too.”
Chapter 26
“Time’s marching, you better pick up the pace.”
The murderer was the HEAT arsonist, I was sure. I just needed to prove it.
The fact that I didn’t have an identity, as such, was a definite disadvantage. But the dots connected. Including why Eagle was lured in. Why Cawfield was chosen as the recipient of the tip-offs. All because of my connection to Damon Michaels. All because the murderer/arsonist knew that I would follow the clues, dragging Damon with me. Putting us at odds.
I just couldn’t quite fit in the Boardman Lane assault, unless it was just to escalate the evidence against Damon, choosing a method he’d already succumbed to: Bloodying his knuckles. But that didn’t ring true. Not enough, anyway. It was the thorn in the side of my theory.
I had to work to get it out.
Damon was picking me up in half an hour, having to swing by Pitt Street and grab the invitation from Marc, and then get himself dressed up appropriately for a black tie event. Thankfully traffic was light. I was still tearing down side streets, though, and even considered using my lights and sirens to cross major intersections, as I raced towards my house trying to picture what I had in my wardrobe.
Fashion and I don’t mix, but I was sure I had something I’d worn more than six years ago that would suit. Back when my father insisted I attend these sorts of things. It would have to do.
I pulled into my driveway like a madwoman racing an
d was out of my car before I realised I was not alone. My cellphone started ringing in my pocket as I came to an abrupt halt on my front path. My breaths stalled. All the blood rushed from my head. I wanted to puke.
“Hello, Sport,” Carl said conversationally, standing up from my front steps and sweeping his eyes over my frame. He looked OK. Not good, but OK. Clean clothes, cleanly shaved. He’d lost some weight; probably had needed to, but this looked harried, not controlled. His shoulders slouched slightly; an unconscious stance that said more than his cared for clothing ever could. Who had been feeding him? Housing him? Watching out for him? Where had he been? “Caught you in a bit of a hurry, I see. This won’t take long,” he added.
My cellphone stopped ringing, the call diverting to voice-mail, no doubt. Silence echoed in my little suburban street.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, but my words were mere whispers on the wind.
“You got a bullseye,” he said in his gruff and familiar voice, ignoring the waver in my tone completely. “Right on your forehead, Keen. It’s getting larger and larger the longer it takes you to get this.”
“Get what?”
“Everything.” Carl wasn’t the same. I’d known this the moment I’d realised he’d been killing his former informants off one by one, culminating in the great staged hanging that was the Crown Prosecutor. He’d been cleaning up the streets. Protecting me from a hit Simon Kahui had ordered. A hit carried out by Carl’s former informants. Now deceased.
I had a thought. A not altogether pleasant one. It certainly would throw a spanner in the works regarding my theory, that was for sure.
“Did you kill Samantha Hayes?” I asked, my right hand unbuttoning my jacket, making access to my gun in its shoulder holster easier to gain.
Carl tracked the movement like a hungry hawk eyeing an ignorant rodent. I’d not always been so far beneath his disdain.
“You’re not getting it, Sport,” he said, shaking his head with obvious disappointment. “The world doesn’t revolve around just you.”
Well, that was putting it bluntly.
“Do you know who did it, then?”
“Knowledge is a powerful thing,” he said, as I heard the distinct sound of Damon’s HEAT truck turn into the street. “I know it’s not just about revenge. I know it’s not just about evading capture. I know it’s not just about the nine circles of Hell.”
Damon’s car pulled up to the curb behind us. I heard him get out of the truck and carefully close his door. I held a hand up, to the side and behind me, telling him to stay where he was. To not come any closer. Carl was a loose cannon. A loose cannon that was misfiring.
Carl’s eyes lifted over my head; he must have been looking at Damon. I wasn’t going to turn around, place my back to my old partner. I’d keep him firmly in my sights.
“Then what is it about?” I asked.
He chuckled. A sound so familiar and heartbreaking at the same time.
“You need to take care, Sport,” he said softly. I didn’t relax my rigid frame at his concerned tone of voice. “What is it I used to say?”
Jesus, that was an open ended question. What didn’t he say?
“‘If it’s not one, it’s the other. And if it’s not the other, it’s something else.’”
And then he smiled, as if he hadn’t just given me a shitload of cryptic nothing, and reached up to tip an imaginary hat at Damon. Then he started to walk off.
I took a step toward him. His shoulders stiffened. Just a little, just enough for me to tell he was unsure of what I would do next. My hand went for my gun. He didn’t stop walking; out the front gate, passed a silently watching Damon, and off down the cracked concrete sidewalk.
I turned enough to follow his progress. My heart pounding. My throat dry. My chest so tight it hurt.
What was I doing? Letting him walk away?
My hand shook when I pulled my gun. Ridiculous.
I licked my lips and opened my mouth, but no words came out.
I watched my former police detective partner stroll down my street and out of sight. My knuckles were white when I looked down at my trembling hands as they gripped my service weapon. My breathing was so fast I was starting to get tingles around my lips. I sucked in a breath and held it, the empty street taunting me, accusing me, chastising me. My hands lowered, the gun pointing towards the path, and then my head was down and I was crouching; a silent scream reverberating inside my skull.
I couldn’t do it.
For the second time in just a few short weeks I let a murderer go.
I couldn’t do it.
And if I couldn’t do that, then what could I do?
I was a cop. It was my job. My life. And I couldn’t do it.
“Lara, love,” Damon said beside me. He was crouching too.
“I let him go,” I whispered. “Again.”
What was wrong with me?
“I let him go.”
“I know you did,” Damon said softly. Nothing else, just agreement. Confirmation that I had failed at my job.
Again.
“Put your gun away,” Damon instructed. I struggled to follow the command. “Let’s get you inside,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around my waist and hauling me to my feet.
The world spun, but not because I was lightheaded. It spun because it was out of control.
Damon used my key to unlock the door. I entered the alarm code automatically, my mind twisting and turning and making no sense at all. If I didn’t know who I was, how could I know who the bad guys were? Clarity seemed a million miles away.
“What are wearing to this thing?” Damon asked, guiding me to my bedroom and depositing me on my bed. “It says black tie, but for a luncheon banquet it’s always a little more relaxed. I mean,” he went on, as though talking about banal dress codes would somehow erase what had just happened out on the small patch of grass in front of my home. “I could have bucked tradition and worn a lounge suit or even a business suit. As opposed to a dinner suit with black tie.”
Sometimes I forgot that Damon came from old money.
“You, on the other hand,” he went on, “could get away with any style of dress you desired. Spice things up a bit.”
“For luncheon?” I asked, eyebrow raised.
“Absolutely,” he shot back, rummaging through my wardrobe. “Of course,” he said after a few minutes of coming up with nothing, “it does help if you actually own a dress.”
I got up off the bed and wandered out into the hall, making my way to my spare bedroom. I could hear Damon’s soft footfalls on my wooden floorboards behind me. I swung open my second, more neglected, wardrobe and scanned the plastic wrapped dresses on offer.
Eenie meenie miney mo. “This one will do,” I announced, reaching forward and grabbing one of six identical white clothing bags.
I turned to find Damon watching me, arms crossed over expensive, made-to-measure dinner suit - with black bow tie - a small smile playing on his mesmerising lips.
“Your father?” he guessed. I nodded. “How long since you unpacked them?”
“They were professionally laundered and packaged.” I shrugged my shoulders, lying the garment bag on the bed and reaching down to unzip it. “It shouldn’t be too moth eaten.”
A chuckle sounded out as Damon leaned back against a set of drawers to watch.
It was the blue one. I’d forgotten about it. Sleeveless fitted bodice, bias cut skirt which flowed around my ankles when I moved. If I’d been a girlie girl it would have been my favourite. It shimmered and shone like a calm lake on a crisp winter’s morning. Instead I frowned at the dress and wondered where I was going to hang my badge and hide my gun.
Damon whistled when I lifted it out of the bag. It looked in excellent order. I’d worn it exactly once. It might not be in the correct fashion colour for the season, but it still looked beautiful. And if I knew my father, it would have dented his retirement fund significantly at the time.
“How old is it?” Damon as
ked, coming up to stand at my shoulder and peer down at the dress.
“It’s just a dress,” I argued. His head shook.
“I’m trying to figure out when in your relationship your father purchased this for you. I’m trying to understand how you could go from this to nothing for six whole years.”
I dropped the dress, letting it fall unceremoniously into a heap of luxuriant material on the bedspread.
“It’s just a dress,” I repeated, fisted hands on hips as I glared at him.
“Why do you do that?” he asked softly. “Why do you shut down when we talk about your dad?”
“Have you met my dad?”
“No.”
“Then hold that thought until we get there. I’ll introduce you.”
“But Lara…” I held up a hand for him to stop.
And when it looked like he wasn’t going to, I started to undress.
That shut him up pretty fucking fast.
I managed to get down to my cotton underwear when I realised I had a problem. I’d have to go without a bra. The fitted bodice would work quite well on its own, but going bra-less was not something I encouraged. At all. I stared at the bodice and then stared down at my still bra encased breasts.
God, had I grown? How old was this dress?
“Problem?” Damon asked cheerfully.
“I don’t know if it will fit,” I admitted.
Damon smiled. It was deliciously sexy, hinting at so many naughty, devious things.
“Shall we at least try?” he asked. “Time’s marching.” An old Carlism. Time’s marching, you better pick up the pace.
And it was. Not just the banquet, but the whole case. Carole Michaels disappeared over ten days ago. Samantha Hayes was murdered on Friday morning. The Boardman Lane assault had occurred just yesterday. Three seemingly separate crimes. Were they connected? And if so, what was going to come next?
Time was marching. Not because murder cases were usually solved within a few short hours. But because murder, missing persons, and an assault all within a few days of each other signified a larger picture. A larger crime. I had a bad feeling this wasn’t the end.
A Touch Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 2) Page 24