"So loosen up. It's fifty for my fingers and a hundred for a quick fuck. Or y'could watch me wank for ten."
"Right here, huh?" I asked, making a point of looking around the dirty, urine smelling alleyway we were in.
"Y'want it rough, Keen. Get down and dirty, let yourself go." Then he had a thought, his eyes shining with mirth and sudden interest. "But, word is, ya more into the club scene now days. How's that workin' for ya? Found a daddy yet?"
I forced myself not to show a reaction, just a slow blink of my eyes and a calculated, and hopefully casual, shrug of my shoulders. "Broadening my horizons, Eagle. Girl's gotta have some fun. But tell me, how'd you hear about my extra circular activities?"
He stubbed out the unfinished cigarette and thrust his hands into his pocket.
"Gonna cost ya."
"I'm here, aren't I?" I pointed out. "I thought we had an understanding, you and me? Has that changed?"
He shook his head, looking every inch the young boy, and no longer the confident, sassy street urchin turning tricks for a few bucks each night.
"Rooster spotted y'at Zero s'other night. Y'stood out. Wanna know why?"
I'd play. Eagle and I did have an understanding. For all his misguided faults, I trusted his instincts. "Why?"
"Y'were alone. If ya lookin' into those places, don't go alone, Detective. Get a daddy."
I nodded slowly. I'd been beginning to think that was a prerequisite to the back rooms, and considering I was currently partner-less, it had meant not a single door had been opened for me the few times I'd delved into the underground club scene. As it now wasn't my only open case, partnering up was becoming a necessity for more than just one reason. I allowed myself a moment to picture Ryan Pierce as my 'daddy' as Eagle liked to call them. Ryan was gorgeous, no denying that, but acting like he was my protector and the be-all-and-end-all of my sexual fantasies and desires was going to take some doing.
And I was well aware of how convincing our act would have to be to open the types of doors I needed opening.
"Who else has noticed?" I asked, pushing those more distant concerns away and concentrating on the most pressing.
"No one that I heard. Y'known on the streets, Keen, but ya not that well known. Carl made a name for himself, so far y'still standin' in his shadow."
I dreamt of Carl every single night. I thought of countless things he'd said to me over the years several times each day. But always, always, when someone else brought my ex-partner's name up in conversation the cut was as though delivered by a knife.
It hurt. I missed him. I'd still had so much to learn before he'd left.
"Can you do something for me?" I asked, pushing more and more emotional baggage further and further down inside.
"Depends." Usual Eagle comeback. "Time, risk and price."
"Indefinite for now. Manageable. And two hundred bucks."
He snorted. "One week. It better be fuckin' easy. And half a grand."
My turn to laugh out loud.
"Two. It is. And two-fifty is the best you'll get."
He scowled, but then rolled his hand in a come-on motion. As good as a handshake. I nodded back. Deal made.
"Cover for me, any word of what I'm doing in those clubs needs to be cut-off before it escalates. Make sure Rooster knows it's my new thing."
Another snort.
"I'm letting go, Eagle. Isn't that what you said I should do? Getting down and dirty."
"You're a cop," he pointed out unnecessarily.
"I'm also a woman."
His eyes travelled the length of me in a lascivious and experienced way a young boy just shouldn't have.
"Yeah, you are, Keen. You are."
I ignored him. "So, you'll do it?"
He held his hand out for the cash. I counted out two-hundred-and-fifty dollars in fifty dollar notes. He pocketed them with the John's cash from earlier, hopefully making this the end of his night.
But it wasn't the end of why I was here. One problem solved, the more dangerous one left to deal with.
"We done?" he asked, peeling himself off the grime stained wall.
"One last thing," I said quietly, unable to hide the gravity of what I was about to say. I liked Eagle. He may not have led the sort of life I would have wanted a brother - had I had one - to lead, but I couldn't help wanting to look out for him.
"Watch yourself, OK?"
He gave me an incredulous glare.
"Tell the others," I added, holding his gaze with a determined one of my own.
He stilled.
"What the fuckya know now, Keen?"
I shook my head. "Too early to tell, but it's enough to know I'm concerned."
"For us?"
"For all of you."
His face tipped down on those last words, aware of exactly who I meant. Not just my group of informants, the ones Eagle headed up out on the streets. But those I'd inherited as well. Of Carl's.
"Ah, shit," he muttered. "I gots some place I gotta be."
I watched him saunter off down the alley back towards Karangahape Road and the colours of the red light district. I scrubbed my face with two hands, willed myself to stay awake and alert a little longer, and turned back towards where I'd parked my car.
The sounds of late night clubs winding down thudded through my veins, pulsed in my head. Stepping over the legs of those too drunk and wasted to move further than the pavement outside their favourite nightclubs, I avoided the larger groups of boisterous young uni students and tourists, and slipped between the throng.
Laughter and singing joined in with the odd argument and drunken declaration of love, but I was immune to it all. Sweaty bodies, unstable gaits, the smell of beer and spirits mixing with the pungent odour of vomit in the gutter. Friday night, or more precisely Saturday morning, in the City Of Sails' most popular clubbing street was not for the faint of heart.
An ambulance screamed past, beacons flashing, siren wailing. A uniformed cop car trailed behind in silence, the red and blue flickering strobe lights on top the only indication it was responding to the same incident. Probably an assault, fevers were high for this late in winter. I couldn't help thinking that whatever ominous cloud was approaching, was affecting the public out and about tonight.
I could feel the darkness getting closer and the burned out car under the Harbour Bridge on Curran Street was the first sign that it was all about to go to hell. I needed to confirm who the victim was. I needed answers I didn't want to face, before I accepted that this was truly happening. That this meant what I thought it meant.
I slipped into my car and headed towards the morgue at Auckland City Hospital. No time like the present to mess with the chief pathologist's head.
Five-fifteen in the morning on a Saturday and security checks at the Auckland City Hospital Mortuary were as stringent as the middle of the day. Simply flashing my badge at the guard on duty wasn't enough to get me behind the safety screens, it wasn't until he studied it for a good few minutes and phoned the Central Police Station to confirm my credentials, that he finally let me through the door.
I was impressed and pissed off in equal measure.
"Is McIntyre on?" I asked the guard once I'd made it to the inner sanctum, or as the sign above the internal door - unseen by the public, I was sure - said, dead centre of town.
"Yeah, came in for that burns victim," he confirmed, making me think at least one thing was going right tonight.
Liam McIntyre was the head pathologist at the morgue and one hell of a switched on guy. If my message wasn't found at the scene, he'd find it on the body. And as I hadn't heard back from either HEAT or Pierce, I was guessing no news was in fact bad news on that front.
Processing a scene like that one would take forensics hours, there was still a chance they'd come up with something once they shipped everything back to their labs. But I didn't have time to wait for one avenue to offer up the answers, I had to make sure I covered all my bases on this one.
Lives of people I actuall
y knew were at stake.
I pushed into the main viewing area above the autopsy room to see if McIntyre was alone before I barged on in there. I did have some restraint left it seemed.
I wished I didn't, because then I wouldn't have had to watch HEAT Investigator Damon Michaels assisting Dr Liam McIntyre as the pathologist went over the corpse with a fine tooth comb, and had time to digest the fact before I faced them both.
Michaels had every reason to be here, as much as I. Fire investigation involved victims as par for the course. Not every arson event focused on property alone, more than their share had human victims. Michaels would be well versed with following his investigations to the autopsy room of the morgue.
The fact that he'd beaten me here was what made that truth taste bitter.
Was I slipping? Was I in danger of being shown up by the arrogant arse?
Not happening.
I moved swiftly down the stairs that led back into the main hall off the exam room and pushed my way inside without offering up a knock. Both men stopped what they were doing immediately and stood upright to look accusingly at me from across the uncovered body of the victim on the table.
I almost apologised for being late, but swallowed that down with the sarcastic statement on the tip of my tongue about interrupting their shared moment, and offered a forced smile instead, with a simple, "Good morning, gentlemen. What have you found?"
"Detective Keen. So nice of you to join us," McIntyre replied, returning his bespectacled attention to the charred remains in front of him. "I was just asking Investigator Michaels if you had called it a night already."
"When have I ever let you down, Doc?" I quipped. "And don't mention the watermelon case."
That received a snort from behind his mask and a softening of his stance. Exactly what I'd been aiming for of course, and it wouldn't have gotten past McIntyre.
"Watermelon case?" Michaels queried. He wasn't wearing a mask, but standing back from the stench rising off the table by at least a foot.
I walked past both men and retrieved the tub of Vaseline from the shelf by the computer, rubbing a good dollop beneath my nostrils and removing at least some of the nasty smells from the room. Damon watched me with interest, but declined when I offered him the tub to use as well.
"Detective Keen offered to assist me in a re-enactment of a possible death by watermelon case she was working on," McIntyre commented. "Suffice it to say, I will never ask for her assistance in such matters again."
"It wasn't entirely my fault that watermelon hit you instead of the dummy. You moved at the last second," I pointed out.
"My dear," McIntyre said, standing up from his lean over the victim to stare me in the eyes. "If your reflexes are that slow, I pity anyone relying on your quick draw for their safety. I moved, you sucked in a breath of air, and then you threw the blasted melon at my head."
"I thought you were the dummy," I muttered, unable to stop the curve of my lips at the retelling of McIntyre's favourite tale.
Black humour. A cop's best friend.
I looked down at the victim on the table and all levity left me. The room took on the weight of my emotions. McIntyre and Michaels both ceasing the inane topic as well and instead offering their own moment of silence for the fallen.
"Thirty three years old," McIntyre said softly. "Male, as you know. Caucasian. Lived a hard life from what I can tell. No soft tissue to assess, but multiple old fractures, some more recent than others. Femur when he was young, right wrist at some adolescent age, and a recovering fracture of his right radius and ulnar. Evidence suggests he was wearing a cast at the time of his death."
"Three weeks," I said, staring down at the remains of Thomas - Tommy - Withers. But not many people knew his surname, only me and Carl, that I was aware.
And he'd had a fractured right lower arm for three weeks when I last saw him alive.
I'd inherited Tommy when Carl left. He'd been one of Carl's favourite informants. A drifter, living on the streets from the time he ran away from home at the age of fourteen, having suffered multiple fractures from an abusive father. Carl had arrested Robert Arthur Withers and sent him to prison eight years ago. Tommy refused to give evidence, but Carl was a tenacious cop.
Tommy told me, after Carl left, that he felt safe for the first time ever in his life. It was the only time he opened up personally to me, and it was because he was mourning my partner as well. Eight years of peace he'd had, until last night.
Did he know his time was near when I spoke to him on Curran Street under the Harbour Bridge last night? Did I miss something in his behaviour? Could I have seen this eventuality and not recognised the warning because I was too tired to think straight?
I ran a hand over my face and realised I was being watched by both men who had remained silent after I'd spoken. No doubt aware I was walking down memory lane and needed to do it alone. But not now. I was back and staring at compassionate aged blue eyes in Liam McIntyre and suspicious, wary brown eyes in Damon Michaels.
"You knew the victim," Michaels stated.
I didn't offer up any kind of response, verbal or silent.
"You knew who he was back at the scene as well," he added, and I lifted my chin to look him in the eyes.
His were accusatory now.
"Is there a reason why you kept that information to yourself, Detective?" he asked.
I held his intent gaze a few seconds longer then turned to the doctor. "Anything else I need to know?"
"No, dear," McIntyre replied carefully. "But you'll be the first to get my report when it's done."
Damon stiffened, turning to face the pathologist and no doubt insist he get the report before me, due to his clear assumption that I was behind the eight ball on this one.
I was, but McIntyre wasn't letting a HEAT investigator outrank a seasoned police detective.
"You'll be the first, Detective Keen. Now, go get some breakfast, you need to eat more."
I huffed out a breath, thankful for the doctor's distraction.
"Is that your medical opinion?" I asked, heading towards the door.
"If you pass out from lack of nutrition who will I have to banter with in the middle of the night?" he replied, dismissing me with a wave of his hand and the recommencement of his recording device hanging around his neck.
I smiled to myself despite the heavy revelations our meeting had just uncovered and decided it was best if I took the doctor's advice on the way to the station.
I'd need all my faculties about me when I faced my boss.
Chapter Three
"Two does not a serial killer make."
I hadn't considered I'd be walking into a battlefield and be facing more than Detective Inspector Hart.
Breakfast seemed inadequate when I finally strolled into the station at seven-thirty and was immediately advised that the Inspector was waiting for me in his office.
And that he was in a foul mood.
Surreptitious looks from various on station detectives around the open plan room only added to the impending sensation of doom. Inspector David Hart was a tough old bugger. He'd had the utmost respect for Carl, but then Carl had been in this division for fifteen years. He was a veteran, much like the Inspector.
I was the young daughter of a prominent South Auckland Police Inspector with something to prove. It wasn't so much that I was female, but God knows that did play a part in the old boy network of policing. It was more to do, though, with the fact that I hadn't proven myself yet. According to Detective Inspector David Hart.
If Carl cajoled me to improve my detection skills, Hart browbeat me instead. The man was a dog with a bone when he got an idea in his head. And lately he'd been doing a hell of a lot of snarling and snapping in my direction.
But then, lately I'd been stealing his bones.
I didn't knock on the door, he was expecting me, if the pitying looks from various guys around the room would attest. So, I just pushed the door open and strode on in, chin up, benign smile on m
y face, hands held loosely at my side. I was ready for anything the Inspector chose to throw at me.
Except that.
"Keen! Where the fuck have you been? We've been waiting half an hour for you to get your arse in here."
My eyes skipped over the imposing frame of Inspector Hart, his neatly slicked back greying hair, crisply pressed shirt and tie letting me know he'd started the day on the right side of the bed. Had the tie been missing - or even crooked - we were in for a whole hell of a lot of trouble. Reassured that Hart wasn't going to slice and dice me right there and then, I turned my attention to the real threat in the room.
Damon Michaels. Now why the hell would he be here?
"Sir," I said, nodding towards Hart. "Michaels," I added, because it was expected.
"Investigator Michaels has been advising me of the body in the car on Curran Street," Hart explained in a patient voice dripping with anger. "Why have I not heard about this from you?"
I purposely looked at my watch. Four hours had passed since Pierce called me in for the case. Four miserable, cold, middle of the night hours.
Hart was testing me. I was sick and tired of the tests.
"You were my first stop when I arrived, sir," I said pleasantly. "I didn't come directly here from the scene."
"No. From what I heard you made an appearance at the morgue, at the same time Michaels did. Yet he's been here for over an hour. Waiting."
"Investigator Michaels has one case, sir. I was following up on the underground club case, while I checked on a few things with one of my contacts pertaining to this case." I hated explaining myself. I hated more doing so in front of Michaels.
"Actually I have five cases on at the moment, Detective Keen." I couldn't shoot Damon, so I just offered a cold stare instead.
"Would you like to discuss the case now, sir?" I asked the Inspector.
"Cut the polite crap, Keen," Hart growled.
"Yes, no need to put on a show for me," Michaels added, from his leaning position against the far wall.
Hart was the only one sitting. I hadn't bothered, too riled with the reception to show that kind of devil may care attitude. Why Michaels was still standing, I had no idea. But he loomed in the corner of the Inspector's office, silently sucking out all the available air.
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