"Have you ever been invited?" I asked, unwillingly holding my breath while I waited for him to reply.
"Yes," he said, watching my face carefully for a reaction.
For a second I wasn't sure how to take that, then the cop stepped forward and started to plan.
"Could you get another invitation?"
"Yes," he said more slowly than last time, his voice lowering slightly. "What are you concerned about? Sex clubs aren't illegal."
No, they weren't.
But... "You sound a tad defensive there, Investigator. Something to hide?"
"Sweetheart, I'm an open book," he shot back to deflect. "What's happening at Zero that involves CIB?"
"Roofies. Rohypnol. DFSA."
"Drug Facilitated Sexual Assault. Not entirely uncommon in any bar scene in Auckland city, I should think. What's that you're told as a teenager? Never take your eyes off your drink?"
"Yeah, well this one's more insidious. The predator is not your average date rape enthusiast. We have reason to believe the benzos are placed in the product before they are opened."
"The manufacturer?"
"All checked out clean. If it's happening, it's happening after market, but pre-shelving at the clubs."
"That sounds like an extremely involved and committed undertaking. Why are you the only detective on the case?"
"Because at this stage, it's all hearsay. We don't even know if what we've been told is legit. Can't waste good taxpayers' money on a wild goose chase. Just one lowly paid cop."
"And somehow this has something to do with your informants' deaths?"
"That's the question, isn't it? For now it's the only lead I've got."
"No other connections?" Michaels pushed, as I parallel parked the car outside a café down on the waterfront.
"They were both Carl's as well." The car interior sounded too silent after I switched the engine off.
"I'm sorry about your partner," Michaels said softly.
"Shit happens," I spat as I wrenched the door open and sucked in mouthfuls of air. My knuckles turned white on the door handle as I came to my feet on the footpath beside the car. My chest hurt.
When would that desolate feeling go away? If the shrink was right, possibly never. What a depressing thought.
"I like this place," Michaels said at my side, looking up at the striped blue and gold awning of the little Italian restaurant I'd chosen for our early lunch. "They do a good Fettuccine Alfredo."
"I like the chicken club sandwich," I argued.
"Spoken like a true cop."
I ignored the sarcasm and walked into the store.
"Hey, Detective Keen! Long time no see," Angelo called out. "You take a seat, I bring your sandwich over. What your man having?"
I glanced up at Michaels, noting the stunned look on his face at the familiarity I shared with the proprietor. Did he think I was antisocial? Or was it just that someone was happy to see me at all?
"He likes your Alfredo, Angelo," I replied, seeing as Michaels appeared mute.
"Everyone likes my Alfredo. Even Carl."
I stumbled, just a slight misstep on hearing Angelo say Carl's name. Damon's hot hand wrapped around my upper arm and steadied me, but he didn't make a sound or pass judgement, just guided me to a vacant chair.
I sat down feeling the weight of my grief consume me. Shaking off the morbid sensation, I poured two glasses of water from the decanter waiting on the table. I sucked back half of mine before I lifted my eyes to Michaels' face. Concern etched fine lines around his eyes and mouth, but still he didn't say what was obviously on his mind.
I wasn't sure if I should be pissed off or thankful. Neither a welcome emotion.
"I've warned my contacts," I said eventually, after making sure we were far enough away from the other patrons to not be overheard. I was vaguely impressed with the location in the room that Damon had chosen. Then equally as disgusted that I'd relied on him to do so.
"There's not much more you can do than that," Michaels murmured, sipping from his own water.
"I still don't get it. Murder's a pretty big thing. What's the motive?"
"If it is the clubs," Michaels said, voice pitched low for only me to hear, "Then it's money. Profitability of the drugs. The informants were about to disclose too much."
I tapped my finger restlessly on the table's wooden surface, staring off out of the window at the super yachts moored in the marina outside.
"This isn't even a top ten case," I pointed out.
"Top ten?"
"Those cases the press are aware of and have top priority and first call on resources in the department. It's surveillance, intel gathering, confirming a tip-off. Nothing else. If they know we're investigating already, then they have more than enough time to cover their tracks or take a hiatus from the distribution for a while. Let things settle. Resorting to murder this early in the piece is extreme."
"So, they're extreme. Drugs will do that to you."
I shook my head. "It doesn't sit well."
Go with your gut. If there's no evidence, follow that tug to where there is.
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table top, rubbing my hands over my face, my eyes closed. What would Carl do?
"You look shattered, Lara. Are you sleeping? Have you slept since the..."
"I'm fine," I snapped, sitting upright just as Angelo brought our plates across.
"I put in extra mayo, just how you like, Detective. Not so sure how your man like his Alfredo, but I do a little twist to make it special, eh?"
"Thanks, Angelo. And he's not my man. He's my partner. Investigator Damon Michaels of HEAT, Angelo Berti from Florence." I waved my hand between the two men as I introduced them.
"Firenze, è bello," Michaels murmured, shaking the older man's hand, making Angelo run off excitedly in Italian which Damon clearly didn't understand at all.
I snorted into my sandwich as I watched him try to explain, using his high school level Italian language skills, and found myself smiling. There was precious little left to smile about in my life right now. Oh, I knew the sun would shine again one day. When I was ready. And Carl had stopped visiting my dreams. But until then, I'd treasure every grin, every chuckle, every single moment of amusement like the jewels that they were.
Precious.
I glanced up and found Damon watching me, as Angelo went on and on about Florence and wines and something about bridges in Italian. My Italian language skills no doubt even worse than Michaels'. We both let the man run out of steam on his own as our eyes held fast on each other.
Oh, fuck. This was not what I needed. This complication in the middle of a complicated case.
Finally Angelo realised there was some sort of tension hanging in the air between us and took a quiet step back and left us alone. The sounds of the general hubbub of restaurant eaters surrounded us, and for a moment out of time I even forgot Carl.
Then Damon's phone rang and he shook himself minutely and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve the device.
"Michaels," he announced into the receiver, just as I finished my last bite. It was a good sandwich, thick on the mayo and chicken, light on the salad. Angelo was right, just how I liked it.
I watched distractedly as Michaels first sat forward, then abruptly stood to full height.
"I'm on my way. Hold him there until I arrive," he barked into the phone, setting my spine rigid and my senses on high alert.
The phone swiped closed under his thumb and he re-pocketed the device, then looked down at his uneaten meal.
"Damn, I was hungry," he muttered.
"What's up?" I asked as Angelo scurried over with a takeaway container, used to Carl and I pulling up sticks midway through a meal and therefore sensing our imminent departure right now.
"I take care of this, Investigator Michaels," the man murmured, as Damon nodded and then grimaced at me.
"I need a favour," he announced.
"OK," I said slowly. "But I'm not lett
ing you drive."
He huffed out a breath and ran a hand over the back of his neck. I knew that move, he'd used it in the past. When anxious. When trying to figure out a way to hide something he didn't want me to know.
I pushed back out of my chair, throwing down some notes on the table, which Damon tried to swipe up and replace with his own, only to have me slap his hand, grab the cash and say, "Put it on my tab, Angelo."
"Will do, Detective."
Damon just shook his head as he followed me out of the store.
"Are you going to tell me what's up?" I asked across the roof of my car as I unlocked the door.
"Just something I have to check on back at the office. It won't take long."
Biting back my bullshit comment I slid into the vehicle and started it up. I may have taken the corners a little more aggressively than I intended, but we arrived at HEAT HQ in record time.
"You're a maniac, you know that?" Michaels murmured as we exited the vehicle out the back of the two storey art deco styled building that is Pitt Street Fire Station. It was the first words he'd uttered since leaving Angelo's. "How the hell they let you in the police force with those driving skills, I'll never know," he added for good measure, making me wonder whether this was his way of apologising for being a prick.
"I'll have you know," I replied with a faux pleasant smile as we walked through the doors and up the stairs, which bypassed the watch area and led directly to HEAT. "That it took three weeks of intensive defensive driver training to get me to that level of competency. I can manoeuvre a vehicle on two wheels through an obstacle course while sucking on a melting Popsicle."
He stopped just inside the main room of HEAT's offices, several pairs of eyes coming up and staring at us with amused interest, as Damon swung back to look at me.
"A Popsicle?" he said, sounding a little stunned.
"Well, it was either that or a hot dog on a stick, but tomato sauce is a bitch to clean."
Silence.
He swung back around and glared at the men all watching, some with open mouths, others with differing levels of smirks, and a couple offering winks, and grumbled, "Guys, you all remember Detective Keen."
"Vividly," one man replied, another added, "Absolutely," while still someone else said, "Haven't forgotten a thing."
Yeah, that was the problem. I remembered the HEAT guys too. And I liked them.
Shame, though, about their boss.
Chapter Five
"Curiosity didn't just kill the cat, it also fucked with the police detective who wasn't focused as well."
Damon marched over to a long dining table and threw his container from Angelo's down on top. The scent of Italian herbs wafted up out of the box making a few of the guys sitting around the table lean closer.
"Don't touch that!" Michaels ordered. "Is he in my office?"
"Yeah, Flack's with him," Marc replied, returning his attention to the hot rod car magazine he was reading. I'd worked with Marc on various chem lab busts. He was a modified roadster enthusiast with large bulging arm muscles and the obligatory tattoos to go with them. Plus one hell of a good sense of humour.
He was also the head of HEAT's Fire Prevention Division, had a science degree, and knew how to dismantle bombs.
"It's the third time this month, Damon," Jude murmured from his seat across the table. He was nursing a steaming mug of coffee, that from here I could almost taste. Dark and sweet, just like him.
Jude was a big teddy bear of a guy with fists the size of dinner plates. He worked along side Marc in Prevention, kind of like his second in command.
Michaels flicked his eyes towards me when Jude had spoken, "Well, let's keep it in house for now, OK?" All eyes lifted to my face.
I huffed out an unamused breath of air as I crossed to the kitchen behind the table and found myself a clean mug in the cupboard above the coffee machine.
"Make yourself at home," Michaels murmured, I was sure his tone hinted towards sarcasm, but he hid it well. "I'll just be five minutes and then we can get going."
"Don't mind me," I replied, sitting down at the table with my prize. "The lads and I have a lot to catch up on," I added for good measure and received various "Oh, yeahs" from the guys and a few moving closer to sit at the table with me.
Damon stilled for a moment, no doubt some arrogant command on the tip of his tongue, then he shrugged and turned to walk down a corridor that I knew led to his office. We all waited until we heard the door snick shut and then several pairs of hands reached for the Alfredo at once. I won.
"Grab some forks," I instructed, while I opened the box and let the scents of Italy out. It wasn't that I was hungry, far from it in fact. I just liked fucking with Michaels.
Clearly, so did his team.
"So, where you been, Keen?" Marc asked, throwing a bundle of utensils down on the table's surface. I swiped one and took a forkful of pasta, then shoved the box on to the next person at the table.
"Here and there. Heard you guys busted a large lab over in Grey Lynn last week."
"Yeah, what a beauty. You would have loved it. The ammonia and acetone could be smelled all the way to Ponsonby," Jude muttered around a mouthful of Alfredo. "Shit this stuff's good," he added as he took a second bite.
"Haven't been to a bust for ages," I commented as I watched the guys devour Damon's lunch.
There were six of them here, all Prevention. Rescue and Investigation must have been out and about, or on down time, usually there were a hell of a lot more lounging about or working out in the gym downstairs. HEAT didn't do shifts like the watches on the engines. They were on call twenty-four/seven, altering their hours to suit their current cases. I wondered just what Damon had his Investigation guys doing, and if it had anything to do with whatever was happening in his office right now.
I waved the dwindling container of pasta on as it was handed to me, letting the conversation wash over my skin as I sat back and sipped my coffee. I had always felt welcomed and relaxed around the HEAT guys. Even after Damon and I went our separate ways. None of them ever judged or passed comment, all of them seemed genuinely pleased to see me when our paths crossed. A nicer bunch of men you couldn't meet, and it certainly helped that they were a testosterone laden group of muscle bound firemen. The stuff of wet-dreams.
"So, is it true that you're burdened with the boss for a while?" Gus asked. Slightly smaller than Jude, but just as tall as Marc, Gus was all about the image. Currently wearing a HEAT uniform of dark blue overalls, the shirt part tied around his waist so his white singlet showed off his tanned upper arms and shoulders.
"Seems like it," I said into my coffee.
"And how's that going for you, Keen?" Marc asked with a knowing smirk gracing his lips.
I raised an eyebrow at him. "Day one and we haven't killed each other yet."
"There's still time," Jude mumbled in his deep, velvety voice.
"If he doesn't prove his worth I may consider it," I replied, deadpan.
"Go easy on him," Gus offered. "It's been pretty tense around here lately." That received a look from Marc. Gus ignored him. "He's hardly slept."
"Is that so?" I murmured. "And why would it be any more stressful here than usual?" It's not as though HEAT's workload was mundane, and these guys normally thrived on adrenaline.
"Just some office type shit, that's all," Marc said, interrupting whatever Gus was about to say.
If I had the time and inclination I'd corner Gus alone and get the info out of him, but did I really need to concern myself with whatever crap was happening at HEAT? As long as Damon did his job and we solved these cases, then I'd leave well enough alone.
Curiosity didn't just kill the cat, it also fucked with the police detective who wasn't focused as well. Another insightful piece of advice from Carl. There was always a fine line between investigating a case you're on with gusto and getting distracted by irrelevant minutiae.
I was vaguely intrigued as to why Damon had dropped everything to come back here and
not explain a thing. But really, it wasn't pertinent to the cases and if I showed too much interest I'd be asking for a shit load of trouble, I was sure. Just how much did you encourage a man like Damon Michaels? The answer: Not at all.
And speaking of the devil, just then Damon stormed out of the hallway and took in the sight of us sitting around the table with an empty takeaway container from Angelo's sitting directly in front of me. I glanced over at Jude and offered a glare. I was sure he had that blasted thing just before Damon waltzed back in here. Jude just smiled flashing white teeth.
"Was it good, Keen?" Michaels asked, heading to the coffee pot instead.
"Angelo outdid himself," I supplied. "Really put a little extra flavouring in there to make it something special. You would have loved it, take it from me."
He spun around with coffee mug in hand and leaned back against the kitchen bench. His dark eyes rested on me. For a moment no one said anything, then one of the guys started whistling, another shuffled magazines on the table top lining them up, while still one more cleared his throat and stared at the floor. All of it done at top volume and with a little too much effort to make it look natural.
"Flack's taking care of it," Damon suddenly said, turning his gaze to Marc.
"Was it who we think?" Marc asked, and Damon nodded. "This is getting out of hand, Damon."
"Not now." Damon placed his cup down on the bench with a little too much force and then turned to me. "If you're done corrupting my men, shall we head out?"
"What an offer," I muttered, standing up from my seat and taking my mug slowly to the sink with the utmost care. I washed it out, humming while I did it, and stood it upside down on the draining rack, and only then turned my gaze to Michaels.
"Are you purposely trying to piss me off, Keen?" Michaels whispered, his back to the group of men avidly watching this exchange. "Because it's working. And you know how I get when I'm mad."
I chuckled, which seemed to infuriate him more.
"Sorry," I murmured, watching as his shoulders relax a little and then I added, "I'm just picturing you turning green like the Incredible Hulk."
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