"There always is," I muttered.
"Something's not right about this one," Pierce shared.
"God, Pierce. I'm standing in the freezing cold beside a dead body and you're phoning to use me as a sounding board on an arson? Which, by the way, is never right."
"Damn, did they not have coffee waiting, Keen?"
No, they didn't. I flicked a frown toward the uniformed officer waiting for my attention.
"It's hard to get good help these days," I offered. "So, what's your gut telling you?" I asked, returning us to the real reason why Ryan had phoned.
We'd gotten used to pitting ideas against each other since Carl left and Harvey was suspended. A detective has to have someone they can turn to, to bounce ideas off, despite my earlier complaining words.
"I don't think this is an isolated case, and I checked with Comms. There's been no arsons recently, but Michaels is acting like this was expected and means something. Something personal," he added. "Look, I just thought you should know, considering he's your temporary partner and all."
I ran a hand over my face, closing my eyes while I thought that through.
"I gather he's closing you out," I said, lids still down while I pictured the scene in my head.
"Pretty much."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked, resigned to the fact that there was more going on than just the underground club scene. And I had thought that was complicated enough.
"Stick some dynamite up his arse and make him play ball."
"Now there's an image I'd rather not have burned on my retinas," I shot back. I sighed. "I'm a little tied up right now, but send through what you manage to uncover there and I'll have him on about it later when we meet up. I still assume he'll be on this case with me, or does it look like he's jumping ship already?"
Strange how that left me feeling uncertain. Was Damon backing out already, giving up before the battle had even begun?
"Hasn't led me to believe that, but I'll make sure he's aware you're on another murder scene. And thanks, I'll send through what I've got as soon as we wrap up here."
"OK, Sarge. Talk soon."
I hung up and turned to face the uniform again, who seemed super eager to hand over the crime scene to CIB. I didn't blame him, we were exposed here at the end of Queen's Wharf, but that's why they paid us the big bucks. Or not.
"What have you got for me, Officer?" I asked, walking towards him and Tank's body.
"Gunshots heard around three-thirty, Detective. Two in total, but nothing else witnessed. We were the first on scene, found the body as it is now, haven't touched anything else, other than to secure the area. We have the original witness to the gunshots sitting in one of the units, waiting to make a statement, and the manager of The Cloud on the way down here now to see if they recognise the victim. As he's wearing a security officer uniform, we assume he could have been working here."
He had been. And sleeping here too. I nodded.
"Any other witnesses rounded up who heard the shots?" I asked as I walked to the other side of the body and found the weapon. Gripped in Tank's bloody hand.
"No, Detective. What with the noise of Quay Street, it's surprising the guy walking past heard anything at all."
No, it wasn't. The killer wanted the body found right then.
"Suicide?" the officer asked.
I crouched down and looked into the pale face of my dead informant and shook my head.
"No. Homicide."
"But he's holding the gun."
"And it's probably the gun that killed him, and he possibly even fired it." Forensics would determine that easily enough. "But it wasn't suicide."
I could tell the cop was looking at me as though I'd lost the plot, but I switched off from the surroundings and let my senses get to work on the immediate scene. Ignoring the metallic smell of blood mixed with the ammonia of urine, and cutting my emotions off from the fact that this was once a man, not just a body, I catalogued the location of each wound. It was never easy, but necessary. You had to treat each victim like a job.
At least, most of the time.
Two obvious bullet wounds. Both of them could have been the fatal shot. Left upper chest, right above the heart, close range. Centre of the forehead, minimal blood loss. The bullet to the head was post mortem, the one in the chest killed him. That was my bet, anyway.
But here he was holding the smoking gun. And I'd bet my money both shots were fired from this weapon. Impossible for a dead man to shoot himself in the head.
I leaned forward, looking at the positioning of the body. It seemed overly staged. Legs crossed at the ankles, as though he was sitting down and taking a lunch break. One hand, his right, holding the weapon on top of his thigh. The other hand in the left pocket of his trousers, looked like it was gripping something.
I stared at the bulge in the pocket as the crime lab guys arrived, setting up flood lights and screens, rolling in trolleys with gear and a stretcher to take the body away afterwards.
"Can someone get photographs done quickly, please?" I asked.
"Sure thing. Anywhere in particular you want to look at first?" a forensics, overall wearing, shoe covered, and hair covered, guy asked.
"The pocket," I replied pointing where I needed him to take shots.
I stood up and gave him some space, wishing to God I had a coffee cup in my hand, and turned my attention to the wider scene. It was hard to tell if Tank had been shot where he sat, but my guess was he had. No blood splatter or smears to indicate he was dragged there. Probably positioned after death, but I was prepared to wait for the forensics report to confirm that. Anything, though, was possible with this perp.
Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary by the time I'd done a thorough walk through of the area and scene. I instructed a couple of uniforms to work with the crime lab to gather any evidence down the sides of the building, including a good portion of the Wharf itself, but I didn't tell them that I thought it was a waste of time.
This guy was too good.
"Something in the pocket, Detective," the photographer said.
I walked over and nodded for him to retrieve it, saving me from having to don gloves.
Slowly he pulled the item out, releasing it from the grip Tank's fingers had around the handle.
"A .38 calibre pistol, Detective," the guy said.
I stared at it for a second and then ordered, "Bag it, and check it against the bullet found at this location last night. It'll match."
Now the question was, had the gun been planted or was it Tank's? And the answer to that would tell us who had fired at Damon and me yesterday.
Of course, proving who it belonged to was a fucking long shot.
Bottom line though, I was definitely being fucking played.
Chapter Eight
"Looks like a Lily, bites like a Venus Fly Trap."
I checked the information Pierce had sent through regarding the arson and confirmed with Comms that he and HEAT were still on scene. Putting off paperwork seemed like a good idea, and finding out just what the hell Damon was up to even better.
I needed my partner focused on this case, not something he was getting all territorial over with Ryan Pierce.
My gut rocked and rolled on the way over to the address on my GPS, forcing me to make an impromptu and brief stop at a petrol station for the Emergency Services standard of steak and cheese pie with double shot of espresso coffee on the side. I felt rather disgusted with myself for eating the fat laden pastry, but the second the caffeine hit my tongue all guilt was wiped clean.
Dusting off the crumbs, and swiping the back of my hand over my mouth to ensure I didn't have any tomato sauce peeking at the edges of my lips, I watched the scene outside my car window for several minutes. Noting the three fire engines in situ, the burned out garage attached to a rather nicely presented refurbished council house, the charred and destroyed exotic looking vehicle inside said burned out garage, and the untold number of HEAT vehicles that took up half the s
treet.
This wasn't a normal arson, all right. This was intimately related to the guys at HEAT. And if I wasn't mistaken, that was a hot rod turned to ash in the garage.
Marc's house.
"Bugger it," I muttered as I climbed out of the car, searching for Detective Sergeant Pierce first out of professional respect.
I found him arguing quietly with Michaels, several aggravated and adrenaline fuelled HEAT guys right at his back. And Ryan was facing them alone with a sense of calm and self possession few men had when in the middle of a showdown with angry and determined firemen.
I walked over, ignoring the annoyed glares from men I had only just yesterday shared a pasta meal and coffee with at HEAT HQ's table. They clearly didn't want Ryan to have back-up, and they sure as hell didn't want that back-up to be me.
"What's the story?" I said, interrupting Michaels mid rant, directing my attention and question to Pierce.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Michaels demanded. Pierce and I ignored him.
Turning to me, Ryan said, "The house belongs to a HEAT team member."
"Marc Holland," I supplied, receiving a raised eyebrow from Pierce and an undecipherable mutter from Michaels.
"Yes, Marc Holland," Pierce confirmed. "At this point and time HEAT has declined any further assistance from CIB."
I spun to look at Michaels. "Why?"
"That's what I was asking," Pierce offered to my side, shoulder to shoulder, facing the HEAT guys. This should be fun.
"This is ridiculous," Michaels exclaimed. "We just want a moment to assess the scene without your lot traipsing all over it."
"We do not traipse," I argued. "And since when has HEAT ever had a scene like this to themselves?"
"Pointed that out already," Pierce muttered.
"Just give us half an hour," Michaels tried.
"Why?" I pushed.
"Because I'm asking."
"Not good enough," Pierce said bluntly in the first indication of him being riled.
"Lara," Damon almost pleaded, his eyes on mine and looking fierce. "Just half an hour for us to check a few things out, then forensics can move in and work with my team."
I really had no idea what was going on. The request was unusual for so many reasons. HEAT Investigation Division were the experts on fire related crimes, but they were not the law. They always worked in conjunction with the Police, never alone. And besides, Damon asking me this was out of line. This wasn't even my case.
"It's Ryan's call," I finally said and the look of disbelief on Damon's face almost made me take a step back.
What the hell had he expected? We had no promise to each other, professional or otherwise. But still I felt like I'd let him down. Not given my trust when I should have. Damon had always been able to make me feel that way, yet he was the one who betrayed any trust we ever had.
Pierce turned to his forensics team on site and gave them the go-ahead to start sifting through the scene, Damon just stared daggers at me, but barked out instructions for his guys to doggedly follow the crime lab inside the garage.
I wanted to sigh. I wanted to pull my hair out and give a little scream. But instead I said, "There's been a third murder. Tank, outside The Cloud."
I saw him struggle with the need to turn his back, to tell me to go to hell, and say he wasn't interested. But Damon Michaels is an investigator through and through. Even when pissed off at me, the crime came first.
"How?" he asked, a one word sentence, but at least he was engaging.
"Gunshots, two. Posed to look like a suicide, but I'm certain the second shot to the forehead was carried out after death."
He nodded, started to pace in front of me, wheels turning inside his head.
"There's more."
"Always is," he muttered, which made me smile, despite the chill still emanating from the man.
"A .38 calibre pistol inside his trouser pocket."
His head shot up so he could look me in the face.
"The one that shot at us?"
"I'm guessing, won't have it confirmed until forensics runs a check."
"Bloody hell, Keen. You always did attract too much attention."
"What the hell does that mean?" I demanded, hands on hips, jacket spread displaying my badge and holstered gun.
I'd always liked this stance. At once it relays my pissed off attitude, and somehow manages to say don't fuck with me as well.
Damon flicked his dark gaze over my body, then settled his eyes on my chest. Most people got distracted by the gun, or at the very least the badge, not many waved the rag in front of the bull by staring at my tits.
"It means," Michaels murmured, still staring at my breasts, "that life is very exciting indeed whenever you're around."
"Cut it out," I growled. And received a blinding smile in return.
His eyes rose to hold my gaze and he let a long breath of air out on a sigh.
"I just wanted half an hour to check something out, Keen," he said quietly, making my stomach tighten at the return to the previous topic. "Was it too much to back me on it?"
"What do want from me, Damon?" I took a step towards him, realising we were pretty much on our own, the HEAT guys all shadowing forensics or Pierce now, clearly giving us space to work things out. "My badge? Because that's what it would mean, going against protocol. Or my professional standing with another detective in my division? One I have had to rely on a lot in the past few months. You're a temporary fixture in my life, Michaels. Once this case is over, you'll be gone. And I'll have to face not only Inspector Hart, but Ryan Pierce as well. Do you really want to fuck with me that much over thirty minutes unobserved at an arson scene?"
We were practically nose to nose now, he hadn't backed down as I'd advanced. His intense, almost black in this low light, eyes holding mine fiercely.
"I want your trust," he finally murmured.
"You don't have it," I said sadly with a shake of my head.
"It wasn't my fault, Lara," he added, with an obvious dose of been here done that in his tone.
"Well, it sure as hell wasn't mine. So, whose was it?"
His hands fisted, his jaw flexed, and then he purposely relaxed his muscles and rubbed the back of his fucking neck. His tell.
I turned and took a few steps away, then said without looking back, "Are you staying here, or coming with me to find out who's killing informants in this city?"
"Do you still want my help?"
It would have been easy to say I'd been ordered to work with him on this and only wanted him there because of that. But I swallowed my pride and sucked in a deep breath.
Then said, "Yeah, I still want your help."
"Then I'll come with you. Give me five minutes to hand over to Flack and I'll join you in your car."
I nodded, still not looking back, and headed over to where Pierce was standing looking at some evidence the forensics guys had unearthed.
"Got a lead?"
"Nah, not yet," he said. "But those HEAT guys are a bloody jumpy lot. Any idea why?"
"I'll work on it, but don't count on me breaking through that thick skull any time soon."
"Aw, come on, Keen. You could have him wrapped around your finger if you only tried."
"And you think that would be a good thing?"
"Well, it would certainly make it easier to figure out why they're being so secretive about this," he added, with a wave of his hand over the burned out scene.
"It's personal," I guessed.
"Yeah, I was thinking the same. But why?"
"Isn't that our number one favourite question? Why? Why? Why?"
"Cynical, that's what you are," Pierce shot back.
"You know, you're the second person to call me that this week. I might get a complex if this keeps up."
"Nah, you're tougher than you look. Carl always said to never underestimate you. 'Looks like a Lily, bites like a Venus Fly Trap.'"
"He did fucking not!" I exclaimed, aware that Damon had finished his handov
er and was approaching my car to wait.
Pierce offered a wide grin. "He did."
"Whatever," I muttered, flicking my hair as I turned and walked towards the car.
It was only as I unlocked it and slid inside to sit beside Michaels, that I realised I hadn't reacted to Pierce saying Carl's name. My shrink would be proud.
"So, what's next?" Damon asked, bringing me back from the moment and probably a good a thing too. I may have been able to stand Pierce talking about Carl, but left any longer my mind would always fuck it up with dark memories I should have filed a long time ago now.
"Next," I said, starting the car and pulling away from the curb, "is you telling me what the hell is going on at HEAT."
"We've been over this," he said with strained care.
"And I let you have your little moment to work out on your own that it would be better to share this with your partner than try to handle it alone, and then you went all territorial at an arson scene and blew your chance."
"Why do you insist on there being a problem at HEAT anyway?"
"Gee, let me see," I said sarcastically. "Could be that I'm a police detective with a pretty good bullshit meter." He snorted. "And you have a tell when you're trying to hide something."
"A tell?" He sounded distraught over that fact. "What tell?"
"That would be ill advised to disclose. It's still useful for me to keep that information close to my chest."
I could feel his eyes slide down my body to rest on said chest. I refused to squirm in my seat.
"Also," I added. "You were a little too eager to team up with me, and as I have already pointed out, I am sure that's because you want something."
"That makes no sense at all," he argued. "If I wanted something, then why would I be keeping a secret about HEAT?"
"Because you're a slippery bugger and like fucking with me."
He burst out laughing, big, full body shudders through his entire frame. I waited for the shaking to subside a little, then went on.
"We've established that it's not me you want."
H.E.A.T. Book Bundle (H.E.A.T. Books 1-3) Page 8
