H.E.A.T. Book Bundle (H.E.A.T. Books 1-3)

by Nicola Claire

  "Yes, it is."

  "So," I said, ignoring that last statement, "it's what I can do for you."

  "You could do a hell of a lot for me, I'm sure." He was doing this on purpose, trying to deflect with sexual innuendo. "But all that would take is you spending a night in my bed."

  "Wow, one night. How can I resist?"

  "Oh, one night to start. Then we'd see about what comes next."

  "So, I'd have to pass a test to get more than one night in your bed, is that right?"

  Hold on, what were we talking about?

  "Or one night at Zero Gravity, playing the part of my sub."

  And the world stopped on its axis while Damon managed again to turn the topic to something else. Something he knew damn well I couldn't ignore. The sexual innuendos alone weren't doing it, at least not well enough, so he had to bring in the big guns. My case, and his assistance in getting into the back rooms at the clubs.

  "You've got the invite," I said, stunned he'd managed to organise something so quickly.

  "I thought time was of the essence and the chance to attend one of their masquerades came up."

  "Masquerades?"

  "Your young lad up on Karangahape Road said they were expecting you. If he just meant the Police, then it's not much of a problem. But if the club's expecting you, Lara Keen, Detective at Auckland CIB, then we do have a problem. The only way to circumnavigate that hurdle in a timely fashion is to attend one of their mystique nights."

  "Mystique nights?" I asked, stunned at his familiarity with this scene. A scene I was investigating. A scene he had never hinted at when we'd dated all those months ago.

  Did I even know this man?

  "Yes, mystique. Everyone wears a facial mask to hide their identity. It heightens the illicit, makes for an intriguing and irresistible opportunity for some; fucking someone you can't really see."

  Well, that was putting it bluntly.

  "Who said anything about fucking?" I blurted, brain and mouth filter malfunctioning.

  Damon chuckled. "Lara, you really can't be that naive."

  My hands gripped the steering wheel, but I had to say it.

  "Not every proposition has to be accepted, you said so yourself. We can just watch."

  "Sweetheart," - another tell, this time when Damon was being facetious - "do you really think that I'd finally get you into a sex club and not plan to have my wicked way with you?"

  I smiled, I was sure it wasn't pretty.

  "You come within one foot of me with any part of your body not appropriate for public viewing, and I'll chop the fucking thing off."

  Another chest rumbling laugh.

  "And don't for a second believe I haven't got your number, Damon Michaels."

  Through chuckles, clearly amused at this whole conversation, Damon managed, "And what's that?"

  "You will tell me what's happening at HEAT." Did he really think I was a novice at this game? Distraction is a poor man's ruse. Carl had taught me better than that.

  The laughter stopped, he let a sigh out on a beleaguered breath of air.

  "Lara," he said softly.

  "No, Damon. You want my trust back? Then start opening up about this now."

  Silence as I manoeuvred the vehicle into a carpark down the road from Tommy's girlfriend's house.

  Then as the car engine cut off he reached over and clasped my hand, from where it rested on my thigh, taking it in his much larger and seemingly warmer one.

  "I want your trust back," he whispered.

  Good. "Then start talking." Tommy could wait. He sure as hell wasn't going anywhere, and something was telling me this was important.

  Damon or HEAT, I didn't know. But my gut was pushing me down this path, a road I really wasn't sure I wanted to go. And Carl's quiet and gruff voice in my head was saying, "That's it, Sport; softly, softly catchee criminal."

  Now why the hell would I associate that Carlism with Damon?

  Chapter Nine

  "That's it, Sport; softly, softly catchee criminal."

  "Well?" I asked, as Damon pulled his hand back and looked around the neighbourhood where I'd parked.

  "Panmure. This is Thomas Wither's girlfriend's suburb? Which house?"

  I frowned, but pointed to a blue weatherboard house in the middle of a large quarter acre section. One of the few not subdivided and refurbished in the urban sprawl of young executives desperate to own property in expensive Auckland.

  "Talk to me, Damon," I pushed, tired of him deflecting.

  "Shouldn't we go in before she spots us?"

  "Bloody hell, you're determined to avoid this conversation." Regardless of the fact that he was probably right. I wasn't sure how happy Sharon Hunt was going to be to see us.

  "No. No, I'm not." He turned his head to look at me. "I just think this isn't the time." I opened my mouth to argue and he held up a hand for me to stop. "Lara, it would better if I show you."

  "Show me?"

  "Rather than try to explain it here."

  "You're not making any sense," I pointed out.

  "Can you just trust me?" he asked, and immediately realised his mistake. His face fell, his back became rigid and that muscle in his jaw twitched.

  "You're a real piece of work, Michaels," I muttered, opening my car door and stepping out.

  I heard him exit his side of the car, but no further wild explanations or clever little distractions fell from his mouth. Determinedly, I pushed the conversation to the back of mind; to readdress at a later time. Damon may think he can deflect well, but once I latch onto the scent of something, I very rarely ever let it go.

  The Inspector, and his dog with a bone attitude, had taught me that.

  I started up the cracked, weed strewn concrete path to Sharon's house, deciding we'd try the direct approach, and not bother to cover back exits. She wasn't wanted for anything criminal, just information about the last few hours of her boyfriend's life. If she ran, I'd decide then to give chase or not.

  I banged on the door, straining to listen to any internal sounds inside the house, but all was quiet. She could have been out, but the rust bucket she called a car was sitting neglected down the side of the property, so I waited a little longer, offering the odd further door bang and then finally announcing who I was.

  "Sharon Hunt!" I yelled. "Open up, Auckland Police, CIB!"

  Sometimes it was enough to make a noise, disturb the neighbourhood a little, and force them out that way. As expected, the rattle of chains on the door sounded out several loud minutes later and then a overly made up face peered through a small gap in the doorway, cigarette hanging out of cracked lips.

  "Shut up, would ya. No need to let the whole fucking neighbourhood know you're here."

  "Sharon Hunt?" A nod of a highly teased head of platinum blonde hair. "Detective Keen, Auckland CIB." I turned slightly, not taking my eyes of Hunt, to indicated Damon at my back. "This is Investigator Michaels of HEAT. Can we come in?"

  "Got a search warrant?" TV police drama shows had ruined it for the rest of us in the real world.

  "We're not here to arrest you, we just want to ask a few questions about Thomas Withers."

  "Don't know no Thomas Withers." A puff of smoke was blown directly into my face.

  I blinked, holding my breath until it dissipated.

  "Ms Hunt, we know you dated him. We also know he used to stay here sometimes."

  I held her gaze, noted the slightly dilated pupils and the smeared mascara under her eyes. She was a contradiction, this woman. Heavy on the make up, but no care that it was slightly worn. Teased, dyed hair, but dark roots showing. Skin tight leopard print pants, but food stains on the see-through black lace top. Her feet were bare, if she ran, I'd be able to catch her.

  "We can do this here or down at the station, Ms Hunt. Your choice," I offered.

  "Fucking, bloody pigs," she muttered, swinging the door open and stomping back down the hallway. I guessed that was an invitation to come in, so flicked a glance at Damon, to indic
ate he should keep his wits about him, and followed the woman to her kitchen.

  Flies buzzed around days old dirty dishes in the sink. About thirty empty beer bottles sat in the corner on the chipped linoleum floor. The tap dripped slowly, splashing into a bowl of half eaten tinned spaghetti. She'd brought us here on purpose, to distract.

  I wasn't particularly interested in what she was trying to hide in the rest of the house. Unless, of course, it pertained to Tommy's death.

  I leaned back against a cupboard, while Damon stood sentinel at the door, half facing us, half facing the hallway itself. Alert and waiting for any surprises. Just because I had an understanding with Tommy, didn't mean his woman wouldn't stick a knife in my back while we were here.

  "When did you last see Tommy, Sharon?" I asked, switching to her first name, now we'd made it inside the door. It's harder to stay guarded when the questions come in a friendly tone.

  "Am I under investigation? Do I need a lawyer?" she asked, lighting a second cigarette, having stubbed out the first in a large ashtray overflowing with butts. It stunk, but only added to the miasma of scents invading my nose right then.

  Maybe she had cannabis growing in a room down the back and needed to mask its distinctive smell.

  "Like I said, we're not here to arrest you, but I'd be happy to move this to the station if you're unwilling to assist us in our efforts to solve Tommy's death," I said pleasantly.

  "Don't get your knickers in a twist," she muttered, puffing away like a steam engine. "I saw him a week ago on Friday. Stayed the night here. Haven't seen or heard from him since."

  "How was he when you saw him? His usual self?"

  She laughed, it was a smoker's laugh, deep and throaty and borderline hacking up a lung.

  "Horny, if you must know. We went at it like rabbits. All night long," she sneered and then purposely leered at Michaels. He ignored her, in favour of looking down the hallway out of sight.

  For a widowed girlfriend though, she wasn't too cut up.

  "Did he mention having any arguments or fights recently?"

  "No."

  "Did he say what he'd been up to?"

  "I kept outta his business, he kept outta mine."

  "Did he have any enemies?"

  She laughed, this time so abruptly that I was afraid she was coughing up half her innards. I would have poured her a glass of water, but I wasn't keen to approach that sink.

  Finally she got up and drank directly from the tap, clearly out of clean glasses. Once she'd soothed her throat, she sat back down and extinguished the cigarette, thankfully not lighting another.

  "He had enemies," she began. "I didn't ask, he didn't say. But no one could be as cocky as Tommy and not have enemies."

  "Were you aware of what his plans were on Friday night just past?" I asked.

  She shook her head, staring at the table's Formica surface.

  "Did he say anything about being worried for his safety?"

  Another head shake to say no.

  "Did he confide in you regarding any concerns at all that he had?"

  Head shake. I was beginning to think this was a waste of everyone's time. Whether or not Sharon was being honest with me, I couldn't tell. But nothing useful was being shared. I had to cover all bases though, and that included drilling her until she cracked.

  "Were you aware he was an informant for the Police?" Sometimes shock was enough to create a hairline fracture in an unwilling interviewee's façade.

  "He said you paid better than most." Bingo. She knew more than she was letting on. I made myself more comfortable leaning against the cupboards.

  "Tell me what else he said, Sharon."

  "He said," she sucked in a deep, shattering breath. The façade cracking wide open now, emotions she wouldn't have wanted us to see floating to the surface through the gaps. "He said you were OK."

  "And why do you sound upset about that, Sharon? It's not because you don't like cops, is it?" Her lips flattened into a chipped dark mauve painted line. "Was it because you were jealous of him meeting with another woman?" She snorted incredulously, striking that reason off my list. "Why then, Sharon?" I kept my voice soft and level, almost a monotone. "Help me out. Help me find out what was happening in Tommy's life right at the end. What led him to that location. What led him to his death."

  "I don't know. I didn't even know he was going there, I hadn't spoken to him in days."

  "And why's that?"

  "I don't know," she insisted more firmly.

  "I think you do. Going at it like rabbits. Fucking all night long. Come on, Sharon. You know."

  Her hands had fisted on the table's surface, her chest was rising and falling too quickly. Damon flicked a concerned look towards me, I gave a minute shake of my head, and then pushed off from the side of the cupboards and stepped toward the table itself.

  I could feel Damon tense as I leaned in and rested my hands on the sticky surface, staring down at an increasingly upset Sharon Hunt.

  "Sharon. What did he do? What did he say? To make you boot him out for a week."

  Her bloodshot, too big eyes came up to glare at me.

  "He had five thousand bucks in cash in his back pocket when I went to wash his jeans."

  Hello. No snitch got that sort of money, and Tommy was not gainfully employed last I knew.

  "Where'd it come from, Sharon?" I asked, working not to show any reaction on my face.

  "He wouldn't say. I kept at him, but he just got angrier. Then he left."

  "Come on, you can do better than that. Why do you think he had that cash. A lot of cash, Sharon." I glanced around the shitty kitchen. "Could use a bit of it yourself, huh? Did he share?"

  "What the fuck would you know?" she spat, picking up her smokes and slapping one out into her hand to light. I waited for her to draw in a deep, calming breath, then tapped the table once to bring her eyes back to me

  "Five thousand, not Tommy's usual haul."

  "He wouldn't say," she stressed, flicking a small amount of ash onto the floor.

  "Then what did he say?"

  A pause, then in a voice that was hard to hear, she mumbled, "That it had better be worth it." Her eyes came back up to mine and she insisted, "That's it, OK. That's all I know. Now, get out. Get the fuck outta my house! I gotta grieve."

  I stood upright as she came to her feet in an unsteady lurch. I didn't reach for her, just held up my hands in a sign of peace.

  "OK, we're going." I pulled my card from my jacket pocket and placed it on the table, knowing it would hit the trash as soon as we left. "You think of anything else, call me. I pay well."

  "Fuck off," she mumbled, staggering over to the rust spotted fridge and pulling out a bottle of beer. The clink of it against glass let me know it wouldn't be her last.

  I nodded to Damon and we both slipped out while Sharon drowned her sorrows alone.

  Before I started the car I disinfected my hands with one of those tiny bottles of sanitiser. I offered Damon some, which he seemed glad to accept. I may have been somewhat accustomed to residences like that, but they never failed to affect me. I'd been in homes where the occupants had never cleaned the toilet bowl in years, thick stains turning the once white porcelain a brown/yellow. I'd seen bare, worn wooden floors with piles of cat shit and piss everywhere, ending up on the soles of my shoes. I'd climbed over copious amounts of faded newspapers in stacks four or five feet high. I'd walked through thick, dust laden cobwebs and had birds crap on my jacket shoulders from where they perched in the gaps of broken ceiling tiles. I'd smelled some truly unnatural smells.

  And all of it seeps in. Into your clothes. Into your skin. Into your head. Into everything.

  Half the world has no idea how some people live. Hell, even your next door neighbour could be living in squalor and you wouldn't know it. We live solitary lifestyles, sharing no more than a smile and wave with the person who resides one door down.

  It's the way it is. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

  "Did you
know it would be like that?" Damon asked, as I navigated the Panmure roundabout.

  "Suspected, you never really know until you're there. But Tommy wasn't exactly a well presented kind of guy."

  "Those are always the most hazardous of houses when filled with smoke," he supplied. "God alone knows what she had down the back."

  "Pot, at a guess. Cultivating nicely. Sometimes the filth is just a mask."

  "Good deterrent." I shrugged. "Five grand in cash. What did you make of that?" he asked.

  "A pay-off."

  "Or a payment."

  I nodded, that actually made more sense. "Whatever it was, he wasn't sure about it."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Hope it's worth it," I repeated Sharon's words. "What was worth it? And why was he uncertain about it being worth a whole five thousand dollars in the hand now, and who's to say not doubled when whatever he was charged with doing was done."

  Damon thought about that for a minute and then sighed.

  "We're still no closer," he admitted.

  "Didn't really think we would be, did you?"

  He let a huff of air out and shook his head, small smile on his lush lips.

  "So, what's next?"

  Enee, meenee, minee, mo.

  I glanced over at him, wondered if I should push for more info on what was up with HEAT, then squashed that in favour of the case we were actually working on. As curious as I was, and as sure as I was that I needed to eventually find out what was up with that, I had to stay focused.

  I hadn't seen any more of my informants lately, so had to hope no more would get their lives taken tonight. But three dead was more than enough to keep my mind occupied.

  "Let's go see what McIntyre has to say about Tank," I suggested. "Then we'll need to check with forensics back on station. When's the invite for the back room for?"

  "Tomorrow night."

  "Tomorrow?" I squeaked out, nowhere near ready to face that scene yet. Then struggling to cover, I added, "You work damn fast, Michaels. Great, thanks, that's really good. We need to get on to that."

  "You're rambling, Lara."

  "No I'm not."

  "You've also gone bright red."

  I gripped the steering wheel. "It's hot in here?" I suggested lamely.