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

by Nicola Claire

I knew before I pulled the device from my pocket who it would be. I kept my narrowed and extremely disgruntled gaze on Damon's face as I swiped the screen and held it up to my ear.

  "Keen," I said, voice soft and lethal.

  "I want an update. My office. Now." Hart hung-up before I could argue.

  "You son of a bitch," I breathed.

  "You're exhausted, you need to slow down."

  "Did you tell my supervising officer that?" I demanded, feeling chilled to my bones at what he'd just done.

  "No. Only said there'd been a development and advised him, as per protocol, that I was headed to HEAT and would be unavailable for an hour or two. Whether he took advantage of the situation was entirely up to him." He did sound contrite.

  I stared at him a little longer and then shook my head.

  And because I had to have the last word, warranted or not, said, "Fuck you, Damon," and spun on my heel, leaving him in the crime lab. Without any transport to get to HEAT.

  Petty? Meh.

  And as parting statements went, it definitely lacked a certain wow factor.

  Chapter Eleven

  "If you don't feel, then you can't put yourself in the perp's shoes."

  Carl had always said emotions needed to be checked at the door to CIB otherwise they'd throttle you just as hard as the Detective Inspector could. David Hart was not the sort of man who tolerated sensitive feelings. Be they anger-fuelled, frustrated, disappointed or swimming in joy. A police detective was meant to have a serious demeanour and level head.

  Carl had also said that if you don't feel, then you can't put yourself in the perp's shoes. So really, he didn't give a toss what was expected of a detective, he just believed there were times and places to let the emotions out. And CIB at Auckland Central Police Station wasn't one of them.

  So, I took my sweet time moving from the crime lab through Central Station, and gathered my armour around me, before I entered the lion's den.

  I hadn't meant to let Michaels get to me, but I couldn't get past the fact he'd gone behind my back, to my superior, in order to force an issue he had with me. In my book, that was tantamount to betrayal. Partners just didn't do that sort of thing.

  On a flattering level, I knew he only did it because he was worried about the state of my health. I hadn't been sleeping well, I was aware of this. And eating had taken a back seat to everything else. But his concern could never outweigh the fact that he'd engineered a break by deceitfully involving Inspector Hart.

  I wasn't going to get over this any time soon and that just made me mad. I had too much to be trying to process, adding Damon's interference in my life into the mix was just the too sweet icing on the cake.

  I hated icing.

  Gathering myself, I gripped all the relevant information and headed towards Hart's office, ignoring the afternoon greetings, which segued into catcalls when I didn't join in the heckling fast enough. Detectives can smell a weakness a mile away. Mine was always facing Detective Inspector David Hart.

  "Need a lifeline in there, Keen? We could set up a signal, bust you out when you give us the nod," Cawfield yelled across the room.

  "Did you put your tactical vest on under that jacket? Might need it," Simpson added from beside him.

  "Better to relinquish your service weapon before you enter. Wouldn't want an accidental discharge on your file," Jones joined in from the opposite side of the room.

  "I'd be trigger happy around Keen," Cawfield added, bringing the conversation down to the gutter as per usual.

  Embarrassingly, I couldn't offer up a snide reply. Michaels had done a number on me, and those emotions I'd painstakingly left in the corridors between forensics and here came rushing back in. By the time I entered Hart's office, my hands were in fists, my knuckles white.

  "Shut the door. Take a seat," Hart instructed with one flick of his astute eyes over my frame.

  I did as directed and held the files on my lap.

  "You should know better than to let the bastards get to you, Keen."

  "I'm fine, sir."

  He just grunted. "Give me the report then, let's get on with this."

  I ran through the evidence to date and then included our latest findings; large sums of money on two of the informants just prior to death.

  "Pay-off?" he suggested.

  "Or payment, hard to ascertain which yet."

  "Your next move?"

  "Re-question Anton's associates, see if he fits this new dynamic. Obtain security camera footage around the fast-food restaurants on Quay Street."

  "Get computer forensics to go through them for you," Hart recommended. "Anything in particular you think you'll find there?"

  I shook my head. "It's a fishing expedition, sir. And my gut is telling me to check it out."

  "Carl always liked your gut."

  "Detective Forrester taught me to trust it, sir."

  He nodded. "What else?"

  "We have an invite to the back room of Zero Gravity tomorrow night." I worked hard not to blush at the logical conclusions the Inspector would make with that statement.

  "You prepared for what you'll see?" he asked, tone serious and professional, which helped settle my restless nerves.

  "As prepared as I can be, sir. It's not my usual hangout."

  "No, I dear say it's not." And just what the hell did that mean? "You'll be fine, Detective. Just follow your partner's lead, stick together, and get the fuck out if you're made. The usual procedure."

  The usual procedure. Somehow I doubted there would be anything usual about the entire thing.

  "Have you considered setting a trap?" Hart asked, leaning back in his swivel chair, ankle to knee, eyes staring up at the ceiling. His contemplative stance.

  "A trap? Draw the killer out with a staged meet?"

  "Exactly. If you were to do it, what informant would you use?"

  Oh, hell. Did he really want me to pull a civilian into this?

  "I'm not sure, sir. It seems wrong."

  "Something to consider, Keen. You'd keep him safe, watch over him for the duration. One small risk to prevent the deaths of many."

  "For the good of the cause, sir?" I asked, purposely keeping my voice devoid of inflections.

  "He's not going to stop, Keen. You know this. I know this. He knows this. And you can't avoid your contacts indefinitely, it's just impossible for a detective to do their job otherwise. We rely too heavily on sources, without their inside knowledge we'd be constantly behind the eight ball and the criminals would be in charge. It's the way it is."

  The way it is. Don't have to like it, just have to live with it. But could I live with setting up one of my guys to trap a murderer?

  What would Carl have said? Have done? I had a gut roiling feeling he'd have agreed with the Inspector on this one.

  "All right, that's it for now. Keep me informed." He nodded toward the door and turned his attention to something on his desk. I'd been dismissed.

  I didn't waste time getting out of there, half of me expecting him to make a last minute comment about the state of my dress or the shadows under my eyes, the need to look after myself. But David Hart was a career detective, unlike Michaels, and didn't step over that mark.

  The Inspector would have known I was aware of my fatigue and the consequences of it. He'd only step in when it actually affected my job. He'd trust his detectives to keep an eye on it, and if they didn't, know that he'd come down hard.

  Relief was the only feeling I had when I shut his office door behind me. Something must have shown on my face, because unbelievably the entire room returned their attention to their desks or computer screens, and didn't offer up a jab. Or maybe it was because Ryan Pierce was there and his eyes were boring into Cawfield and Simpson's heads.

  "Hey," he offered when I sank down into the chair at my desk. Without a further word he pushed a take-away coffee cup across my desk, followed by a brown paper bag full of doughnut holes. The cut out little sugar coated pieces from the centre of a doughnut ring.r />
  "Could you be any more clichéd?" I asked, passing over the bag in favour of caffeine instead.

  "Marie finds it appealing," he murmured, reaching in and helping himself to a doughnut hole. "And anyway, Daisy bought me these."

  I smiled, I couldn't help it. Thinking of Ryan's gorgeous, blonde and bubbly six year old daughter always made me smile. He noticed and grinned back proudly at me.

  "Have you been summoned for the Declan King spill-over court case yet?" he asked.

  "Ah, bugger it. I'd forgotten all about that."

  The Declan King spill-over case, as we called it, wasn't actually to do with the trial of Declan King, a former notorious Auckland crime lord, but rather to do with the fall-out from his death several months ago. He'd had vast interests in much of Auckland's night time scene, as well as several front companies that hid a good portion of his dirty money, whilst managing to work closely with legitimate holdings, some even connected to cops and a swathe of prominent lawyers.

  It was almost as though the man had been laughing in all our faces posthumously. It was a proverbial clusterfuck of inter-related criminal activity, the fact that people of good standing were being sucked into it too, only made it more interesting to the press and public. Carl, Pierce and I had all worked the case, along with a fair few of the other detectives in CIB. At some stage I would have to give evidence in court; I hadn't been summoned for that as yet.

  I shook my head to answer his earlier question, and asked, "Have they set a date?"

  "The Crown Prosecutor managed to pin one down next month. Got my call-up yesterday."

  "I guess mine's in the mail," I grumbled.

  "Fun, fun, fun," Pierce agreed.

  "Isn't it always?"

  He chuffed out a laugh. "Where's your partner?"

  My hands tightened on my paper coffee cup, making the material buckle. Pierce noticed.

  "Busy checking up on his other job," I forced out.

  "Not going good, huh? Want me to kick his arse for you?"

  I smiled, showing teeth. "Not before I do, Sarge."

  "That's the spirit," he quipped. "Right, I'm off; got a canary to make sing. Catch you later, Keen."

  Talk of Pierce's snitch made me think of what the Inspector had suggested. Could I actually do it? Set a trap using an innocent - well, innocent in this regard - civilian. I knew it might just come to that. For now though, I'd follow more traditional leads.

  I spent the next two hours going over the evidence reports, forensics and autopsies, seeing if I'd missed anything. Taking the odd break to munch down a chocolate bar, organise the warrant for the security camera footage down at the restaurants on Quay Street, and offering a few ribs back to those detectives still on station. Two hours went too fast and I would have kept at it, but my cellphone buzzed with a call from Michaels.

  I let it go to voice-mail in a fit of childish pique.

  Knowing he'd try here next, I grabbed my jacket, locked my desk drawer and logged out of my computer, then high-tailed it out of the station thinking fresh air was the solution to everything.

  He was still my partner, so I figured I'd give it an extra hour or two and then touch base. Just long enough for him to know I was still pissed off. But I had no intention of locking him out indefinitely. My anger may have demanded it, but my gut and Carl's incessant tut-tutting inside my head, let me know I couldn't succumb to base emotions. We both had a job to do, despite his untrustworthy behaviour.

  Despite the fact that sometimes I couldn't even think straight when he was so near.

  I'd known it was going to be hard, I just hadn't figured how hard it would be. I pushed it all to the back of my mind as I approached my next mark.

  For a twenty-eight year old drop-out, Anton Burgess hung around with a very young crowd. No doubt corrupting them, or taking advantage of them, I was never too sure. He was a clever sneak, that's why Carl had used him. He found out things that other informants rarely knew. His death had shocked me. Not just the brutality of it, the fact it had looked personal; knives always are. But that he'd allowed himself to get into a situation that stole his life. Anton Burgess had been more intelligent than that.

  His decision to spend his days at the skatepark in Victoria Park instead of using his quick mind in a more societally acceptable way was what had made Anton Burgess an interesting subject. But I wasn't naive enough to believe it hadn't been an educated choice on his part. Anton did business here, it just wasn't always financial.

  I'd questioned many of these kids at the time of Anton's death, but maybe I just hadn't been asking the correct questions. This time I had a definite goal in mind, but that didn't mean I could just barge on in there and hound the fuck out of them. This would take a little time.

  It was already seven in the evening, the sun was low in the sky and the shadows long over the concrete dips and curves, sharp edges and overhangs of the skatepark. I watched from a short distance as a kid of about sixteen grabbed the base of his board as he flew up into the air, hanging suspended for a moment, and then gracefully arced back down to land on the wheels with a small squeak of rubber and plastic.

  Poetry in motion. You could appreciate the aesthetics of the dance, but underlining it was a dog eat dog competition to out-do the next show. I took in the groups of kids, the appraisals each made when a particularly complicated manoeuvre was performed, the condescension, the catcalls, the purposeful snubs. If I was interested in psychology, I'd find study of the behavioural habits of skatepark participants an interesting thesis.

  Instead, I just wanted to pick the right mark to start with.

  I found him off to the side, surrounded by sycophant admirers, lording over his peeps with a superior air. They called him Jet. I guess, as in he could fly like one.

  I walked over, making sure I was spotted well before I made his side. He cocked his head, crossed his baggy jeans clad ankles and watch my approach. His highly stylised board was resting wheels out against the concrete wall to his side. It was scuffed and marked up, badges of honour.

  "Got a second for a few questions?" I asked, flashing my badge so everyone could see. Several on the fringes pulled back and disappeared, probably carrying some weed about their person. "It's regarding Anton Burgess," I added, gaining the remaining audience's attention.

  "Dude, you found out who did him?" the head skaterboy asked.

  "We're investigating a few leads," I replied, non-committally. "I spoke to you last week, didn't I? Jet is it?"

  He nodded, crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

  "I'm Detective Keen."

  "I remember."

  Not exactly a seal of approval, but the fact that he'd acknowledged me, confirmed we'd spoken already, paved the way for those who looked up to him to feel sufficiently comfortable answering my further questions. I'd probably be here a while.

  "There's just one thing that's been bugging me," I admitted, reeling them further in. "Maybe you can shed some light on it for me."

  "Sure," he said, the tone slightly sarcastic. I'm not certain what is with today's youths, but it's like drawing blood from a stone. I'm positive when I was young, if a cop came up and asked you a question, you'd rush to offer a reply.

  No, maybe that was because my father was a cop and I was never able to hide a damn thing from him.

  "We never found his board, don't even have a description. He always had a skateboard with him. Do you remember what it looked like?" I asked.

  "Hell, yeah. It was a refurbished Comet Shred 35. Had some wicked art done by Shark over on Great South Road in Penrose." The exact description of the skateboard we had in lock-up.

  "Yeah, I remember seeing him with that in the past. He only had the one?"

  "Nah, he had several, but that was his fave. He'd just bought a sick Element BAM live and a Zoo York Westgate deck, but that was just to trade." So, Anton was into drugs, yet the toxicology results were clear.

  Stepping up in the world, Anton? Pushing not using, what a way to ca
pitalise on all that brain power.

  "Trade?" I'd play dumb.

  Skaterboy shifted, scratched at his straggling beard, and shook his head. "Not like you lot don't know what sketchy trades go down here." I admired this kid's guts.

  "And Anton was into the trades?"

  "Started to be, yeah, dude."

  "Gotta have a bit of cash to play that game," I commented.

  "Oh, he had the cash, all right."

  I rocked back on my heels, hands in my pockets, the look of casual ease.

  "That right? Wouldn't have picked him for loaded."

  "He wasn't," the kid agreed. "But somethin' must have changed, 'cause suddenly he's all big-shot trader, hangin' with the posers, fleecin' them, no doubt."

  "No doubt. When did he start doing that?"

  "About a week before he bought it."

  Sudden show of wealth, buying top name-brand boards, entering into the nefarious drug trades skater scene, all within a week of being killed. Damn. Three informants, paid big bucks, to do what?

  I spent the next hour and a half questioning the rest of the crowd at the park, coming up with more and more references to the apparent change in Anton Burgess' finances. I hadn't gone this route with my first sweep of the park, back when Anton had just died. No one had suggested his circumstances had altered recently back then, but sometimes a little time and distance was all it took for the shock and fear associated with a murder to wear off and the questioned to open up.

  Skaterboy had been more forthcoming this time than last. Not entirely unexpected, and if you don't ask the right leading questions, often an interviewee won't stray too far from the path. The right questions had elicited the right answers this time.

  Anton Burgess, Thomas Withers and Tyrone Anderson had all come into large sums of money prior to their deaths.

  Another connection. Just what the hell did it mean?

  Chapter Twelve

  "The job will pull you in and hold you down, unless you find a way to shut it the fuck off. A hobby, alcohol, mindless sex. Doesn't much matter, Sport. Just don't let it suck you dry without living a little first."