Damon growled and I glared at the back of Pierce's head.
"However, when you saw proof that another woman had been attacked by that piece of shit, you couldn't hold back. Were you angry you'd doubted your sister?"
"I never doubted Carole."
"Then why wait to throw the punch? Why not have done it before now? You could have gotten to the man easily enough. At Zero or out of it."
Damon's bloodshot eyes came up to Pierce's, staring across the space of the table between them. His hands clenched in fists on the surface, a twist of fury on his lips. He was hating this.
"The woman was blonde," he finally said, voice a low growl.
"What woman?" Pierce asked.
"That woman. Tonight. Stacey Lawrence."
"So? Is your sister?" Short shake of Damon's head.
I took a step backwards. Damon's eyes flicked to my face. My hair. Pierce turned slowly in his seat.
"Motherfucker," he whispered, taking in the colour of my hair, a close match to the tousled blonde on those sheets. "You pictured Detective Keen," he added.
Damon sank back into his chair, silence echoing through the room.
"He kept looking at her, while she questioned Stacey," Damon said eventually. "He..."
"He what?" Pierce again. The man never stopped.
I wanted him to. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what came next.
"His eyes," Damon murmured, ran a hand over his mouth. "Kept darting to Keen's hair, back to the bed, over to the restraints. Again and again and a-fucking-gain."
"He was picturing Detective Keen in those restraints."
"He had a fucking hard-on."
"Did he not have an erection when you walked in the room?"
"Yes, but it abated when Keen took control of the scene and ordered him to untie the woman."
"He got aroused again when he was looking at Detective Keen's hair, the bed, and the restraints?"
"Yes," Damon bit out.
Pierce sat back in his own chair. "It'll be on camera."
Damon only grunted.
"OK. We'll call it a night for now. I'll have to confer with my superior officer. You'll be escorted back to the cells until we can formalise charges and organise bail. Interview ended, oh four-fifteen."
It seemed wrong, that he would still be charged. I knew Pierce felt it too. It was wrong. But justice is never the law. Carlism 101.
Pierce stood, opened the door and ushered a uniformed officer inside the room. Damon stumbled up from his chair and walked around the table. I took a step closer, no idea what I was about to do.
But Damon just said softly, "Don't." Shook his head, his back now to me, and then walked out of the room.
I had a sudden and horrible realisation, that it was out of my life too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Life keeps chucking rocks at your head. Sooner or later you're gonna get hit."
Six months he'd been out of my life, but the thought of him being gone from it forever chilled me. I couldn't function for the weariness, heartache and fear.
"Go home and get some sleep," Pierce ordered, standing beside my desk. "Tomorrow we push Collins with Carole Michaels, use it to catch Smith. And maybe crack the connection to the murders as well."
"She doesn't want to get involved," I said hollowly.
"Maybe, maybe not. Michaels is the protective sort. For now though, we just use her name, use our knowledge of what went down, to shake Collins up."
It made perfectly reasonable police interviewing sense.
It sucked.
"Go home, Keen. You look like shit."
I felt like shit. Disloyal, useless, confused shit.
"OK, I'm going home."
I walked out of CIB in a daze. He'd attacked Collins because of me. I'd never had anyone do something so drastic - and so deranged - because of me. It wasn't to protect me. I was in no immediate danger. It wasn't to revenge me. I hadn't been wronged. It was simply because of the picture of depravity he saw in a man's eyes when that man looked at me.
It was because Damon couldn't stand, even for one moment, to think of me on that bed instead of Stacey Lawrence. It was madness. It was incomprehensible. It was... God, there was no way that could be called love.
And yet, there was something darkly chivalrous about what he had done. I beeped the lock on my car and snorted out loud. Fuck, I needed to sleep.
The journey home was torturous. The lights of oncoming cars almost blinded me. My eyes stung, gritty, too tired, wrecked. I wiped at them ineffectually, pursed my lips, and let out a silent sob.
"You must think I've lost the plot, Old Man," I whispered into the empty car, imagining Carl sitting next to me, like he always did.
It's been a long day, Sport.
A tear escaped. I let a noisy, ragged breath out.
"Now you're just being kind."
Not kind. Real. Life keeps chucking rocks at your head. Sooner or later you're gonna get hit. Now's just your time.
"I don't know what to do," I admitted.
And you're asking me?
"You're not even here," I whispered, rolling my car to a stop in my drive.
"I'm talking to myself," I added.
"You left," I accused.
I couldn't halt the tears this time. I couldn't swallow the sobs. In my police issue sedan, in the driveway of my home, at five in the morning, I finally broke down. I hadn't cried when Damon and I broke up. Nor when Carl had left. Died, dammit. I could blame it on the lack of sleep. It had been over twenty-four hours since I last caught some shut-eye. But I knew better.
He did it because of me. The stupid, idiotic, reckless fool risked his career, his freedom, because of me.
And I had hung him out to dry.
Bile pooled in my mouth and I stumbled out of the driver's door. Somehow managing to not vomit all over my Gerberas and beep the locks closed on the car. I tripped going up the single step to my front door, landing hard against the doorway frame. I wanted to slide down the wall and give in to the need to collapse. But my neighbours would be rising soon, collecting their papers from their porches or driving to work. Seeing the police detective next door crumpled on her doorstep was not a good look for the area.
I fumbled with the lock, managed to get it after the sixth try and staggered inside. Cool, dark and quiet met me. Cocooned me. I leaned back against the closed door and just breathed.
My head hurt. My body hurt. My heart hurt. Everything was so fucked up. Four murders. A killer sending me messages, possibly setting me up, possibly trying to help. A DFSA bust. A partner assaulting a suspect. Caught on film. An ex-partner threatening my sanity, even though he's dead. And none of it - not a single bit - made sense.
I was beyond tired. An emotional and physical wreck. There was nothing I could do tonight. I could hardly walk, let alone think. So I stumbled to the bathroom, stripped, showered, used the loo, then zombie walked to my bed. I don't think I even managed to climb beneath the sheets. I was out like a light before my head hit the pillow.
I woke to birds in the trees outside my window, the curtains still open, a weak winter sun streaming through the leaves of my neighbour's tree. I blinked sleep away, stretched, yawned and then lazily rolled over and stared at the bedside clock.
Two-fifteen, it said. That would be in the afternoon. It must have been a weekend day, but for a moment I couldn't pick which one.
And then the past forty-eight hours sank in.
I groaned. I'd slept for close to nine hours. Naked, on top of my bed. With the curtains wide open. I groaned again and then crawled off the bed, making my way to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later I was fully dressed, fully armed, and munching on a breakfast bar from my pantry as I walked down my front steps. I'd chosen comfortable shoes, ones that didn't torture my angry red toe. I wore fitted navy twill trousers, a lemon blouse and a dark blue trench coat with a wide belt. For once I wasn't flouting the no jeans rule. My gun was secure in a chest holster, easily acces
sed through the low V of the collar, but hidden in the line of the jacket itself.
I took the time to stop off at my local coffee shop ordering the largest triple shot caffeine loaded wake-up beverage on their menu, plus a full fat muffin to top the breakfast bar off. By the time I pulled in at Central Police I was almost human again. And had a mission.
I'd been thinking about it as soon as I woke from my dreamless sleep and recollected yesterday's events. I wasn't sure I was going to achieve it, but I was sure I would do everything in my power to get Damon the necessary aid he needed. And that included confronting Inspector Hart and insisting we help the Investigator too.
I knew it was a long shot, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. There was video footage of the assault. Credible witnesses to the event. Even if I refused to add my testimony to Damon's case, which I intended to, at the very least, do, he was facing impossible odds. But HEAT were our allies, there for us when we needed their help. I would embarrass myself, if I had to. I would even beg. To get Inspector Hart on Damon's side.
It occurred to me, as I approached CIB, that I was about to ruin my reputation with one of the most important people in my professional life. David Hart carried a lot of clout. His acceptance of me in CIB was already borderline, and I was about to put more pressure on that.
But Damon's desperate and haunted look, when he'd held my gaze in that private room, kept flashing before my eyes. I ran a hand over my face, feeling the uselessness of the situation. I had a plan. And I knew the plan sucked. But what else could I do? Sit back and watch a good man fall?
I'd done that once, in the literal sense. I couldn't face seeing Damon fall off a metaphorical cliff for this. For me. Because of me.
I just couldn't.
I heard the buzz of aggravated excitement before I reached CIB's doors. The room was packed. No detectives out beating the streets, hounding their narks. They were all here, and I was clearly late to the party. I frowned as I wound my way through the open plan arrangement of desks, trying to comprehend snippets of animated conversations. I searched the room for Pierce, but came up blank. Spotted Simpson and Cawfield over by the water filter machine, gossiping. No surprises there. So, slipped into my seat quickly to avoid their detection.
A swivel chair rolled across the floor to bump against mine. Trevor Jones giving me a playful shove with his elbow. Unlike Cawfield, Jones was an easy-going guy. Mid-forties, slightly balding, but he kept his blond hair cropped short to his head, so it was hard to tell where the natural receding hairline began and the artificial one ended. He had a moustache to make up for the lack of head cover, it rivalled those of old school firemen; hooked, long and worn with pride. He also spoke with a slight twang, a roll of his Rs, like they do down in Gore.
"Missed all the hullabaloo, Keen," he drawled. "Inspector's rantin', throwin' things 'bout the place. Pierce is in there havin' his arse chewed off. You'll be next. Might wanna head on out and make yourself scarce," he suggested, in what would have been genuine concern for the state of my arse and the potential for it to be chewed off next.
"What's happened?" I was a detective, I could handle an arse chewing.
"Evidence locker got broken in to."
"Holy shit. Caught on security?"
"Nah. Just smudges of some big guy in a floor length coat and a fedora hat. He knew where the cameras were, he dodged 'em all. Never got a facial."
"What did he take?"
"Nothin'." I frowned. "He doctored the video evidence of yesterday's DFSA bust."
The walls in the room closed in. I could feel them moving toward me. Sounds became muffled, like listening to someone yelling beside the pool, when your head was under water. My chest constricted, my palms began to itch with sweat. I couldn't swallow.
"My bust," I managed somehow to say.
"Yeah, but Pierce didn't want you called in. Said you needed a break. And here you are, fresh as a daisy. Ready for a whippin'."
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. What the hell did this mean? How was it doctored?
"How the hell did he do that?" I asked, thinking aloud.
Jones shrugged, leaned back in his chair without a care in the world. Clearly enjoying the upheaval this turn of events brought.
"Had some techno stuff with him. Ran the disc, cut out the last part, returned it to the shelf. Then logged into the system under Hart's password and made sure there was no further trace of the thing anywhere else."
"We just had the one copy," I murmured.
"Yep. Hadn't had a chance to make a back-up yet. Pierce had decided to check the footage in the mornin'. Apparently he was pretty knackered last night too."
Pierce had been up as long as me. And he had a wife and kid to go home to.
My eyes swept over the room to Hart's closed door. The blinds shut on the glass window that made up one wall facing the open plan room where our desks sat. Good God. I needed to get in there. It was my case. My partner on that film. Oh, crap. Had Damon's assault of Collins been what was wiped?
Who would do that? One of us? I glanced around the room, looking at each face on each of the detectives I'd come to know over the past few years. All of them like family. Some closer to me than others. No. We wouldn't have done this. Surely not.
And oh, Christ. Would they think I had? Michaels was my partner, assigned to me. And what if they knew we'd been intimate. We'd kept our relationship quiet the first time around, only Carl had known how close we'd become. But now?
I rubbed at my stomach, feeling like the coffee, muffin and breakfast bar were about to come back up. I had a very bad feeling about this.
But I also had nothing to hide.
I rose on shaking legs, Jones saying something about, "Don't do anythin' stupid, Keen." And started toward the Inspector's office door. It felt a million miles away. I was sure, as one by one those detectives in the room realised I was present and walking to my death so started to hackle, that I'd never make it.
Taunts and teases were thrown out one after the other, some good natured, some in support. And in the case of Cawfield, some downright disgusting.
I didn't look at any of them. I pretended my face wasn't burning, my hands weren't shaking, and my heart wasn't trying to leap out of my chest. I tucked my hair behind my ears, considered knocking, and then reached for the handle and just opened the door.
The voices inside stopped mid-sentence, I sucked in a deep breath, crossed the threshold and shut the door at my back. My eyes settled on Pierce, who looked strained, and then the Inspector, who looked thunderous with rage.
"Sir, Sarge," I said, with a firm nod of my head to each respective man. "I believe there's been a development to my case."
"A development," Hart murmured. His voice soft and more lethal because of it. "I'd say there's been a development. There's been several."
"Several?" I asked, purposely moving closer to his desk and taking the seat beside where Pierce sat.
My body was strung so tight, I thought if I shifted wrong and bumped the edge of the chair I'd shatter.
"You've heard about the intruder we've had last night?" Hart asked.
He wasn't leaning back, legs crossed at the knee, face tipped to the ceiling in his contemplative stance. He was resting his elbows on the table, his palms flat on the surface and leaning forward as though he was about to leap across the desk and throttle me. Or possibly Pierce, I couldn't exactly tell.
"Got wind of it out on the floor, sir. Not specifics."
"I'll give you specifics, Detective," Hart said. I held his gaze. It was fucking hard to do. The man was more irate than I had ever seen him before in my life. "At oh-six-twenty-seven this morning the evidence locker was opened by an unidentified source. Who proceeded to locate your back room club scene case, and no other, then pulled out the video evidence from the events in the private room. He ran the disc through a laptop he had brought with him. Our cameras show the back of his head while this occurred and little else. He returned the disc to the evidence bo
x, and then accessed our secured mainframe using my password and login information. He checked the on-line files associated with the case, possibly to determine there was no copy of the disc made. Once satisfied, he logged off, exited the evidence locker and left the building. We do not have a clear shot of his face."
Pretty much what Jones had said, but delivered in a decidedly more terrifying manner.
"Do you have anything you'd like to say about any of this, Detective Keen?" Hart asked.
I slowed my breathing down with concerted effort, then said, "What part of the footage was tampered with?"
"Interesting question," Hart replied. "The part that shows Investigator Damon Michaels beat the crap out of the suspect. Just that. We still have footage of what happened prior. The events inside the room leading up to you breaking down the door. You taking control of the scene, the questions you asked the victim. Even coverage of Tane Collins and his reaction to you."
I didn't even blink. I'd known this. Jones had said as much at my desk. Not specifics, but enough to work out what part of the disc had been altered, wiped clean.
"But the footage is blank right before we believe Investigator Michaels crossed the room to throw the first punch," Hart continued. "Right up to the end. Our computer forensics team has assessed the disc. There is no chance of recovery. It was permanently done."
I let a slow breath of air out, feeling light headed, despite the fact I had food in my belly and had slept well.
"But that's not all," Hart said. "Tell her the rest," he instructed Pierce, finally sitting back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes a moment later and didn't reopen them. His superiors would be breathing down his neck. This was an Inspector's worst nightmare. Corruption of a case.
I turned to look at Pierce, who was scratching at his goatee beard. Looking just as tired as last night. I wondered how much sleep he'd gotten, or whether he was called back before he even made it to his home in Gulf Harbour, way up north of the Harbour Bridge.
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