I smiled and kept staring at the tauntingly still closed door.
“What do you think he’ll say?” I said after a while of silence, nodding towards where we knew Hart was.
“I’m not playing this game with you, Keen,” Pierce shot back.
I turned to look at him, really look at him. He looked like shit. Much like how I felt.
“What do you have to say?” I asked with a pertinent look.
“You want me to speculate? Or offer you an impartial synopsis of what I see so far?”
“Go with the unbiased route.”
“OK,” he said, leaning back in his chair and getting comfortable. Then he lifted his hand and started ticking off points on his fingers. “Dead woman across the street from the Irreverent Inferno. Said to have a kinky lifestyle. Witnessed at Sweet Hell one week before with a member who happens to be a prominent cop. Those are the facts. What do they tell us? One: There is no way to officially connect her with the back room cavern and the group of hooded perverted men. Two: She was, however, the right type of person to visit an establishment like that. Three: Due to those proclivities, her presence in the Sweet Hell part of the club therefore makes sense, and leads us to believe she was probably there willingly. And four: Superintendent Keen knew her, was at least seen with her, but that is all we know for sure.”
He shrugged his shoulders and then crossed his arms over his chest.
“And that’s it. That’s all we’ve got. But tie in her boss, the CEO of her place of work and husband to a timid and meek woman, add in his membership admission to Sweet Hell, where the victim was seen, according to him. Throw in his testimony that she was witnessed accompanying Ethan Keen to a back room, and you’ve got a potential red herring. That’s my unbiased opinion.”
“You think Gordon’s good for it,” I surmised.
“I think David Gordon could have been hiding something, using Superintendent Keen as a shield. He needs further investigation.”
“But so does Keen.”
“Are you so sure you want to uncover your father’s secrets?”
“Are you so determined to be blinded to them because he’s a cop?”
We stared at each other and then Pierce rubbed at his goatee beard.
“All right,” he finally said. “What do you have to say?”
“A woman was strangled to death, during a liaison across the street from Sweet Hell. Her boyfriend confirms breath control play as being a regular part of their sexual activities. Sweet Hell has a kinky cavern and group of perverted men who get off watching an anonymous member of their group perform oral sex on a “lamb” presented on an altar. Superintendent Keen and David Gordon are both confirmed members of that private club. Both knew the victim, or in the case of Keen, is believed to know the victim. But let’s assume this intel is correct. Gordon treats his wife like a submissive. We don’t know about Keen’s persuasion, but he was seen heading to an intimate setting with a woman who openly embraces kinky sex. We can’t confirm or deny their involvement with the Irreverent Inferno part of the club, but we don’t need to. The murder was on the street. The men both knew the victim. The victim enjoyed public shows of affection, and affection for her was kinky in origin. Ergo both men need to be investigated further and kinky sex gone too far is the key.”
Pierce stared at me for a very long time.
“You scare me sometimes, Keen.”
“Thank you,” I said, not sure if that was the correct answer.
“No, really,” he said with meaning. “This is your father we’re talking about.”
“This is a suspect in a murder case we’re discussing,” I corrected.
He whistled low, under his breath.
“Hart’s going to flip,” Pierce finally said, giving me the answer I was after all along.
“Keen will put up brick walls.”
He turned to look at me. I was staring at the still closed door to Hart’s office but I saw him move out of the corner of my eye.
“Tell me about him,” he murmured.
I closed my eyes and tipped back my head, letting a long breath of air out. I wouldn’t be able to do this with anyone unless it related to work. Damon didn’t even know half of this.
But this was work. Pierce was asking for the case. It wasn’t personal.
That’s what I told myself, anyway.
“I don’t know what his sexual preferences are,” I started.
“And thank fuck for that,” Pierce threw in.
I ignored the interruption.
“But after my mother died he never lacked for company. And those women were… exotic.”
“Exotic? Explain.”
“Lots of skin,” I said, eyes still closed, visualising his many conquests in my mind. “Slinky outfits. They always smelled of too much perfume and hairspray.”
“How old were you when this started?”
“Six.”
“Your mother died when you were six?”
“She died when I was five years old, driving home from dropping me off for my first day of primary school.”
“Shit,” Pierce whispered. “I didn’t know.”
I shook my head and looked at my clasped hands resting on my lap.
“He mourned her for exactly three-hundred and sixty-five days.”
Pierce raised an eyebrow. “And your memory of these exotic women of his is that good? Going back to when you were six?”
“I don’t remember the earlier ones, I just remember being alone all the time. It wasn’t until I was in my teens that I realised they all fit a certain description.”
Pierce stopped breathing.
“What description?”
“Tanned skin, dark hair, brown eyes, lots of make-up, very little clothing. The exact opposite of my mother.”
Of me.
“The exact description of the victim,” Pierce concluded. “Fucking hell.”
“It’s circumstantial.”
“You’re defending him now?” He almost sounded put-out on my behalf for the childhood I’d been forced to live.
“I’m a cop,” I argued. “I work the facts. I sort the evidence. I leave my emotions at the door.”
Carl would be proud.
Pierce sighed. “And you’re a damn fine cop, Keen. But are you sure you want to pursue this?”
“What’s the alternative? Ignore a lead?” I shook my head.
“Let me talk to Hart. Stay out of this, hang in the background.” At least he was offering it as a suggestion. And I understood his reasoning, I just couldn’t accept being sidelined as easily as Jones just had.
“Not happening.”
“This is fucking complicated,” Pierce exclaimed, reaching into the paper bag for another doughnut. I couldn’t eat a thing. My stomach was churning and churning and churning.
I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. And a few sips of tar-like coffee didn’t count.
We both sat and stared at Hart’s closed door.
“Whoever’s in there is important,” Pierce said after a long while of him chewing thoughtfully and me drowning in my thoughts.
“We’ve been here for close to an hour,” I agreed.
“Closed door and closed curtains.”
“On a Saturday when the place is usually bare.”
“Hmmm,” Pierce said, and I had the feeling he’d guessed who was in there. But he didn’t enlighten me.
I didn’t try to guess.
Pierce’s cellphone interrupted our silence. He fished it out of his pocket while staring at the perpetually closed door.
“Pierce,” he said around a mouthful of sugary delight.
His whole body stilled. He didn’t look at me, but I knew the conversation was one he didn’t want me to hear.
“When did you find this out?” he said, dusting the fingertips of his free hand off on his jeans leg.
I pulled my own cellphone out and checked my calls, giving him as much privacy as I was prepared to right then. My silent caller hadn’t bee
n back in touch. And neither had Damon. Not that I’d expected him to. But after last night I’d wondered if he’d find a way to do it that couldn’t be traced.
He must have parked down the road, maybe even caught a cab to my address. Parking his car in my front drive would have been a dead giveaway to Nathaniel Marcroft, and as Damon had worked so hard to convince the Sweet Hell owner that he and I were through, then I was sure he’d taken the necessary precautions not to ruin it all with a booty call visit in the dead of night.
Which, once again, raised the question of why? Why did he do it at all?
Pierce rung off his call with a curt, “I’ll be in touch.” Then stared at the door.
“Progress?” I asked, knowing damn well he didn’t want to talk about it.
He did another of those frustrated, exhausted, why-me? sighs and scrubbed at his jaw.
“You know I’ll find out eventually,” I pressed.
“What, is this kindergarten? I can’t have a private conversation without being harassed?”
I lifted my hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “Hey! Just saying, you’re all pissed off and huffy, and haven’t looked at me once since you answered that secret phone call.”
“God, sometimes I hate that you’re a decent cop.”
I smiled at that. Big beaming, teeth-showing grin.
He looked at the ground, face serious.
“Michaels is on for tonight.”
What did that mean?
“Oh?” I managed.
“Passed the second circle test. Moving onto the third. What was it?”
“Gluttony,” I said absently, my mind reeling.
“Yeah. Gluttony. I guess he’ll be eating a shit-load tonight.”
“Gluttony may not refer to just food,” I countered, trying desperately not to think what I was thinking inside. “You know the saying, ‘Glutton for punishment.’ Could be he has to show gluttony for something, not necessarily overindulgence in eating.”
“What do you think a place like that would expect you to be gluttonous about?” Pierce asked, looking at me for the first time since the phone call.
He looked shattered.
He looked embarrassed.
“How did he pass the test?” I asked, my throat dry. My heart crushed under a weight of emotional torment.
“Proved he could succumb to lust.”
“How?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I have a right to know, Ryan.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes you certainly do.”
I opened my mouth to demand he tell me then, when Hart’s door unlocked and he appeared, back-lit by sunshine, his greying hair slicked back as per usual, his large form taking up the entirety of the doorway, so we couldn’t see clearly who stood behind him. His tie was undone.
“Ah, fuck,” Pierce muttered, when Hart turned to let his guest past. “His tie’s undone.”
Detective Inspector David Hart was a tough old bugger who prided himself on dressing well. Shirt pressed and clean. Trousers professionally laundered. Hair immaculate. Tie always done up and straight.
If it was crooked or missing, all hell was about to break loose.
But I didn’t need the tie to clue me in on how hell was about to fall apart. The man behind Hart had stepped into the CIB main room, no longer hidden by his shadow.
I stood up. Pierce followed my move, a solid figure supporting me at my shoulder. He even moved closer. I was sure it was unintentional. It showed too much. How he cared. How I needed his strength right in that moment.
“Lara-Marie,” my father said, walking towards us as though he hadn’t just spent over an hour in my superior’s office, right when information had arisen connecting him to a homicide. “Working on a Saturday,” he added. “I’m surprised.”
“Crime never takes a break, sir,” I said, suddenly realising, with a stomach somersaulting whoosh, what the formal address actually meant. From the age of six, my father had insisted I call him ‘sir.’
Holy shit.
I wondered how many of his exotic beauties had used the same title in his bedroom.
Oh, God. I felt sick.
“Are you all right?” he asked, cocking his head at me. I must have paled. Or turned green.
“Doughnuts,” I said weakly. “Too many doughnuts.”
“My fault,” Pierce offered quickly. “Can’t get enough of the things.” He picked up his half full bag of doughnut holes and held it out in offering. “Would you like to try one, Superintendent?”
God, we looked like the keystone cops.
“The Superintendent has more important things to do than eat your damn doughnut holes, Pierce,” Hart exclaimed. “I expect more from a senior sergeant than this!”
“Indeed,” my father announced, superciliously. He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.
He turned toward Hart and gave him his full attention. Dismissing us with that simply move.
“You’ll deal with this as requested, then?” he asked.
Hart didn’t so much as bristle, but something dangerous shifted behind his eyes.
“I’ll do what’s expected, sir.”
“Good. Right then. Good day,” my father said, not offering a personal farewell. He turned on his heel and we all watched him walk out of CIB and down the hall.
Ryan crossed to the door and peered around it, then came back in once he’d seen my father board the elevator down the hall. He let a low whistle out and thrust his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his feet.
His eyes locked on Inspector Hart.
“I gather the plot just thickened,” he said softly.
“If it got any thicker we’d be up to our bloody necks in treacle,” Hart replied.
Then turned and looked at me.
“You up for this, Keen?”
Was I up for it? Up for what?
“Sir?”
“Don’t give me that shit, Detective. Your father just presented me with a signed affidavit pinning him at Sweet Hell for three hours with our murder victim, Samantha Hayes, last Saturday night. He’s admitted to carrying out a casual liaison with the woman on the Sweet Hell premises and in various hotel rooms around town. He’s given dates and times, as well.”
Holy fucking shit.
“He’s also confirmed his alibi for the morning of her death.”
I felt nothing at that news.
“What I want to know is why it took him over twenty-four hours to come here, even after you visited his office and personally advised him of our investigation into Sweet Hell. What I want to know is why am I being ordered by the Assistant Commissioner to leave the man alone.”
I swallowed nervously. Pierce remained silent. I wasn’t sure what the Inspector was after.
“Did he mention the Irreverent Inferno?” I asked, surprising all of us, I think.
Hart stared at me for a very long time.
Then, “No. He did not mention, either verbally or in writing, a connection with the Irreverent Inferno. Why is that?”
I blinked, started to pace. Both men remained silent.
Then I stopped.
“Because he can’t.”
“Not because he isn’t involved?” Pierce queried.
“Oh, he’s involved. But he just can’t talk about it.”
“Not unless we make him,” Pierce finished for me. “An NDA.”
“Fuck,” Hart muttered. “And my hands are tied.”
Both men looked at me.
“And mine aren’t?” I said, more as a question than a statement.
“What you do in the privacy of your family home with your father is your own concern,” Hart pointed out.
Pierce smiled. It was evil. “Just tell us about it afterwards.”
Oh, holy fucking shit.
Chapter Eighteen
“We all need someone to lean on, Sport. That’s why God gave us broad shoulders and strong arms.”
I promised myself I’d never come b
ack here. Too many wasted hours spent crying over an empty grave. But when I left Pierce and Hart at CIB, discussing “the case,” with instructions to corner my father at his house as soon as possible, I’d somehow ended up here.
Standing in front of a vacant space on a length of brick wall where a memorial plaque had once been.
The wind buffeted my body, flicking strands of hair into my face. My chilled hands held my cellphone in front of me, willing it to ring. He wouldn’t stay silent if he was watching me falling apart right here.
I needed focus. I needed an anchor to stop me spinning away. I felt lost and adrift and I couldn’t tell which way was up and which was down. I gasped every single breath as though I couldn’t get enough oxygen.
I was being strangled by invisible hands. One minute they were attached to the elegant, manicured fingers of my father’s. The next the fingers had bruised and cut knuckles, blood dripping down my chest.
Two more nights. Forty odd hours. And I’d see my shrink again.
For the first time since I started my sessions with Hennessey the next one couldn’t come fast enough.
But what good would he do? Teach me to count my breaths? Ask me how I felt? Patiently wait for me to empty his tissue box and open up a part of myself even I don’t allow myself to get.
I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t go on like this. This was not me.
My father never asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Don’t parents ask those sorts of things? It was just understood. I’d follow in his footsteps. I’d join the police force. Rise up in the ranks. Maintain the Keen name, the Keen tradition.
I wonder now if that was the case. Maybe he would have acted exactly the same way if I’d become a librarian. Seen through me. Not even cared.
Classic abandonment issues. Not that Hennessey has diagnosed my problems as such. Clinical Psychologists don’t diagnose. They treat. They help the patient recognise the triggers that set them off and give them tools to avoid them. But you don’t need a PhD in philosophy to figure out my daddy issues are rooted in his indifference.
And now my boss expects me to walk into the one house I’ve always felt so very alone in and ask my father personal questions about his sexual predilections and not call him sir while I do it.
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