“We need to talk about David Gordon,” Pierce said, in an obvious attempt to fill the awkward silence left inside the room.
I grasped at the lifeline he offered. I could feel myself scrabbling for it, in fact.
“We know he’s a member of Sweet Hell. And we know he had a working relationship with Samantha Hayes.”
“He also blatantly placed suspicion on Superintendent Ethan Keen,” Pierce countered, using my father’s title in an effort, I think, to keep things professional. Offering a buffer for my brutal emotions to batter ineffectually against.
“Who has admitted to his connection to the murder victim as well as Sweet Hell.”
“Two possible suspects, but there’s more,” Pierce added. I arched my brow at him. “The assault victim found in Boardman Lane, just down the road from Sweet Hell.”
“What about him?”
“Also a member of Sweet Hell and an employee of Bainbridge’s.”
Nick whistled, listening in on our conversation while he manoeuvred and manipulated CCTV camera angles.
“Is he conscious? Can we question him?” I asked.
“I’ve got Jones on it. Managed to confirm his Sweet Hell membership. But he refused to admit knowing the Irreverent Inferno.”
“Gag order,” I surmised.
“That’s what I’m guessing.”
“And to have an NDA, there’d need to be a valid reason.”
“Morality not enough?” Nick asked. “Some of these men are in prominent public positions. And any leak about the sort of thing that we witnessed last night, would be enough to scare the crap out of them.”
“Gag orders are one thing,” I mused. “But a murder? Surely someone would break their contract anonymously for that.”
“You’d think so,” Pierce agreed. “Unless more than one person is involved.”
I rubbed a hand over my face and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“So,” Pierce said, ignoring my theatrics. “We’re betting on Sweet Hell, at least the Irreverent Inferno part of the exclusive club, being involved. Which brings in the Marcrofts. Kyan Marcroft is already under investigation with the SFO, his name was always near the top of our suspect list. Add in David Gordon, tied to both victims and Sweet Hell. Throw in the superintendent, likewise linked to both through Sweet Hell, at the very least. And we’ve got three obvious candidates for a team up.”
“We need more names,” I said with a shake of my head. “There were twenty-six members inside that cavern. Assuming that’s their complete membership then we’re short twenty-two potential suspects.”
“Sixteen,” Nick corrected. “Six of those twenty-six were initiates. We can assume they’re joining the club after the fact.”
Both Pierce and I nodded our heads in unison.
“There’s a luncheon tomorrow,” Pierce suddenly said, but I got the impression he’d just been building up to the correct moment to drop it into the conversation. “Charity event. Black tie. At the Town Hall on Queen Street. ‘Auckland City Supports the EMS.’ The Marcrofts are attending. So is David Gordon and his wife.”
“Great,” I murmured, throwing myself into a vacant chair. I could tell where this was going.
“So is your father,” Pierce concluded.
Fucking great. He’d called him my father, not the superintendent.
“He has a plus-one listed.” I lifted my eyes to Pierce’s. He was unashamedly holding my stare. “You need to convince him to take you.”
I started shaking my head.
“Pull rank.”
“Pull rank? He’s higher ranked than Inspector Hart and I don’t know the assistant commissioner.”
“Not that sort of rank.”
“Then wh…?” Oh, no.
“Mend bridges. Guilt trip him. I don’t particularly care. You need to be there. Question each one. Public spaces, where cameras might be lurking, make for an interesting playground, indeed.” Fuck, it was almost a Carlism. “They could slip up.”
“‘Auckland City Supports the EMS,’” I said softly.
“Yes.” Pierce kept his steady gaze on my face. “All prominent emergency services personnel will be in attendance.” Including Damon. The Chief Investigator at HEAT.
I hadn’t heard about it. But then, it had probably been organised several months ago, and Damon and I had only just got back together. It possibly had slipped his mind. Or he’d intended to take someone else with him.
I wasn’t used to feeling this sort of doubt. This sensation of being so lost. Damon confused me. Confused what was already a fucked up outlook on love. In everything else in my life, I was confident. In a relationship, I was a mess.
I wondered what Hennessey would have to say about that.
“All right,” I said on an expelled breath of air. “I’ll contact my father and tell him to change his plans.”
“Good. We need something, Lara. We’ve got jack shit.”
I nodded, but a sick feeling had settled in my gut.
“Damon’s arrived at Sweet Hell,” Nick said quietly, no doubt picking up on the tension and rocky emotions flying around the room. “Heading to the back door now.”
I watched as he walked down the side alley to the carpark at the rear. We’d lose sight of him around the back; only Sweet Hell’s cameras were operative behind the building itself. And Nick’s tech team had still not gained access to those.
Hence the cloak riddled with cameras, that Damon carried over his arm as though it was normal fashion wear.
He stepped out of view and a few seconds later the cameras came on, lighting up several screens in front of Nick. He twirled a few dials, swiped a few switches, until he was happy. And then we watched as Damon did a three sixty, showing us a deserted parking area, save for the Rolls Royce and Jaguar, which we’d confirmed belonged to both Marcrofts.
He knocked on the door to the Irreverent Inferno, and was ushered inside a few moments later by a hooded figure we couldn’t identify. He handed over his holographic invitation, which was checked under a UV light and returned.
“You need to sign this,” the hooded figure announced, indicating documents on the table beside the velvet chair Kyan had used. His voice was muffled. I couldn’t identify it as one of the Marcrofts’, but I was betting it had to be.
Damon pretended to read the fine print and then signed where he needed, handing the documents over to the hooded man.
“Welcome to the club,” the man announced, identity still hard to detect. He pocketed the NDA and turned away in a swish of flapping robes I was sure he’d practiced to effect the theatrical move.
No further words were exchanged as the guide led Damon down a different hallway than the one Jones and I had used. Opening up a grand door, similar to the one on the Sweet Hell side of the building, to the flame lit cavern within. Several men stood around the shadowed space, but the room itself had changed from last night.
The altar, for one, was gone. Which was a relief, until you noted several spaces, hidden by sheer screens that showed only shadows behind, dotted around the four corners of the room. In each the shadows were detailed enough to make out some of what they contained. One had a large bed, framed with soft hanging curtains, another a hard backed chair with God knows what lined up to the side. The third corner housed a rack. I could only identify it because I’d seen a similar one in a sex club just over three weeks ago. Memories of that night had my palms becoming moist with nervous sweat.
The last corner was the most concerning. Because it was already occupied. A lone figure hung suspended, arms pulled taut above their bowed head. It was obvious the captive was male; he was naked and even shadows artfully arranged gave enough insight into the state of his arousal. He was alone, no hooded figure kept him company. But even though he hung limply, his erection let you know he was aware.
There was silence in the control room as we took in more and more of the cavern at Sweet Hell. Damon did an excellent job of turning casually to display the ent
ire space, but the multiple cameras Nick had fastened to the cloak provided the most coverage. Letting us see the card table and roulette wheel set-up on one side. The fully stocked bar and stripper pole across from it. Sofas and lounging areas carefully arranged for optimum viewing existed here and there. But the real action would be in the corners. Even if gambling was your drug of choice, it was clear the Irreverent Inferno wished for its members to overindulge in sexual delights.
Sweet Hell was a boutique casino. These members could have gotten their drug and gambling fixes out there. This was darker and more sinister, and definitely not for the lightweight glutton who frequented these sorts of hells.
A thick haze had already started to turn the area into a murky and dimly lit twilight. Damon coughed under his breath and muttered, “Incense,” into his mic. Music had started up in the background, haunting, sensual, a rhythmic beat that reminded you of sex. It hid his words from any hooded figure who might have been too close. But he needed to be careful, comments like that could raise alarms.
“Well,” Nick said, leaning back in his chair and watching all of the screens at once, it seemed. “That’s some set-up they’ve got going there. This should be entertaining.”
Pierce ignored his comment.
“No Carole Michaels,” he said.
“Not yet, anyway,” I added, staring at the lone figure hanging in the fourth corner of the room.
“Hold up,” Nick announced. Sitting forward in his seat.
“What is it?” Pierce asked, crowding the other man and making me have to move in order to see what was happening as well.
“Isn’t he one of yours?” Nick remarked. “The same one following your man last night?”
“Jesus,” Pierce whispered, flicking a glance at me. Then returning his attention to the screen.
Where Joe Cawfield casually walked down the driveway of Sweet Hell towards the back door. Carrying a cloak over his arm.
“Well, I guess that answers that,” I said, feeling shocked even though this wasn’t really a surprise.
My eyes found Pierce’s. He looked sad, disappointed even. He always did have too much faith in his fellow man.
“Do we add a fifth suspect to that list?” I asked, making Pierce clench his jaw.
Cawfield stepped out of sight.
And two minutes later a new hooded figure stepped into the cavern-like room from the same door that Damon had used.
We watched him standing still just across the threshold through Damon’s cloak cameras. Then saw his hood look directly at where Damon stood.
With determined strides he crossed the room and walked up to Damon’s side.
“What’s your poison?” he said, his voice sounding different. Deeper. More resonant.
“What’s yours?” Damon returned, sounding just like himself.
“He’s using a voice distorter,” Nick offered. I could practically hear Pierce grind his teeth.
Cawfield nodded towards the lone figure hanging behind the sheer screen in the fourth corner.
“That’s the winning ticket, over there.”
“Winning ticket?” Damon queried, a hint of disgust showing through in his tone.
“You claim that one and you’ll skip right to the eighth circle,” Cawfield drawled in that strangely tonal voice.
Damon said nothing. Probably trying to reason it out like me.
The third circle was gluttony. Where they were now. The fourth through seventh were greed, anger, heresy and violence respectively. Making the eighth fraud. It didn’t make any sense.
“Come on,” Cawfield said. “I’m your mentor. You’ve been assigned to me.”
“What… the fuck?” Pierce announced very succinctly.
Damon followed behind Cawfield, an obedient student trailing his teacher. They came to a stop on the other side of the screen. Where that lone figure hung. My stomach somersaulted inside my belly. My heart attempted to do the same thing.
“I’ve got high hopes for you, Initiate,” Cawfield said. “Very high hopes.”
Then Damon turned to look at the man hanging in the corner, bringing the cameras into a position so we could all see.
“Oh shit,” breathed Pierce, swinging towards me.
But I was already running across the control room, pulling on the door handle. Finding it locked.
“Open the fucking door,” I growled at Nick. Who simply looked toward Pierce, watching as he raised his hands in a placating manner, trying to get me to still.
“Now hang on, Keen,” Pierce urged. “Just take a breath.”
My eyes swept past his shoulder until I could see the screen.
And Eagle hanging from a hook in the ceiling, swaying slightly, sleek body glistening in the flickering light from a naked flame, glazed eyes looking directly at Damon.
Chapter Twenty-One
“It’s hard to tell fact from fiction, Sport. Never make the mistake of believing something until you know it’s the truth.”
“He’s been drugged,” I exclaimed.
“Possibly willingly,” Pierce offered in a placating manner that did not placate at all.
I made a scoffing sound and started to pace. It was clear Nick wasn’t unlocking the control room door for me, until Pierce indicated he could. And pulling my service weapon felt too dangerous in the current mood I was in. I’d already pulled it once on Cawfield for a simple unwanted kiss. I was too close to losing it. A gun in my hand with people who weren’t actually harming me, was a step too far for me, at least.
“Think about this,” Nick offered. “Yes his eyes looked glazed and he’s tied up. But he’s not struggling and he’s clearly enjoying the attention right now.”
“That could be the drug,” I countered, resolutely.
“Do you know of a narcotic that can make your eyes glazed, steal your will to fight back, and turn you on?” Pierce queried.
I stood still, totally stumped. Most benzodiazepines used in date rate type scenarios stole your will and gave you glazed eyes. But they did not induce arousal. In fact, they were known to reduce it.
“Could it be laced with an erectile stimulant?” I asked, wanting desperately not to believe my friend would seek this out willingly.
But Eagle was a unique young man. He sought excitement on the streets. He revelled in the dichotomy of providing a little slice of heaven in a filthy back alleyway. He was unashamed at his choice of profession. Proud of his role in offering a service as old as time. And definitely unafraid of the darker side of what his lifestyle could bring.
Eagle was defiant in his adventurous nature. Making a mockery of those less sexually free. I’d been the recipient of his teasing in that regard for years.
“Possible,” Pierce conceded. “But unlikely. I haven’t heard of anything like that on the streets and to acquire it from scratch would indicate a level of production I just don’t see Sweet Hell undertaking.”
“Indulgence and excess seem to be their thing,” Nick added, watching the screen again. “But obtained in a most basic and simplistic way. Quick fixes. Easy highs. Immediate reward. That’s how I see them.”
“Nick’s right, Keen,” Pierce said softly. “And Eagle went willingly to that open night, he’s probably there willingly now. To interfere and pull him out could be for nothing. And would definitely ruin the sting.”
I stared at the screen. Watching Eagle swaying in front of Damon and Cawfield. Watching him lick his lips hungrily as he stared at the two hooded figures before him. He angled himself front on, as though trying to get their attention. Or maybe seek relief for what was embarrassingly an impressive amount of stimulation.
I lowered my face into my hands. I couldn’t watch any longer. I’d caught glimpses of Eagle in action, but I’d never hung around to watch. This seemed remarkably personal, whereas those encounters on the street had been more business than pleasure.
Eagle was a good actor. But this didn’t seem like an act.
“OK,” Pierce said, seeing I was calmed e
nough not to run off and bust Sweet Hell blowing Damon’s cover. “Now, what the fuck is Cawfield doing there?”
I did look back up at that, angling my attention to the camera lens on Damon’s cloak that showed Cawfield.
“He’s a full member,” I said, feeling sick. We’d known cops were involved. Hell, Cawfield had said as much. Never had I thought he’d been referring to himself, though. And I still didn’t believe that he had. It had been a stab, directed at my heart. At my father.
And then the nausea swelled. Was this what my father did nowadays?
It’s hard to tell fact from fiction, Sport. Never make the mistake of believing something until you know it’s the truth.
What was the truth here?
“And he singled out Michaels,” Pierce added.
“Or did he just single out an initiate,” Nick offered.
“And how did he tell an initiate apart from a member?” I asked, pushing all superfluous emotions aside. “Their cloaks all look the same.”
“Michaels was standing alone. The others are talking,” Pierce suggested. “Looked like a newbie?”
I shook my head. “He said he had high hopes for him. For Damon.”
“Or for the initiate who had been singled out last night when Michaels stepped forward from the circle,” Nick countered.
“Unlikely,” Pierce argued. “This is the third time we’ve seen him following Damon.”
“It’s personal,” I whispered. “The warning at the murder scene. The taunts across from Damon’s car on Parnell Road. Joe Cawfield has it in for me.”
It felt strangely liberating to say that aloud. And yet bizarrely foreboding.
“What did you do to piss him off?” Nick queried.
“I’m a female,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders. “And I’m good at what I do.”
Nick nodded his head slowly, as if that made complete sense.
“Bloody hell,” said Pierce. “I’m going to have to go to Hart with this.”
“It’s not looking good,” I admitted. Even if Cawfield wasn’t the CIB traitor, he was definitely corrupt. This type of behaviour was not appropriate for a police detective to have.
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