I was sick of being in the dark. Tired of chasing ghosts. It was time I proved my worth.
My phoned rang as I approached Cawfield’s street in Point Chevalier. I didn’t look at the screen when I answered it.
“Keen,” I said into the Bluetooth device.
Silence.
I closed my eyes briefly and pulled the car over to the side of the road. Enough already. I shook my head. Just enough!
“I’m not in the mood for this, Carl,” I growled down the line. “If you’ve got something on Cawfield, now would be the time to fucking give it.”
A light gasp sounded out. More noise than I’d heard from my silent caller in all of the calls over the past week. I stared down at the phone, sitting in its holder beside me, and frowned.
That hadn’t sounded at all like Carl.
“Who is this?” I said, voice soft.
Nothing.
And then the phone went dead and I couldn’t devote any more attention to the high pitch of that sound as Cawfield stood in front of his door.
Watching. Me in the car. Possibly me on the phone. His eyes were knowing. And in that moment, to my mind, evil.
Cawfield the evil CIB traitor? Or Cawfield the evil Damon crucifier?
Maybe both.
I opened the door and stumbled out of the car. My foot caught on a rough bit of pavement, and I staggered, one hand holding tight to the door frame, the other letting the envelope I’d picked up off the passenger seat fall to the ground. The photos spread out in a lazy arc, taunting me.
I sucked in a sobbed breath.
Cawfield appeared beside me, his nose wrinkling when he smelled the alcohol.
“You drove here like this?”
“How the hell else would I get here to do this?” I yelled as I took a wild swing at him, promptly losing my balance and landing on my arse.
I shook my head, as if to clear it, and stared at the pavement, looking stunned.
“Jesus! You’re a wreck, Keen. Does he know he’s done this to you?”
It was hard, perhaps the hardest thing I’d done in days, to not bite his fucking head off.
“Why’d you send them to me, Cawfield?” I moaned.
“Because you have no idea who you’re sleeping with.” He shook his head, bent down and snatched the photos up, and then gripped me under the arm and hauled me to my feet.
I couldn’t help it. I kneed him in the balls. It felt good. Too good. So when he doubled over, I took two steps away and swiftly swerved, landing on my side in a pathetic looking weed strewn garden. If I’d watched him writhe around on the ground any longer he would have realised I wasn’t drunk.
“Fuck, you’re a bitch!” he gasped.
“Arsehole,” I shot back.
“Crazy fucking woman.”
“Sexist bastard.” This was more cathartic than I thought it would be.
Cawfield climbed to his feet, bending over slightly, which forced me to hide a smile.
“Do you want to pay him back?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“I’m not fucking you.”
“Nice thought, but that’s not what I meant.”
And this was where it would get interesting. And dangerous. Because Joe Cawfield could spot a trap a mile off, that’s why he was so fucking good at setting them.
“I’m not listening to you, fucktard.”
“You’re cute when you’re pissed. But I didn’t do this to you. He did.”
“What the fuck do you want from me, Cawfield?” I cried, throwing my hands up in the air for good effect. I looked him dead in the eye. Hoping all he’d see was an inebriated, heartbroken woman.
But he could just as easily have been seeing the seething, vengeful detective instead.
He crouched down in front of me, then lifted up the picture showing Eagle finding his release with Damon standing behind him, riding crop in hand, sweat glistening on his wide eyed face. I didn’t need to fake closing my eyes.
A rough hand landed on my chin, gripping my jaw tightly.
“Look at it!” he growled. “This is your man.”
“You’re wrong,” I choked out. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s not what you think.”
“Fuck!” he exclaimed, showing me a close-up version of that anger management problem of his. “What the fuck has this prick got that keeps you coming back to him?”
He moved to within an inch of my face. I held my breath, scared he’d pick up on the lack of alcohol fumes if I breathed.
“He’s into something, Keen,” he murmured softly, his thumb stroking along the bottom of my jaw. I clenched my teeth. “I’ve got more photos. Of him beating the crap outta some guy. He did that assault in Boardman Lane, I’m sure,” he added, eyes searching mine.
Oh, fuck. This was new. And unexpected. What evidence did he have?
“I think he killed Samantha Hayes, too.”
“Impossible,” I breathed. “He was with me.”
“Was he?”
I thought back to that night. To the phone call from Pierce to attend the murder scene. To the fact that the bed had been empty beside me when I woke up.
“He had the Sky Tower climb. He was with the boys from Pitt Street.”
“Which is it, Keen? Which excuse will you use next?”
“Check!” I shouted, uncaring now if he picked up my non-alcoholic breath. “He would have been at Pitt Street.”
“I did check,” Cawfield said softly, leaning back and landing on his own butt in the dirt. “He didn’t arrive at Pitt Street until after five a.m.”
Samantha Hayes was murdered at approximately four-thirty. I was called out at seven. I didn’t hear what time Damon left my bed.
“He fits the description taken from the video surveillance at Sweet Hell.”
“That was doctored,” I pointed out.
“Just blurry, not doctored,” he countered. “It could have been him.”
I shook my head. Not believing a word of this.
“He doesn’t know the woman,” I murmured.
“She attended Sweet Hell on the same nights he did.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Cawfield sighed and looked off into the distance.
“I hear things. See things. I know things.”
“God. Don’t go all Carl on me now.”
He chuckled. It was surprisingly natural. As if he wasn’t a hairbreadth away from wearing my fist.
I lowered my face into my hands. It matched my mood and the act I was still half using.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to go to Hart with this.”
“So, you were warning me? By dropping off scuzzy photographic evidence in an unmarked envelope? There’s something seriously wrong with you, Cawfield.”
“You bring out the worst in me.”
“Fuck you.”
“I made the offer, you turned me down.”
“God, you’re a creep.” I shook my head and looked out across the deserted street.
“Where are you getting all this shit from?” I asked eventually.
“I can’t reveal my source.”
“So, you have a source?” I queried, looking up at him again. “This isn’t just something you’ve uncovered the old fashioned way?”
“I’ve worked hard on this. I crossed my Ts before I came to you. I am giving you the heads up before it all hits the fan back at CIB. You can do without this shit. Your father’s involvement in the club will come out in Court. Your involvement with a murderous dom will ruin your reputation on station.”
“You don’t give a fuck about my reputation,” I snapped back.
He laughed. It lacked humour. “No, I don’t. But I can make this go a hell of a lot easier on you. Spread a few counter rumours. Let everyone know you’d been screwing him in order to help me solve this case.”
“You are delusional.”
“What’s it worth to you, Keen? Your reputation? Your standing with Hart? How far are you prepared to go to sa
ve it?”
Those words, the same fucking words he’d said to Damon at the Irreverent Inferno. How far are you prepared to go?
I shook my head.
“How far have you gone to get this, Cawfield?” I said whisper quiet.
“I’ve just been doing my job.”
“Really? Because the way I see it, you’ve got a hard-on for Damon. He got the girl. So you’re gonna get him. Good and proper.”
“You don’t know shit, Keen.”
“So prove it. Who’s your source?”
He shook his head, eyes flicking off to the side.
“Someone at Sweet Hell?”
Nothing.
“Someone at the Irreverent Inferno?”
His eyes snapped back to me.
“What do you know about the Irreverent Inferno? We’re not investigating it.”
I shrugged. “Saw the sign on the back of the building when we were questioning Kyan Marcroft about the murder across the street. Sounds like the type of place that would encourage riding crops and padded chains hanging from a roof.”
He stared at me for a long moment and then said, voice devoid of emotion, “Carl always swore you had a sixth sense. A type of gut reaction to cases. Called bullshit on that a few times, but your close-rate was pretty fucking high.”
“Is it someone in the Irreverent Inferno?” I repeated, holding his steady gaze.
“I’m not revealing my source.” The words were spoken slowly and with purpose.
“You know who this is?” I asked, tapping the photo he still held of Eagle.
“One of your informants,” he said, lips twitching. “Heard he had a thing for your man. Didn’t believe it went both ways until tonight.”
“Where did you hear it?”
He smiled, it was snide and cocky. “Not telling,” he said, leaning forward slightly to deliver the words.
“Will you tell Hart?”
His smile slipped.
“Anonymous sources are our prerogative.”
“Not when it involves misleading evidence in a murder case.”
“How is this misleading? The clues add up.”
In a warped kind of way they did. I wasn’t sure of the time line exactly. But the circumstantial evidence was strong. No stronger than what we had though.
“You’re being played,” I said, hitting the target with that one. I just knew it. “Is it a trusted source? One you’ve used before?”
He looked at me, eyes searching, face impassive.
“Yes or no, Cawfield. He or she come to you? Or you found them?”
“What do you know?” he said quietly, and for a moment I saw the police detective. I saw him through the obnoxious arsehole and sleazy pervert. I saw the good cop I’d thought him to be. Arrogant and an utter bastard, but damn good at what he did.
Was he the CIB traitor? Or the cog in someone else’s wheel?
“Yes or no, Cawfield,” I whispered. “Do you trust this source?”
“You are one fucked in the head, bitch,” he said, ruining all evidence that he was remotely decent.
I shook my head, stood up off the ground, and dusted myself down.
“And you’re a…”
I didn’t get to finish that statement. In the next breath Cawfield’s house exploded.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“When your emotions have been worn down to such a base level like this then it’s harder to think before you speak.”
The sound was deafening and the percussive wave a hard thump against my chest. Then I was covered by Cawfield, his chest to my chest, his face and arms above my head, protecting me from flaming hot flying debris as it rained down around our ears.
Sirens started blaring. His car. The neighbour’s house. Maybe even his fire alarm inside the broken, burned, destroyed shell of his home. Heat flared on one side of us, a vast stunned silence on the other. And then people were outside on the street, screaming, crying, yelling. And all I could see was the look of utter shock on Cawfield’s face above me and all I could feel was the way his body moulded around mine protecting me.
This was not the act of a betrayer. This was the selfless act of a somewhat conscientious man caught off guard. It changed everything.
And then he smiled, settled in a little further on top of me, and said, “Well, this was entirely unexpected.”
Creep.
I shoved him off and pushed up to a sitting position. His shirt was smoldering. I stared at the tiny tendrils of smoke as they twirled up into the sky, back-lit by yellow-orange flames licking up into the night.
“You leave the gas on?” I asked, my head ringing, my balance a little shot, my throat dry making it difficult to talk without coughing.
“I’m not on gas,” he said, patting absently at the smoke rising from his shoulder.
My eyes scanned the neighbourhood. Half the people were in pyjamas, the rest in trackies and bare feet. They’d run out to see if anyone was hurt, not bothering to grab appropriate clothing. None of them stood out as an arsonist.
I let a slow breath of air out on that thought, then pulled my cellphone out and called it in. Cawfield had risen to his feet, slightly steadier than me, and was looking at the devastation to his property. His police issue sedan was crushed under an entire side wall of his house. The lounge was exposed, blackened and still in flames. The chemical smell of plastic burning saturated the air.
My skin felt like it might be blistering, so I grabbed hold of the back of Cawfield’s shirt and dragged him back across the street, closer to the neighbours. I watched as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling up the soot darkened blond strands.
He looked in shock. Not even cataloguing the environment. Utterly stunned and, if I didn’t know any better, lost. I’d never seen Cawfield like this. I’d never seen Cawfield anything other than cocky.
Sirens sounded out in the distance. Police and Fire. They have distinctive sounds. I could always tell them apart. One overlaid the other, twining together in discordant tones. They grew louder and louder the closer they came, until I realised we’d both been standing there, out in the open, easy targets for whoever had done this.
I looked around warily, but no new faces had joined the crowd. Clearly we were both off our game though, so I raised my cellphone and shot off a series of images, taking in the still burning house, the crowd of onlookers, and a few more of the street, lined with parked cars.
“Who would do this?” Cawfield said, but I got the feeling he was just speaking aloud.
I let a long breath of air out and then promptly started coughing. By the time the first fire engine arrived I was doubled over and Cawfield was thumping my back.
“Smoke inhalation, arsehole,” I managed, shrugging off his “help.”
Police cars screamed into the road, beacons flashing, tyres squealing. Followed by three HEAT vehicles, one of which I recognised on sight.
I stood up, taking an offered bottle of water from one of the Firies as they ran past, and took a sip as I watched Damon approach.
His eyes scanned my body first, looking for injuries. Then my face, looking for a reason why I was here. With Cawfield. Outside his burning home.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, ignoring Cawfield altogether.
“Bruises, flash burns, nothing serious.”
“Get the medics to check you out.”
I blinked. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“House blew up.”
He raised an eyebrow and then turned to Cawfield at last.
“You were outside?”
“Obviously,” Cawfield growled.
“Saw it happen?” Damon asked, glowering back.
“Wasn’t looking at the house when it went up,” Cawfield said in a lazy tone of voice which told me what was coming.
Damon either ignored it or didn’t know Cawfield well enough.
“What were you looking at?”
Cawfield smirked. “Keen’s tits.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but they stung too much from the grit that had been airborne. Besides, it only took Damon a split second to respond.
His fist hit Cawfield square on the jaw and then they were tumbling. Arms swinging, shoulders connecting, elbows smacking, feet kicking. It was not pretty. I took a step towards them, intending to pull them apart, and the world suddenly twisted in a brightly coloured rainbow of psychedelic lights.
And then I found myself sitting on the ground, ambulance blanket around my shoulders, head between my legs, as Marc Holland pressed a hand to the back of my neck and Ryan Pierce held both Cawfield and Damon separate by rigid outstretched arms.
“You OK now?” Marc asked. I nodded my head and slowly looked across the ash covered street to Pierce. His chest was rising and falling too quickly, matching those of Cawfield and Damon. Sweat glistened on their faces; could have been from the heat of the fire, or from the exertion of the fight. Cawfield had a bloody nose, Damon had bloody knuckles, both wore more than a few cuts and bruises. Pierce even looked like he’d taken a fist to the cheek as well.
“How long was I out?” I asked Marc.
“Just a few minutes.”
“They did all of that to each other in just a few minutes?”
“They were both motivated,” came his unflappable reply.
“What are you doing here, anyway? You’re Prevention.”
“It was a bomb.”
I lowered my head into my hands and just breathed.
“The nature of the explosion led us to believe it was purposeful,” Marc went on to say. “Investigation scoured the scene and found evidence of a small man-made device. I was called in.”
“A few minutes, huh?” I challenged. Marc smiled, showing off a dimple in his chin.
“Maybe a bit more than that.”
I tried to get to my feet, but Marc held me down with a hand to my shoulder.
“Give it a bit longer, Keen.” I nodded and resettled on the grass.
“So, a bomb,” I mused.
“Won’t know much more until Damon’s team has finished their assessment and returned the evidence to our lab. But mine’s about to do a sweep and determine if there’s anything live in there still.”
“A secondary device?”
“Always a possibility.”
H.E.A.T. Book Bundle (H.E.A.T. Books 1-3) Page 53
