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

by Nicola Claire

  “I’m sanctioning it.”

  “You’re not lead detective on this case.”

  “Since when do you follow the rules?”

  Silence.

  Damon slipped out of his car and came ‘round to face me. His eyebrows were still raised, his arms crossed in a deceptively calm stance. He could hear every word, no doubt. And he did not like it.

  But he didn’t butt in. Damon knew me well. I liked to fight my own battles.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said when Nick still refused to answer. “We’ve narrowed down the murderer and we’ve got a bead on Carole Michaels. All roads lead to Sweet Hell.”

  “OK,” he finally said. “Send him in.”

  “Great. Tha…”

  “But if you want my help again, Detective, try a little sugar.”

  “You got a sweet tooth, Anscombe?” I said, attempting to lighten the mood. He had every right to be ticked off. I was pissing all over his territory.

  He made a sound. I couldn’t tell if it was laughter or something less inviting.

  “For you, Keen, I’d accept a fucking lemon.” The line went dead.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” I admitted to Damon as I slipped my cellphone away. “But he’s waiting for you at ASI.”

  “Are you going to tell Pierce?”

  “I don’t know. He is primary on this. But you’re right about Hart not wanting to send you back in. He can’t.”

  “And Pierce?”

  “I don’t think we need to worry about that. Nick and Ryan go way back. He’s likely to bust my arse to Pierce just out of spite.”

  “You are a charmer,” Damon quipped.

  “Why, thank you,” I replied, with mock sincerity. “I try my best.”

  We smiled at each other and then he checked his watch. It was approaching five already.

  “Are you coming as well?”

  “I have to touch base with Kyan. Orders,” I added when he frowned.

  “Be careful, love.”

  “Always.”

  We stared at each other a little longer and then he reached forward and drew me close, one hand twisted in my hair, one cupping my jaw, tilting my face up to his.

  “I still want you,” he whispered against my lips. “When this is over, later tonight,” - he was being optimistic - “I’m going to strip you down, until your beautiful bare skin is glowing in the light of the moon as it shines through your bedroom window. All those dips and curves coated in an alabaster sheen. And then I’m tasting every inch of you. Every. Single. Delightful. Inch. And once I’ve made you beg for more, I’ll make you come, I’ll make you scream my name. And only after I’m convinced you’re about to break apart from my touch, from my kiss, I’ll slide deep inside you, pin you beneath me, and take you with every part of my soul. I’ll fuck you into oblivion, Lara. I’ll pour every inch of me inside every inch of you. I’ll make us come together, sweaty, breathless, limbs like marshmallow. And then I’ll do it all again, just to be sure.”

  “To be sure?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, still not kissing me, his breath the only touch he allowed my lips. “To be sure you know how much I love you. To be sure you know how much I need you. To be sure you know how much I crave you.”

  His forehead came down and rested against mine. Such an intimate move, but so innocent in appearance.

  “I’m yours, Lara. You own me.” The words hung on the air between us. Meaning something, I was sure, completely different from what they meant to Falkner and Carole.

  But he’d said them. Damon had voiced his deepest desire aloud.

  And it had come crashing down to haunt him.

  “Damon,” I started and he moved his lips to mine.

  The kiss was soul destroying. An attempt to exorcise his choice of words. To prove to me or himself, I’m not sure, but to prove his type of ownership was an entirely different thing than anyone else’s.

  Than Andrew Falkner’s.

  He pulled away, reluctance and regret making a strange combination of his features, and then he slipped into his vehicle and shut the door.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said, through the window. “Good luck,” I added, not sure what else to tell him, knowing I should have been putting his mind at rest, unable to find the fucking words.

  He wouldn’t have listened. Damon was neck deep in his sister’s woes. His words bringing back the importance of tonight. Sealing his fate, and I feared, sealing ours.

  I watched until the truck disappeared onto Hobson Street. I watched until the sun disappeared behind the ten storey Central Police building. I watched until I realised I was standing in a police carpark in an out of date ball gown with no means to drive home and get my car.

  And then my cellphone started ringing.

  The number on the screen said, when I fished it out of my bag, “Unknown Caller.”

  Carole.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Any chance not to use your service weapon, you grasp it. Paperwork’s a bitch.”

  “Keen,” I said into the mouthpiece. My steady voice belying the tremors in my hand. I’d shaken when I’d taken a call from my silent caller before, but not because the stress of the moment, the repercussions of fucking this up, were so great.

  Because I’d thought it was Carl and it screwed with my head.

  Carole didn’t screw with my head. This was what I was made for.

  “This is Detective Lara Keen,” I said, when she continued her shaky silence. “Carole, I know it’s you,” I added softly. “I can help.”

  A hitched breath. A near silent sob.

  “Where are you, Carole? Your brother is beside himself with worry. Let me bring you to him. Let me help.”

  “You can’t help,” she whispered, so quietly I had to strain to hear. I searched for a better place to stand, out of the wind, away from a busy city street. The only option was back inside the Central Police building and I didn’t have time.

  I covered my free ear with my palm, pressing the cellphone into the other, and crouched down behind a dark blue Mitsubishi Galant.

  “Where are you, hon?” I said, willing her to find her courage and speak out. “I can get you out of there with a minimal amount of fuss. Falkner won’t even know you’re gone.”

  Another hitched breath, or it could have been a gasp. Was she surprised we’d figured it out? Or just scared shitless when I mentioned his name?

  “He’ll know,” she said, making me believe the latter reason for her gasped breath. “I can’t escape.”

  “Let me come and see. OK? I’ll check it out, and if we can get you out of there, we will.”

  “Not we, you.”

  “I have close colleagues I can trust. We might need them, Carole.”

  “No.” She was adamant. “Just you. I trust only you.”

  I hardly knew this woman. She’d been nothing more to me than a thorn in my side every time Damon was called away to rescue her. She didn’t really know me and I didn’t really know her, but her trust seemed monumental. Seemed important in a way it shouldn’t have been.

  This was Damon’s sister. She trusted me.

  “OK,” I said. “Just me. Where am I coming to?”

  “113, apartment 28, Greys Ave,” she whispered and my head swung in the direction of the address. It was just one street over. I could walk there, if I wasn’t in high heeled shoes and a fucking ball gown.

  And who knew what state Carole Michaels was in. But Greys Ave? One block away, bordering Pitt Street, and where her brother worked. Is that why Falkner chose it? So when it came out, and it would have, eventually, Damon would know he’d been that close to his missing sister all along.

  Son of a bitch.

  “OK, Carole, I’m just going to find a car and come get you. I’m not far away.”

  “Come quickly!” she said urgently. “He only went out to buy some milk.”

  You have got to be fucking kidding me. Milk? Psycho kidnapping arsonists need milk?

&nb
sp; “OK, OK, hon, stay on the line, I’m coming.”

  “I think he’s back.”

  I stopped in my tracks, halfway between where I’d been crouching and the door back into Central Police. It would take at least ten minutes to be assigned a new sedan.

  “Oh, dear God,” she cried. “Someone’s at the door.”

  I was running, kicking off my heels and praying I didn’t stand on a rusted nail or a heap of dog shit. I couldn’t hang up the phone, she was getting near hysterical on the other end of the line. I couldn’t waste a second longer tracking down a uniform, that, all of a fucking sudden, were in severe shortage on the street. This was fucking central Auckland, the busiest metropolitan police station in New Zealand, and not a single blue and white to be seen.

  I bounded down Mayoral Drive, knowing I would be coming into Greys Ave at its bottom. 113 could be near the top, up the steep slope that led to Pitt Street.

  “Carole, you still with me?” I panted into the phone.

  Dodging pedestrians, skipping out of the way of a taxi as it turned into an underground carpark right in front of me. My free hand came down hard on the hood of his car. He shouted out obscenities in Hindi and received a kick to his fender for his efforts.

  I refused to limp when I picked up speed again.

  “It wasn’t him,” Carole whimpered down the line.

  My heartbeat made it difficult to hear properly. “What?” I said, rounding the corner onto Greys Ave and frantically searching numbers to get my bearings.

  “It must have been the neighbours,” she said, almost as breathless as me. “But he’s been gone ten minutes. He could be back any time,” she pressed. I understood her fear. I just wished she’d stop scaring me.

  This was Damon’s sister. I had to get to her before Falkner did.

  “How mobile are you?” I asked, spotting a 48 embedded in a wall on my left. Halfway up, at a guess. I dug deep.

  “I can walk,” she admitted.

  “Can you run?”

  “He doesn’t feed me much,” she said in a hollow sounding voice.

  I pressed on, both psychically and verbally.

  “What locks are on the door?”

  “Big ones. I don’t have a key.”

  “A deadbolt?”

  “Yes, I think that’s what you call it. Where are you?”

  “On Greys Ave. Not long now, Carole. Hang in there.”

  “Please hurry. Oh, God, please hurry.”

  “I am,” I said, almost drowning the words out with my desperate gasps for air. “Where are you in the apartment?” I asked.

  “In the dining room.”

  “Which is where in relation to the front door?” I huffed, spotting her building. A set of refurbished council flats. I’d been in them before; a drug bust. Not long after they’d been sold and done up for urban yuppies.

  “I can see the door, but I’m several feet away.”

  “Open plan living?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many rooms?”

  “Just the main one, where I am, and the bedroom and bathroom.”

  “And you’re alone?” I asked, pressing several buttons on the intercoms at once.

  Some careless individual unlocked the main door, while voices rang out over the speaker demanding who I was.

  I swung the door open and paused to catch my breath. It wasn’t going to happen any time soon, so I sucked it up, shouldered my handbag, and pulled my gun out, while I checked the state of the elevator - broken - and headed for the stairs. So much for the yuppie refurbishment.

  “I’m almost there,” I whispered into the cellphone, my voice echoing up the stairwell, but no other sounds indicating someone was ahead of me.

  “Hurry,” she said, then she just kept repeating it. “Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry.”

  It just about did me in. My throat was already parched from all the exertion and heavy breathing, now it closed over with emotion as well. She was terrified, and the closer I got, the worse it seemed to get. So scared of being caught trying to escape. So scared of this bastard who had taken her.

  I bounded up the two flights of stairs, thankfully quietly as I was in bare feet, a fact I would pay for dearly later, once the adrenaline wore off. I pushed the door open onto Carole’s landing and crouched as I came through, gun raised, cellphone still to my ear, Carole still repeating her mantra. It was bare, but I could hear life existing behind the closed doors; TV’s blaring, people arguing, someone clearly playing a high octane video game. Sunday apartment living in the big city. And not one of them knew their neighbour was a criminal.

  That there was a woman trapped across the floor.

  “Carole,” I whispered. She kept repeating, “Hurry.” I could picture her rocking on a chair. “Carole, I need you to stand clear of the door.”

  “Hurry.”

  “I’m going to make a loud noise.”

  “Hurry!” More desperate, more high pitched, more full of fear.

  “Carole!’ I hissed. “I’m using my gun.”

  That shut her up.

  “I need you to stand clear of the door.”

  “OK.”

  I came abreast of apartment 28 and stared at the handle. It seemed so normal. Was it coated in his fingerprints? Had he worn gloves when he came and went? I looked left and right, checked to make sure the coast was clear - it wouldn’t be for much longer - and then reached out and tested the door knob. Any chance not to use your service weapon, you grasp it. Paperwork’s a bitch, Carl advised in my head as the handle stuck fast.

  I sucked in a deep breath of air and said, “Cover your ears, Carole.” Counting to ten, I fired.

  Two shots, directly above the door handle, aimed toward the floor, through the deadbolt.

  The door creaked when I pushed against it. Another squeaked down the hallway as I guy peered out and shouted, “I’m calling the Police!”

  “Tell them a detective is in attendance, requesting immediate assistance at a 12:10,” I shouted back and slipped my still functioning cellphone into my handbag. “Carole,” I called out. “This is Detective Keen, I’m coming in.”

  More doors opened down the hallway, but no one was brave enough to confront the armed, and clearly willing to use it, detective.

  I crossed the threshold, my gun pointed towards the floor, safety still off. And checked right, into a lounge that appeared empty, and then left, into a dining room that led to an open plan kitchen. Carole Michaels sat at the dining table, tears and snot running down her face, a cellphone, screen facing skyward, lit up to display an open call, on the table’s surface.

  Her hands and legs were locked securely to the table by a long length of chain.

  Motherfucker!

  “Are you hurt?” I said, she just blinked at me and sniffed. “Did you get caught by any shrapnel?” I tried, she blubbered out a sobbed breath. “Hang tight,” I instructed, lifting my gun and moving toward the back of the apartment, and the as yet unseen bedroom and bathroom.

  It took thirty seconds to clear them, the apartment wasn’t big. I came out into the main room, reluctantly flicking the safety on and placing the weapon in my handbag, then crossed the short distance to Carole at the table.

  I crouched down and assessed her visually. She was pale, when like her brother, she should have had a natural year round tan. Her wrists were bony, her elbows stuck out. But no worse than she’d looked when I’d last seen her, recovering from a thousand dollar a day drug habit. Her dark, curly hair hung in ringlets down over her hunched shoulders. Mucus and saliva had dribbled onto her t-shirt, which looked otherwise clean. She was wearing boy-short underwear, it left little to the imagination, but there was no blood and there were no obvious bruises that I could see.

  She looked trapped, skeletal, but unharmed.

  “This could be a problem,” I said under my breath as I turned my attention to the chain that secured her to actual holes bored into the table’s thick wooden surface. The table was bolted to
the floor. Even if it had been small enough to drag through the doorway after us, it was stuck fast. “I don’t suppose he kept the key within sight?” I asked.

  She shook her head, staring at me strangely. Almost like she hadn’t ever met me before.

  “You know who I am, right?” I asked. “Damon’s girlfriend.”

  She smiled; relief shot through me. Trauma could make things go south pretty fucking fast if she couldn’t place me.

  “OK,” I said, standing up and admitting defeat on the chain. “I’m calling in some help.”

  She started crying, hitched breaths, full on tear streaking mess.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry,” she murmured, rocking back and forth on the chair. It was wooden, I noticed absently. No cushion. Her butt must have ached sitting there.

  I pulled my cellphone from my handbag and cut the now redundant call to Carole’s phone.

  “How did you have access to a phone?” I asked, as mine dinged with about half a dozen voice messages and double that in texts.

  I hadn’t expected her to answer, what with the near catatonic repetitive motion and words, but she whispered, “I get rewards.”

  Strange reward for a kidnapper to give their abductee.

  I couldn’t listen to all the messages, but something made me press the button for the first text.

  Nick Anscombe. Second strange thing to have happened in less than a minute.

  The message read, Identified another hooded figure. Michaels knows him as Andrew Falkner. Radar has him as Rhys Weston. Linked to Declan King and others. Hands in many pies. PS. Answer your fucking phone.

  I smiled, which probably wasn’t entirely appropriate considering Carole was looking up at me right then, and swiped the phone for Ryan Pierce. I put it to my ear and waited for the dial tone. Sometimes there can be a delay, if the network’s busy. So I didn’t immediately worry when it took several seconds to make a sound.

  But then the fire alarm in the building sounded out, screams and shouts abounded down the hall, and Carole started laughing.

  I pulled my phone away from my ear when it made a disconnect tone. With dawning understanding, I stared down at the screen and noticed it had no service bars. I looked at Carole, her laughter was unhinged and slightly panicked. Not quite genuine amusement, more like the kind of laughter that comes out when you’re severely stressed and laughing is your go-to when the shit hits the big fucking proverbial fan.