As though these assailants were attacking him.
He stared at the next door for a second, a frown marring his beautiful face, then just as he lifted his leg to kick it down, three security guards rounded the corner at the end of the hall.
Cameras. They must have had cameras and saw us breaking down the doors.
Damon's head shot up, I lifted my badge for them to see, but turned to look at Damon and said, "Do it."
It would be our last chance. After the guards made it to our sides, we'd be shut down.
Time seemed to stall. I watched, heart in my throat, breaths all but stopped, as the guards started running towards us yelling, "Cease and desist," which vaguely impressed me.
And as Damon managed to get a solid kick to the door, the first guard pulled a taser from his belt.
"Police! CIB!" I yelled back, blocking Damon. If I took the shock, he'd at least get in the room and see if we'd lucked out. "Lower your weapon!"
The guy lifted the taser further, sighting it like a gun, a clear indication he was ignoring the whole assaulting a cop routine. He skidded to a stop a few feet away, stance wide, two handed grip on his weapon, settling in to fire.
Damon kicked the lock again, the wood cracked, the door swung open, and the security guard fired the stun gun. I threw my weight into Damon, launching us through the now open entrance to a brightly lit room. My toe screamed out in protest at the force required to move both of us at that speed, as a whoosh sounded out over my head, with the click of the electrodes quickly following as they locked into the wall where we'd just been.
No electric buzz sounded. You can't fry wood.
I rolled to my feet, feeling ungainly without my weapon in hand, and came up next to a tripod stand. My gaze flicking from the camera currently filming, to the bed where the woman was tied, her mask removed, tears trickling down her cheeks. To the naked barman standing above her, leaning over the side of the bed, a ball gag under his hand, partly positioned in her mouth, but not yet tied in place. I shifted my head to the stranger who had flirted with her in the back room, as he sat in an armchair at the end of the bed, getting a clear view of her bound and spread legs.
"What is the meaning of this?" he inquired pleasantly.
"Remove the gag," I instructed the barman, aware that security was now crowding the room at my back.
"Don't," the seated man countered, and then to me, "You have no right to barge in here."
"I have every right. Detective Keen, Auckland CIB," I introduced myself. "We have reason to believe this woman has been drugged against her wishes."
"That's ludicrous. Stacey is a willing participant in our games," the man said, crossing his legs, drawing my attention to the fine cut and material. He had money. I was betting that money would buy him a lot.
I turned to the nearest guard, not the one who had fired at me, he was standing at the door looking a little worried. I was betting he regretted the whole tasering incident. Especially as things weren't looking good in here. Filming within the club was against their rules, I'd say. What happens at Zero, stays at Zero, and all that. Plus my words just now would have hit a worried nerve.
"Nice camera," I said, looking at the machine on the tripod. "Filming inside Zero allowed, is it?" I asked the guard.
"No," he replied, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Do you have a warrant?"
"The Crimes Act, 1961, section 317," I quoted. "Doctrine of necessity."
"What the fuck does that mean?" the guard demanded.
I ignored him. "Remove the gag," I repeated to the barman instead. "Or I'll arrest you for obstructing justice."
With a shaking hand he reached forward and tugged the ball from the woman's spread lips.
"Cover her up with a sheet," I demanded as I approached her side. "And untie her."
The man in the chair rose, taking a step away from the scene.
"If you move another muscle, hot-shot, I'll have you for resisting arrest."
Fuck, I hoped this wasn't a bust. I reached the woman's side, the barman having covered her and releasing one of her arms already. Her face was pale, tears streaked her cheeks. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, as though fists had clenched the strands. It was hard to see how dilated her pupils were, she needed to blink. I couldn't be certain that she was sedated, because she kept darting her eyes around, making me think she was too alert to be drugged.
I prayed Damon was covering my back as I sat down on the edge of the mattress, currently it was to the room at large, including the expensively clad gentleman from the armchair and the security guards. But so far he'd been an exemplary partner. I had to hope he was watching the exit, the culprits and me. Because I sat myself down on the side of the bed, shielding the now openly weeping woman from view.
"My name's Detective Lara Keen," I said softly. "What's yours?"
"St..Stacey Lawrence." Was that a slur? Or just a nervous stutter?
"Stacey, I have to ask you some questions. I'm sorry if they upset you." She nodded. It was slow. "Are you in this room willingly?"
She frowned, sucked in her bottom lip. "I..." her voice was barely audible. I leaned down so I could hear.
"It's OK, Stacey," I assured her. "No matter what, you are not in trouble."
"I came here willingly," she whispered, and my stomach twisted into knots.
I swallowed the acrid taste of my failure and nodded. OK. I'd fucked up. But I had probable cause, protected under law, section 317: The Power To Enter A Premises To Arrest Offender Or Prevent Offence. I possibly wouldn't lose my badge over this. Unless the rich dude was a whiz lawyer. God, I felt sick.
"But..." she added, sucking in a fortifying breath while I held mine. "I don't remember... how I got... on this bed... in this room. I should memember, right?" Definitely a slur.
My heart bled, my fists wanted to clench. I held her wild eyed gaze with a compassionate but professional one and said instead, "Do you feel a little strange, Stacey?"
I could sense the tension on the air, in the room. The stillness of the guards, the charged atmosphere surrounding the barman. While the gentleman over my shoulder was a black void of space and air.
Evil is cruel. Evil is ancient. Evil sucks all the goodness from the air.
Stacey nodded her head. "I feel... floaty. Tired," she mumbled, looking around the room with an increasingly vague expression. The Rohypnol sinking in deeper with each passing minute. She'd had enough in the back room for them to move her, compliant but still fairly willing. By the time they located here, she was slipping reality, the drug taking its true insidious form.
But I still had to ask more questions. Rohypnol is not illegal, only the use of it as a date rape drug is.
"Stacey, stay with me a moment longer," I said, gripping her hand and finding a surprisingly tight - desperate? - grasp back. "Did you ask to be drugged? Did you consent?"
"This is ridiculous," the armchair gentleman said, receiving a, "Shut-up!" from one of the guards.
"Stacey?"
Her eyes flickered, lids heavy, frown line across her forehead.
"What drug?" she finally asked. "I don't do drugs. Why am I here?"
It was good enough for me. I needed to call in Pierce, organise an ambulance and get this woman to a doctor for testing, then book these sons of bitches. I offered one last squeeze of Stacey's hand, but she was already curling into a silently weeping ball on the bed. I stood up, perhaps a little self-righteousness and fury splashed across my face, and turned to the room, about to deliver my verdict.
My eyes caught Damon's. He saw the conviction there. Time slowed as something shifted across his face. Something feral and quite hard.
Then he was across the room in four quick strides, bypassing the still irate gentleman, leaving the guards unattended, and throwing a swinging punch at the face of the startled barman.
For a second we all watched on in stunned silence as blow after blow rained down on the still naked and defenceless man. Then I shook myself out of th
e shock I'd just been doused in and jumped forward to grab the neck of Damon's top. His elbow came back, while he lined up another shot at the bloody face of the guy. I dodged, lost my footing due to the sharp pain through my toe, and stumbled back.
Then all hell broke loose.
The guards stormed the room, one thank fuck going to the gentleman voyeur to detain him, the others heading straight for Damon and Tane Collins; the barman who I'd seen act suspiciously with the RTD.
The barman Damon had taken exception to, his clear dislike apparent when he'd pointed him out in the back room.
Fists flew, shouts cried out, but Damon was a lethal, uncontrollable weapon. Impressive, but frightening.
It took precious minutes to contain the situation, the security guards and I working together to pull the men apart. By the time it was over, I was panting, blood splattered, bruised, dumbfounded, and Tane Collins was viciously beaten, slumped on the floor.
I leaned back against the wall, watching the guards all catch their own breath, and watching Damon sink down onto his haunches, a wild, lost look in his haunted dark eyes. He reached up and ran a shaking bloody knuckled hand over his mouth, then ran both through his hair, making it stand up in curled tufts. His face came up, eyes settling on me, a pleading, desperate question there that I couldn't begin to answer.
I held his gaze for a long, long moment, then pushed off from the wall and walked to the nearest guard, requesting his cellphone.
With a heavy heart and a disillusioned soul, I called it in.
Chapter 21
"Justice is never the law."
I lay my aching head down on the top of my desk and closed my eyes. Just a minute or two, and I'd feel better. A snort, pathetic in its weakened, defeated tone, sounded out, puffing a sheet of paper up off the blotter pad beneath my cheek.
God, what a nightmare. What a fucking nightmare this night had become.
"I can't have you in there," Pierce said, from over my shoulder, clearly not believing that closed eyelids meant I was asleep. "But if you want to watch Michaels' interview, it's about to begin."
I sat upright, my head spinning from fatigue and low blood sugar. Not that I could stomach a thing to eat right now. I'd spent the past three hours interviewing Tane Collins - up at the hospital where he received treatment for contusions, but thankfully no broken bones or concussion - and the gentleman voyeur here at Central Police, who happened to be called Charles Smith and had lawyered up straight away.
Smith was probably going to walk free, I couldn't prove his complicity in the administration of benzos that were found in Stacey Lawrence's bloodstream. I'd only witnessed Tane Collins doing something unusual with the RTD, which was enough to pressure him into admission of this event, but he'd remained mute about any others. Smith had immediately denounced all knowledge, said he thought the girl was 'into it'. He copped to the filming, but again that was an internal thing between Zero Gravity and its members, filming sex scenes not exactly illegal in NZ.
As for any connections between this case and the murders, I'd come up with zip. I couldn’t force a confession, and any mention of the dead informants' names was met with blank stares. I had nothing to pressure them with. No new leads. A dead end.
But I wasn't giving up. I kept both men contained. Collins under police guard at Auckland City Hospital, Smith in lock-up; the law allowing for detainment, for a short period of time, in any sensitive and serious case. Because this was still possibly linked to the murders, the Inspector had agreed.
And now Damon was under arrest. For assault, of course. Pierce had asked point blank, "What the hell was he thinking?"
I'd replied, "No fucking idea."
Damon had been wild, out of control, a loose, lethal unit ready to cause... death. I did question it. Was he trying to kill the guy? And then the question inevitably rose to the forefront of my mind, "Why?"
I scrubbed my face clear, blinked a few times and stared up at Pierce.
"I want in the room," I declared.
"No fucking way."
"I was the arresting officer at the scene," I argued.
"Of the two roofies suspects, but not of Michaels. I arrested him. And why was that?"
"I was getting to it."
"You were unsure. And an uncertain cop, is a compromised cop."
"That's utter bullshit and you know it."
"I can't have you getting all emotional in there," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
I stood up so fast my chair rolled all the way back and hit a desk several feet away.
"I take exception to that. I am not fucking emotional."
"Could have fooled me," Cawfield muttered from across the room. I forced myself not to snap back.
Ryan scratched at his beard, studying me.
"This is..." he paused. "Ah hell, Keen. This sucks. He's your partner." I was grateful he didn't assume anything else.
"Then I have every right to find out why he did this."
"I disagree. You're too close."
"I was there. I know how close I was."
"You know what I mean!"
"Take her," Hart spoke from the door to his office. "She keeps her mouth shut, but her presence will unnerve him. I'm picking he'll be a tough nut to crack." Then the door slammed shut at his back.
The whole room was silent.
"Are you sure you want this?" Pierce finally pushed.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I declared, heading toward the interview rooms.
My throat was dry, I kept licking my lips. I was still dressed in the ridiculous outfit I'd worn to Zero, which had caused all manner of ribbing from Cawfield, who'd been called in to assist and was making sure we all knew how pissed off at that he was. He was grumpier than usual. Needed his beauty sleep.
But I had no idea what I'd face in that interview room. It made me nervous. It made my stomach twist and flip. It made me sweat.
I wanted to be in there though, despite any of that emotional turmoil churning through my gut. I had to be in there. I couldn't exactly say why. Maybe it was because I had started to think of Damon as my partner. A real partner. And partner's don't give up on each other.
Or leave.
But whatever reason I felt for being in that room, it filled me up, consumed me. I think I would have gone mad watching on a video screen. I couldn't decipher why I needed to be in there, I just knew I needed to be.
But one look at a dishevelled, exhausted, and angry Damon, still blood covered, wearing his jeans and Henley from earlier that night, looking slightly pale under the stubble on his cheeks, and I knew he didn't feel the same way.
"Does Keen have to be here?" he asked, directing the question at Pierce.
"Yes," he replied. Clipped, short and brooking no argument. He crossed to the table Damon was sitting at and sat down. There was a chair beside him, but I walked to the corner of the room, opposite Damon and behind Pierce, and leaned back, arms crossed, sore foot resting on the good one.
I should have been sitting. But I couldn't bring myself to get close to Damon right now.
Pierce announced, for the recording, the start of the interview. Time, date, who was present. Interviewers and interviewee. Damon came out of the gates, racing.
"Am I being charged?"
Pierce leaned back in his chair and held Damon's cold stare.
"We'll see when this is through, shall we?" Damon nodded, leaned back and crossed his leg at the knee.
He didn't look anywhere near where I was standing.
"Michaels," Pierce started. "You want to tell me what the hell happened in there?"
I almost shook my head in disgust. Even Ryan Pierce couldn't conduct the interview formally. Damon may not have been a cop, but he was still one of ours.
And he was shaking his head in reply.
Pierce sighed. "You had your rights read to you. And have declined a lawyer. Do you still wish to proceed without one?"
"Yes." I did shake my head at that. Damon's eyes flic
ked up briefly to my face.
God, the need to demand answers was excruciating. I understood now why Pierce didn't want me in this room. I eyed the door, wondering if I should just walk out. Knowing I couldn't move an inch from my lean on that wall.
"Did you know the victim outside of tonight's events?" Pierce began.
"Victim," Damon spat. "The man drugged an innocent woman and planned to do despicable things to her against her will."
"That is not in question," Pierce countered, levelly. "Why you attacked him is. And why you didn't stop until you were dragged off his severely battered body."
"You know why," Damon murmured. "You can't say you wouldn't have thought about doing it too."
"Beating him to a pulp? Never," Pierce replied, steadily. "Thinking about landing one, just to make him hurt." A shrug. "Maybe." He levelled his gaze at Damon. "Would I follow through?" A shake of his head.
"You weren't there," Damon whispered.
"I've been in similar places, Damon. But this isn't about me, is it? It's about you assaulting a man while accompanying a police officer while she makes an arrest. You compromised Keen's case." I stiffened. So did Damon. "You could be the reason why she loses it in court."
Oh, hell no. That's not going to happen. And Pierce was clearly stretching things a bit. I hoped Damon didn't fall for the tactic. And then I realised, I was hoping Damon would get himself out of this.
Pierce issued another sigh. "Damon, it was witnessed by three guards, a suspect, a detective, and caught on film."
Fuck, that blasted camera.
"The victim on the bed claims to not have heard or seen a thing." Damon's lips twitched. I bit mine. "Now, I can't talk for Detective Keen, but it wouldn't be worth her job to cover this up. Not with plausible witnesses in the guards and a fucking video of the whole thing. So, let's just make this easier than it currently is."
I was thinking 'easier' was a euphemism for better. Damon was going to be charged, no two ways about it, but if there was some justification we could understand for why he lost it, he might have a defence to argue the case with. It was a long shot, and I couldn't see there being a valid explanation to lose the plot like that. Hell, he must have known this would jeopardise his job.
A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 19
