A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1)

by Claire, Nicola

  "This has to all connect," I said, distractedly. "How? Why?"

  I stood up and started pacing, Damon leaned back against the wall and watched my progress.

  "The dots don't make a picture," I murmured. "I can't see what this all means."

  "Lara," Damon said softly. "Take a breath."

  I stopped pacing and looked at him in his lock-up overalls, too many days worth of stubble on his pale cheeks.

  "I'm..." I started, swallowed, shook my head. "I can't work it out."

  "Don't be so hard on yourself. Nothing makes sense."

  "It's not just me? Because, you know, I was beginning to wonder if I was losing my touch. Maybe going a bit insane." I was trying for a light tone, but I think a little too much honesty came through.

  Damon watched me steadily, worry edging out weariness on his face.

  I scrubbed at mine.

  "I've got to go interview the guys at HEAT. My Inspector has ordered it," I chose to say.

  "Oh, OK. I guess the cat'll be out of the bag."

  "Yeah. Sorry about that."

  He huffed, smiled sadly and shook his head.

  "They'll probably let you go in another couple of hours," I added. "Nothing to hold you on now."

  "What about your evidence?"

  "I haven't given any, and Hart," I frowned, looked at the ground. Couldn't work it out. "Hart didn't mention it either."

  "That's unusual, I gather."

  "You know," I said, starting to pace again, "I questioned Pierce. Asked him if he was involved."

  "Was he?"

  "No." I trusted Ryan Pierce at his word.

  "And Hart wouldn't have been either," Damon pointed out, clearly aware of where my mind had gone.

  "No, he was ropeable," I agreed. "The offender used his login details to gain access to the server."

  Damon whistled. "Lara," he finally said. "It's not one of mine, love. It's one of yours."

  I stopped pacing, lifted my wide eyes to his and said, "Fuck."

  He got up off the cot and crossed the small space to me, his face set, eyes intense. When he reached me, he held my upper arms again briefly, then made me look up into his eyes with the tip of his finger and thumb under my chin.

  "You be very careful," he whispered. "I don't know what the hell's going on, but if this has anything to do with the murders, and it's originating within your department or this place." He meant Central Police Station. "Then you need to take extreme care. The psychologist said it was personal. Personal to you. Think about that, Lara. Think about who would want me on that case and would also try to get me out of here unscathed. And then reference it with why they would want your informants dead."

  That was the question, wasn't it. And I still didn't have an answer.

  "Pierce and I need to shake Collins and Smith up again. Find out whether there's a connection between the DFSA at Zero and the murders."

  "There's not enough hours in the day," Damon muttered. A truth that was never more apparent to me than right now.

  "I better get going then," I murmured, not moving an inch from where I stood within the reach of his warmth.

  "Yes, you better," he whispered back, not letting me go.

  "Damon," I said, just as he asked, "Meet me later?"

  "Yes," I replied, as he answered, "What?"

  I let a laugh out, his face softened.

  "Ah," he whispered. "There it is."

  I held his beautiful dark gaze a moment longer, then reluctantly pulled from his grip to bang on the wall. He didn't stop looking at me, even when I walked through the door and stood on the other side.

  The uniformed officer cut the connection by shutting and locking Damon's prison door.

  Chapter 24

  "Prioritise. Use your time wisely. Buy a fucking watch."

  I went to HEAT first. I had to follow orders, even if I intended to not be as strict with my interrogation practices as I usually was. I believed Damon when he said his team wasn't aware of what was going down. And one minute in their presence was all it would take to ascertain if he was correct.

  I can spot an attempt to hide a reaction a mile away.

  It was closing in on five in the afternoon, several HEAT vehicles were on station. Not the full team, but if some knew, then all of them would know. And really, I just needed Gus to be there, and maybe the new guy, Russell Clarke.

  I bounded up the stairs, not bothering to announce my arrival, and swept into the room relieved to see the new kid in attendance, beach-blond hair tousled, light blue eyes tracking my arrival the minute I crossed the threshold to the room.

  "Afternoon, chaps," I called out, getting several upbeat replies at the same time.

  I kept my peripheral gaze on all of the men present, but concentrated on Russell the most. If anyone was going to show a reaction to me being here, it would be the new, unseasoned, untrained team member.

  "Where's Gus?" I asked.

  "You after Gus now, Keen?" Jude asked, in his smooth and deep voice. "Broke our boss and moving on to the Prevention's number two?"

  "I didn't break your boss. He shouldn't have drunk that wine." A couple of chuckles, a few smart remarks, but not one look to indicate they thought anything other than the fact Damon had a migraine.

  Even Russell had taken his seat at the table, hot mug of coffee in hand, with a small, amused smile.

  Gus walked into the room then, from the direction of the offices.

  "Keen, why aren't you mopping Damon's brow?"

  I relaxed all at once, feeling like I was surrounded by familiar and friendly faces. If CIB was my immediate family, these guys would be the distant humorous cousins at the annual reunion party.

  "Gotta talk to you lot," I said, modulating my voice, adding a little gravity to my tone.

  Marc stood up from his lean against the kitchen bench, face alert, but not at all shuttered. I split my attention between Gus, the lovable rogue who never did anything he didn't want to do, including show his reaction to the cop who was there when his boss was arrested, and Russell, the kid who didn't know any better than to school his features in the presence of a seasoned detective.

  "Go on," Marc encouraged. "We're all here that is here."

  I nodded, watched my quarry and said, "Damon Michaels was arrested for assault last night and is being charged with grievous bodily harm."

  Shouts and cries of dismay and outrage filled the air. Gus looked shocked. Russell looked lost and a little frightened, but certainly not doubtful of my claim. I let them get a lot of it out of their system then held up my hand and waited for them all to stop.

  It took Jude to bellow in that rich, deep baritone for them to all quieten down enough for me to have their attention.

  "You better be getting him off the charges, Keen," Gus demanded, and received a directive to shut the fuck up from Marc.

  "OK," I said. "I had to put it to you that way, I'm sorry," I offered, aware I sounded chagrined.

  "What's going on, Lara?" Marc asked, picking up on my genuine regret.

  "I had to test you," I admitted.

  "What?" Gus demanded, surprised rather than outraged at this stage.

  "Marc, can we talk alone?" I tried.

  "Whatever you have to say can be said in front of the men," he shot back, unsurprisingly.

  I sighed. "I have to ask you to keep this all in house for now." I purposely chose their colloquialism.

  "It will be," Marc replied on behalf of the team.

  "Someone broke into the Central Police evidence locker last night and doctored video footage of Damon beating the crap out of a suspect. They wiped his part clean, left the evidence that pertained to the arrest of the suspect. And walked back out of the Station undetected."

  Astounded silence followed my words. But I could tell from the shocked look on Marc's face that he realised they'd been suspected.

  "I'm doing what I can to figure this thing out," I said. "Damon will be released within the next hour or so. No charges will probab
ly be laid. But this is.." I hesitated, searched for the right word. "This is unusual," I finally settled on, and it seemed inadequate. "It could be wrapped up in the case Damon and I were working on. And if it is, it's likely dangerous. You guys should be aware, take precautions."

  "Like we don't have enough to worry about," Gus muttered.

  I wasn't sure if Damon had told them all that I knew of their arsonist issues, so I didn't pass comment.

  "We'll look out for him," Marc told me.

  "And yourselves," I offered, turning to walk out the door.

  "It sounds more like it's to do with you and Damon, Keen," Marc argued.

  "I'd say you've got yourself a guardian angel or a stalker," Jude offered.

  I stopped and huffed out a laugh.

  "I'm really not at all sure which I would prefer at this stage," I said to the room.

  The men all half-heartedly laughed as I walked down the stairs and back to my car. Once seated I leaned my head back and tried to think of what should come next.

  Prioritise. Use your time wisely. Buy a fucking watch.

  I glanced down at my G-Shock, saw it was already quarter to six, and decided Collins would be my next target. I dialled Pierce, he answered on the second ring.

  "You cleared HEAT?" he asked in way of greeting.

  "They had no idea he'd been arrested."

  "Brilliant. One avenue crossed off the list."

  "You all done with the Zero guards?" I asked.

  "Swore on a bible the perp resisted arrest. They've been bought, Keen. It's written all over their faces. But I couldn't get any of them to admit to a thing."

  "It'd be hard to prove. We'd need warrants for security footage, and we all know how they could be altered," I offered sarcastically. "And we'd have to spend days figuring out their behaviour pattern over the past twelve hours."

  "I'll add it all to our to-do list," Pierce quipped. "What's your next move?"

  "Collins, then maybe Smith."

  "Great minds think alike, Detective. Collins has been released from hospital and is being detained at Central Police. I'll meet you back at CIB."

  "Roger copy, Sarge," I replied, and swiped the call closed.

  I needed further sustenance, leads to follow or not. God alone knew how long shaking Collins up would take, so I stopped off at Angelo's and grabbed two chicken clubs to go. Sharing a few normal words with a more than normal Italian immigrant, I passed the ten minutes it took for my sandwiches to be made feeling somewhat steady. Even keeled. Despite the clusterfuck these cases were making.

  Police work can be very mundane, very routine. It somehow works. You methodically follow one lead to the next. You spend time cross referencing one piece of evidence with the next. You take care to ask the right questions to elicit the right answers, until finally all the dots line up and the picture they present makes sense.

  My dots were nowhere near lined up, but I was working my way through the evidence and following the leads, and it was helping to keep me sane. Keep me focused. Stop me from tearing my hair out and screaming my throat hoarse in frustration.

  It also helped, that Damon would be released by now. Set free. No longer lounging in a two-by-two cell wearing disposable coveralls and bare feet.

  I didn't want to look at my conscience too closely on that, though. I'd made my decision before I'd walked into CIB earlier today, the intruder and video evidence tamperer just sped things up a little. Made my job easier. They hadn't forced my hand, they'd only helped steady it.

  And God, what a field-day my shrink, Hennessey, would have with that line of thought.

  I thanked Angelo for the dinner, paid my bill and headed back to the Station to meet up with Pierce. I found him at his desk, two over from mine, at CIB.

  "Dinner," I announced, chucking the tinfoil wrapped sandwich on his blotter pad. I sank down in the chair at his side.

  "Angelo's?"

  "Of course."

  "You're a dream come true, Keen." He started to unwrap the meal without pause. The scent of roasted chicken, delicious sweet smelling herbs and spices, wafted up from the opening. "Michaels is out," he said as he bit the thing practically in half.

  "Good," I said around a mouthful. "No charges?"

  Pierce shook his head, his mouth too full to comment. We ate in silence for a while, then when our bodies were satisfactorily refuelled, chucked the wrappers in his trash.

  "So," Pierce started. "Collins. How do you want to play this?"

  I took a sip of soda from the can I'd purchased at the vending machine in the hall.

  "You said it," I murmured. "We use Carole Michaels' name."

  Pierce held my steady gaze, aware that I didn't want to pull Damon's sister into this any further. But if I had to pick between keeping one Michaels out of prison and keeping the secret of another, Damon would always win.

  It said a lot about who I was. Who I had become. I'd always claimed I was there for the victim and only the victim. And I had no intention of approaching Carole Michaels on this. I had to pray that we could use our knowledge of the offence against her to force a confession from Collins. But it was a thin veil to hide behind. Carole was a victim. Damon was not.

  Yet I had chosen to back him. Figuring out why evidence convicting Damon would be wiped clean on this particular case was all I could think about. Because, if I was honest, it was a little too close to the killer on the informants' murder case engineering Damon to team up with me. Damon had said it himself, back in the lock-up cell; why would someone want him working with me and cleared of all charges? There was a connection there.

  So, was the killer helping? Or hindering? A guardian angel or a stalker?

  Dots and connections. They didn't make sense yet, but we were getting closer, I was sure. And Collins was the key.

  He'd already been escorted into an interview room by the time Pierce and I arrived. I tried not to study his bruised face too closely. He had two black eyes, a swollen nose, and various shades of colours across his jaw. I knew, from evidence photos taken at the hospital, that his ribs and stomach looked pretty much the same. It was a testament to how many beaten people I'd seen in my life that I didn't even blink. This prick was going to rape a woman. Probably did it before. Possibly did it to Carole Michaels.

  I sat at the table beside Pierce, resting my aching foot, and offering a united front. Pierce placed a closed folder of select images we'd chosen on the surface between us. Then announced the start of the interview and relevant information for the recording device in the room.

  "Tane Collins," Pierce began, "how many times have you worked with Charles Smith?"

  Right into the thick of it. Collins had been asked these questions already, but Pierce was going for the rinse and repeat approach, and then throw a surprise question into the mix to shake things up a bit. My job was to observe for now. Catalogue facial features, the suspect's body position and reaction at any given time, and then attack nearer the end. A modified good cop, bad cop routine. Only this time it was silent cop, talkative cop. Just what is the quiet cop going to do?

  For some reason it unnerves them. We took any advantage that we could get.

  "I've already told you. Met him that night," Tane replied, his lawyer having whispered the answer in his ear.

  The barman was dressed in the same jeans from last night at Zero and a Police issue paper-like shirt. It billowed around his upper body, even though I knew he was pretty buffed under there. The lawyer was one I'd had experience with in the past, from a reputable firm in West Auckland. His suit didn't quite fit.

  "What did he ask you to do?" Pierce queried.

  The lawyer leaned over and whispered in Tane's ear before he let him talk.

  "As per last time," Collins said, reciting word for word what the lawyer had instructed, and sounding fairly much like a parrot because of it, "he mentioned he wanted to make a little bondage film. I agreed to find a woman who would suit and meet him at the room."

  "But you didn't take the w
oman to the room yourself," Pierce said, levelly.

  They did the lawyer thing again and Tane said, probably verbatim, "I pointed her out to Smith, he approached to get her in the mood."

  "So you worked as a tag team?" Pierce asked.

  "Kinda," Tane replied, before the lawyer could stop him. That received a good sixty seconds of whispered reprimand in his ear.

  As I watched the scene unfold, I knew this wasn't our killer. Tane Collins wasn't intelligent enough. Plus, my gut was telling me that the person who altered the video footage was the same one who left the newspaper with the article and picture of me on Damon's doorstep. Tane had been under guard when the evidence locker had been broken into. Smith, who had excellent representation and had walked earlier, if anyone, was our man.

  "You doctored her drink to make her more compliant, so you said in our last interview," Pierce stated, reading off a transcript of that interview just for show. He knew damn well what Collins had said.

  "Yes. It helps to get them to relax." Same answer as last time, led by the hand of the lawyer at his side.

  "And what did you plan to do to her again?" Pierce asked.

  "Film the sex. Film me having sex with her while she was bound."

  "And Smith?"

  "He was in charge of the filming. The director, you know."

  "He didn't want to participate further?"

  "He liked to watch, but he said he'd have a go after."

  No honour among rapists. Tane was prepared to drop Smith in it to that degree, but unfortunately at this stage it was his word against the wiser, richer man.

  "And you hadn't done this with Smith before?" Pierce asked, straight away.

  "No. Like I said, he approached me last night for the first time."

  "Have you done it with anyone else?"

  Another moment to confer with his lawyer.

  "No."

  "Have you done it alone before?"

  The lawyer leaned in, whispered. Collins said, "No."

  "Does the name Carole Michaels mean anything to you?"

  And here we were. The lawyer straightened, went to place a restraining hand on Tane's wrist, but Tane just spat, "She wanted it. She asked me to tie her up."