“Flack’s got this one.”
I nodded. He didn’t need to say more. He would follow me anywhere.
It was strangely comforting at a time that was becoming increasingly not.
We walked out of the remains of the building and Damon nodded his head at Flack. His 2IC looked grim, his eyes connecting briefly with mine, and then he turned to the nearest fireman and gave the instruction to pull back. He’d hand over to the police and investigate alongside them from here.
I walked across the pavement to Trevor and the others. Cawfield stared daggers, but I refused to let him get to me. I was fragile enough.
You’re close to breaking, Lara.
Trevor shifted the replacement toothpick in his mouth and lifted a finger to tip his cowboy hat up.
“Damn,” he said, taking in the expression on my face. For a second I wondered if he saw what Hennessey did. And then I realised I was scowling.
Rage, not madness. Good enough.
“It’s Angelo,” I said into the expectant silence. “Who’s been assigned?” Because sure as shit it wouldn’t be me. I was assigned the Weston case and everything else I’d been working on, including Carl, had been handed off. Hart wouldn’t allow me in on this one.
Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to investigate.
And then I remembered the countdown.
“We have,” Cawfield said, sealing the nail in my coffin even as I checked my watch. Three hours gone. And I hadn’t even logged into the Wanganui yet. “So take your very fine arse and bugger off.”
Damon took a step toward him. Simpson reached up and placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back.
“Can it, Joe,” he said over his shoulder to his partner.
“Idiot,” Trevor muttered, shaking his head.
“Looks like a gas leak,” I told Cawfield, doing my best to ignore the leer he was giving me. He was just trying to rile Damon up. Get him to swing a fist, get himself arrested, and thereby isolate me.
I wasn’t sure what Cawfield was yet. My money was still on the CIB traitor. But I couldn’t deny his penchant for trouble and sadistic means of achieving it didn’t necessarily mean he was a betrayer.
Joe Cawfield was a conundrum I could do without. But life wasn’t like that. It didn’t throw you challenges one at a time just to see how good you were at recovering between them. It lobbed the whole shitty lot at you at once to watch you succumb to a hail of well-aimed bullets.
Cawfield was just another bullet in life’s shitty gun.
“I’ll see for myself,” Joe spat. “Wouldn’t trust anything you said anyway,” he muttered; loud enough, though, to be heard.
“Check in with Flack,” Damon instructed, jaw clenched.
“I’ll do what I damn well like,” Cawfield growled.
“We,” Simpson said purposefully, “will follow procedure. Thank you for your assistance, Investigator Michaels.”
Damon’s gaze lingered on Cawfield for a suspended moment. A moment that held the potential to go either way. Fist to jaw. Or cold shoulder. Damon finally settled on the latter and nodded in answer to Simpson's olive branch.
“Good luck,” I said under my breath, the barb aimed at Cawfield, the words for Simpson. I had no idea how he put up with Joe, but Robbie had the patience of a saint and the hide of a rhino.
“We’ll figure it out, Keen,” he promised.
Cawfield had already walked away toward the charred building; Flack on an intercept course.
I smiled tightly and nodded to Trevor, and then headed toward my car.
“You got your truck with you?” I asked the shadow at my back.
“Yes,” Damon said, his voice quiet.
I glanced over at him.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Angelo,” he said, and I immediately felt wretched for thinking otherwise. But Damon wasn’t one to say things that intentionally hurt, so when he went on, I wasn’t entirely surprised. “He’s someone you care about.”
I stopped at the driver’s door to my car and stared back at the now only semi-chaotic scene. Rubberneckers stood off behind yellow police tape. Some filmed the charred remains of the restaurant; some filmed the firemen and cops. None of them looked like anything other than restaurant goers, or tourists, or people out for some light exercise in and around the Viaduct Basin.
I sucked in a clean breath of air and said, “I know.”
It was too much a coincidence not to be related. Hennessey being undoubtedly blackmailed to push for my suspension. And Angelo’s, a place I considered a safe harbour, a friend of sorts, dead. Right when the clock was ticking and time was running out for me in CIB.
I wanted to question the survivors — Angelo’s sous-chef. I needed to head back to CIB and download all the information I could while I still had access to the police computer.
My eyes met Damon’s across the roof of the car.
“This is personal,” I said.
“It might not be.”
“Coincidence? You know I don’t believe in that.”
“I’m just saying, it’s a little early to think along those lines.”
I closed my eyes and tilted my head to the sun.
“What else?” Damon asked. What else did I have to make me think this was personal.
I opened my eyes and stared at the only man who had ever truly got me. Sure, Carl thought he got me. He was my mentor. My idol. My coach. But he only moulded me into what he thought I should be. What he could make me. He didn’t truly see me for me.
Damon always saw through the bullshit right to the heart of the matter. Right to the centre of me.
“Hennessey’s being blackmailed,” I announced. “I have two days tops - more like one - before his recommendation for my suspension reaches Hart.”
Damon just stared at me and then he turned around and swore bloody murder.
Thankfully there were no civilians nearby, let alone children he could have corrupted with his potty mouth.
“I don’t have proof yet, but I know Andrew Hennessey,” I said, “and I also can’t quite believe I’ve gone right ‘round the bend and am having a breakdown finally.”
“You’re not,” Damon said with feeling.
“Thanks,” I offered wryly. Always good to have your mental stability confirmed by your lover. “It won’t stop Hart from acting on the doc’s word, though. Hennessey’s our go-to psych. He’s more respected than any other. That’s why I’m seeing him.”
Because Hart had organised it. Because Inspector David Hart got what he wanted when he wanted it, and he wanted the best for Carl’s partner. For Ethan Keen’s daughter. Police politics at its best.
“Your plan?” Damon asked after he took a moment to regain his even temper.
“Get into the Wanganui and try to find a connection between Weston and Hennessey, and now I guess, gas explosions in Italian restaurants.”
“You’re the connection.”
“That won’t be in the Wanganui.”
“Then what will be?”
“Prior cases that match. Weston’s been doing this for a while. He’ll have a pattern like any perpetrator does after a length of time. He’s done this before, even if he hasn’t been caught yet. Open cases. Cases where the collar was dirty or smudged. He won’t have baulked at making someone else pay for his crimes. I’m betting there’re innocent people locked up in Mount Eden Prison all because Rhys Kyle Weston had them take the fall for his crimes.”
“And the police computer will help you find them?”
“That’s the plan.”
Damon slowly nodded his head. “What do you want me to do?”
It was a simple question. Possibly a throw-away question. Damon didn’t realise what it meant to me, though. His support. His unfailing belief that I could solve this. Save my career, find justice for Angelo, and free Hennessey from whatever guillotine blade that hung over his head.
But it also meant one thing more.
I wasn’t alone. I had a part
ner. And just because time was running out for me at CIB didn’t mean I couldn’t be in two places at once.
“Head to the hospital before Cawfield does,” I instructed, “and try to get in to see Angelo’s sous-chef. I want to know if Angelo suspected something and warned him and that’s why he was outside the blast radius.”
“Or if he is somehow involved,” Damon finished for me.
I smiled. It was probably a little brittle and a hell of a lot sharp. Then before I slipped in through the now open door to my car, I said, “Just remember, Weston has a long arm. And Cawfield has a mean right hook.”
Damon offered me a cheeky grin back. It was a far better smile than mine. But this was Damon. He could still my heart with a wink. Stop the world from spinning with a smile. Save me with a simple touch.
“Sweetheart,” he said, and I rolled my eyes at him, “I can be sly when needed.”
“Don’t I know it,” I muttered and slipped into my car.
Damon leaned down and stared at me through the passenger window.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
He loved me. And I loved him.
Shitty life bullets or not, we would survive this.
Even if Angelo Berti hadn’t.
Chapter Three
“Picture An Electrical Switch. And Flick It To Off When The Shit Hits The Fan.”
CIB was empty when I returned. The bullpen always appeared neglected and a little worn when there was no one in there to break up the monotony of untidy desks and weathered industrial carpet and stale coffee tainting the air. I zigzagged through the pens as if I was navigating a slalom course. The air-con sent a chill wash of air over my shoulders.
I shuddered and slumped down into my chair, staring absently at the one opposite; the one Carl always sat in when he wanted to bug the shit out of me at my desk. The chair creaked as I leaned back in it. I closed my eyes, breathed through my nose, and counted slowly inside my head.
It took more than a minute to still my rapid pulse and lower my respiration rate, but by the time I opened my eyes again, I was back on an even keel.
Angelo’s face flashed before me ruining all my hard work.
You’re close to breaking, Lara.
And Weston knew how to go about ensuring that.
I was dealing with a master manipulator. A criminal who could outthink a cop. He was devious and clever. Happy to stay in the shadows when it suited him. More than prepared to do the dirty work when no one else lived up to his exacting standards. He could work with others; Nathaniel Marcroft and Sweet Hell had been evidence of that. But if he was as experienced as I thought he was at this game, then this wasn’t his first rodeo.
Had he worked with others before? Where were they if he had? Dead? In prison? Weston used blackmail freely, but more than that, he was capable of finding a person’s weak spot; the one thing that they would do anything for. He’d twist that spot, turn it in on itself, and then use it against you.
Carole Michaels’ addictions had been used against her. Drugs, sex, her dependency on him. And she wasn’t the only one I knew of.
There was Eagle. My Karangahape Road informant. Eagle didn’t do drugs. He abhorred them. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have addictions. He was addicted to his line of work. Sex, if you will. And had been addicted to his love affair with another street worker. Dave hadn’t survived Sweet Hell; Weston and Marcroft had seen to that. But Eagle had.
With more addictions than he’d started with.
I stared at the telephone on my desk and muttered a curse under my breath. Eagle and cellphones didn’t mix. I’d have to visit his little alley on K Road if I wanted to check up on him. If he was even there. It wasn’t a given anymore. Eagle was more often than not in the wind.
I switched my computer back on and fired up the login screen for the Wanganui. The clock was ticking. Four hours down. One blackmailed. One dead. Was there a manipulation in there I couldn’t yet see? It would fit the haphazard pattern I’d created for Weston.
The Wanganui came up just as Ryan Pierce walked into CIB. I watched the detective sergeant out of the corner of my eye as he took in the empty bullpen, the disarray left by a fleeing mob of cops, and the sole occupant sitting in front of a bright computer screen.
He ran a hand over his face and said, “I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”
“Not invited to the party, Sarge?” I asked.
“Maybe I pissed someone off. What’s up?”
He crossed the space and took Carl’s seat. I didn’t feel the pinch in my chest at that move anymore. But I still called it Carl’s seat.
I sat back in my chair, ignoring the waiting cursor on the search bar on the Wanganui system and met Pierce’s inquisitive gaze.
My pager hadn’t gone off either.
Coincidence? I didn’t believe in them.
“Angelo Berti is dead,” I said matter of factly. I could switch off my emotions as well as the next cop.
Picture an electrical switch. And flick it to off when the shit hits the fan.
Has the shit hit the fan yet, Old Man?
“Jesus,” Pierce said in a stunned whisper. He reached for his pager and stared at the blank screen.
“You and me both,” I said.
His eyes came up to my face, and he studied me.
“That can’t be a glitch,” he said.
I shook my head.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he pressed.
I trusted few people in my life. Strangely, I trusted Inspector Hart. The man was an impenetrable fortress. If Weston got to him, Armageddon had started. I trusted Damon when for so long I had thought he had betrayed that trust.
I’d trusted Carl, which really fucked that entire line of thought up.
And I wanted to trust Pierce.
His pager hadn’t gone off.
I sighed and scrubbed a hand over my face. I needed coffee. And not the shit that coated the inside of the carafe we had in here.
“I saw Hennessey this morning,” I said quietly.
Pierce watched me closely. I couldn’t tell if he was looking for the cracks or if he was trying to decide where I was going with this. I didn’t usually bring the Department shrink up unless I was in front of a firing squad led by Inspector Hart.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The sound of my teeth clacking together was almost louder than the overworked air-con.
Pierce scratched at his goatee.
My eyes strayed to the search bar on my computer, and I started entering commands. Four hours down, closing in on five. Pierce said nothing while I worked. I was aware of him watching me; assessing me; maybe not judging me but putting all the clues together.
You’re close to breaking, Lara.
Did Pierce see it? Did he know?
“What are afraid to tell me, Keen?” Pierce finally said.
I wasn’t afraid to tell him. I was afraid to trust him.
“How’s Daisy?” I said instead of the myriad of other things I could have gone with. Finesse and a breakdown didn’t seem to go hand in hand. Go figure.
He blinked at me and then slowly smiled. “She’s great,” he said with all the love a man could have for a child. Daisy wasn’t his by birth, but Pierce loved that little girl as though she was a part of him.
This was not a man who was being blackmailed or manipulated by the likes of Weston.
I nodded my head. “Hennessey’s been bought.”
Pierce’s smile slowly fell.
“Pay off?” No question as to my assessment, just open acceptance of my words.
I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.
“Blackmail,” I said, which should have elicited emotions in direct contrast to the relief I was feeling right then.
Pierce scowled. “Evidence?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“I take it this is Weston?”
“Doc’s recommending my suspension,” I told him.
Pie
rce stilled. I could see the doubt in his soft brown eyes clearly.
“Lara,” he said and knew he’d blown it as soon as I returned my attention to the computer screen.
Four hundred odd cases had been singled out in the parameter search I’d run. I didn’t have time to whittle them down, so I shunted them all off-site to a cloud I had access to, and the Department didn’t. I’d have to assess them later when I wasn’t being assessed by a supervising officer that is.
Five hours down.
“OK,” Pierce said. “Let’s say he’s being blackmailed. How long have you got?”
“Twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
“That’s longer than I would have guessed.”
“He’s stalling. Hennessey,” I explained at Pierce’s confused look. “He was also making sure I knew he was being coerced.”
“That’s why,” he said as if to himself. That’s why I was sure Hennessey was being blackmailed. Not that I was having a breakdown and was trying to cover it up.
Even people you trusted needed more than just your word. Pierce was a good cop. He rarely let his emotions get in the way of solving a crime. Unless, of course, a woman was being hurt and then all bets were off. Detective Sergeant Ryan Pierce could be a heat-seeking missile when a woman was being hurt.
I wasn’t being hurt. Not in the way that punched Pierce’s buttons. But a woman could be hurt in that way and then Pierce, like Hennessey, like Carole and Eagle and who knew how many others, would be in the palm of Weston’s hand.
Ready to be manipulated.
“You need to move on protecting Marie and Daisy,” I said.
He blinked at me; a look I didn’t often see on Pierce’s face.
And I’d seen it twice in the past five minutes.
“Angelo Berti,” I said with meaning. “Andrew Hennessey. What do they have in common?”
“You,” he whispered.
“Pierce,” I pushed, leaning closer to deliver my next words. “This is personal.”
“Shit.” He fumbled for his phone and then swiped the screen. I expected him to address his wife, but a male voice answered and could clearly be heard through the cellphone’s tiny speakers.
A Lick Of Heat: H.E.A.T. Book Four Page 3
