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

  Even though I expected that, it still threw me a little. "So, Tank could have been the one who shot at us the day before?"

  "I'd say definitely, Keen," the lab technician said. "The bullet retrieved from your shooting scene matches the striations of bullets fired from the .38 here in the lab. Same make-up of GSR as well. It's as close to conclusive as you'll get."

  "This killer," I mused aloud, "he's clever. He stages things. He could have set this up to make us believe Tank fired the earlier shot."

  "Twelve hours apart? Two different guns?" Michaels offered. "One hell of a coincidence to explain if Tyrone happened to fire the exact same gun twelve hours ago, at the exact same time as that exact same gun was used to fire at us."

  "He's right, Keen," the tech said. "The gun matches your bullet at The Cloud and was fired by the victim, Tyrone Anderson, at around the same time. How much more evidence do you need? Want me to find the killer for you too?"

  "Yeah, yeah, OK. It's just..." I trailed off.

  "Why was Tyrone Anderson firing at us?" Damon added.

  "Exactly," I said, rubbing a hand over my face in pure frustration.

  "What else, Bal?"

  "OK," the tech said, moving over to another computer screen. "Your victim's prints are on the .45, but whether he held it willingly or was coerced, I just can't tell. But I must remind you of the GSR we found, linking the .45 to his hand and being fired. That's irrefutable. What I can confirm, is he's right handed, and he was correctly holding the weapon. The weapon also matches to the bullets retrieved by McIntyre. The autopsy, which I presume you've seen?" I nodded. "Clearly states the chest wound killed him first, followed post mortem by the shot in the forehead. There's no way he could have fired the second shot himself, therefore the overall scene has to have been staged."

  "Already aware of that, what else?" I said, my patience wearing thin and temper rising high. Not really at Bal, but with the whole damn thing. What the hell was going on here?

  "OK," Bal added, not in the slightest perturbed by my short fuse. "So, that's the guns, now the body. I won't go over autopsy findings..."

  "Please don't," I grumbled, receiving a frown in reprimand from Michaels.

  "...but I will add that there appeared to be no scuffing on the shoes or clothes to indicate being dragged, nor any evidence at the scene to support him being shifted to that location post death. He was wearing his security guard uniform, had the keys to The Cloud on his leather belt, a standard issue black Maglite torch in a hooped holder, an identity card with his image attached to his shirt pocket, and three thousand two hundred dollars in his wallet."

  My feet hit the ground with a thud, from where I'd had them resting on the bar at the bottom of the stool I'd commandeered.

  "Over three thousand bucks?"

  "Yes, more than you expected, I see."

  "Yes and no," I said, looking over toward Damon. "Bribe or payment for services?" He shook his head, equally baffled as me.

  My mind was reeling, connecting dots, discarding others, swapping out some and rearranging more. Two of the dead informants had more cash in their possession than expected. Whether Tommy's had burned to a crisp in the boot of that car, or he'd already spent it, I don't know. But he had been seen with a large amount by his girlfriend. Nothing, however, had been found on Anton. Missed at the scene or his last known abode? Or already spent?

  My gut told me he would have had the same thick wad of cash at some stage. But why?

  "Great work, Bal," I said distractedly.

  "Always a pleasure, Keen," the tech said and scurried out of the room.

  "What do you think?" I said to Damon.

  "It's something."

  "It's great. Another connection."

  "To two of them," he pointed out carefully.

  "No, you're right," I said, reigning in my enthusiasm for even a small lead in this blasted case. "We need to go over Anton's scene report, evidence and forensics files, and maybe go back to his old haunt and find out if he'd been flashing a wad of cash."

  "Lara, it's three in the afternoon and you haven't eaten all day," Damon pointed out.

  "I had a pie earlier," I said dismissively.

  "When? I didn't see you eat one. And also, I'm hungry. We're not all Energiser bunnies like you."

  "Grab something from the vending machine, but we have to get on this before people forget."

  "You think the type of people Anton Burgess associated with would forget him having extra cash?"

  "True, but this is the first new lead we've had in too long, we have to move on it straight away."

  "Lara!" Damon exclaimed. "You need to eat, take a short break, clear your head. I need to check in with HEAT, follow up on Marc, make sure he's all right."

  That made sense, Marc had just had his garage burned to the ground, his pride and joy along with it. And from the reaction all of HEAT had, it was maliciously done. Of course Damon would need to check up on his teammate. I kind of respected him for that.

  But...

  "OK. You go to HEAT, grab a bite to eat, catch up on all of that. I'll swing by Anton's last hangout and ask a few questions." Damon glared at me, so I added, "I promise I'll eat something on the way."

  He sighed, ran a hand over the back of his neck which made me cock my head and narrow my eyes suspiciously, and then pulled his cellphone from his pocket and started to text.

  "What are you doing?" I asked slowly.

  "Checking on something," he shot back, making me relax slightly. I wouldn't mind if he tagged along and checked on HEAT and Marc remotely. That would be cool. Totally acceptable.

  He pocketed his phone and lifted shadowed eyes to mine.

  His smile was apologetic.

  My cellphone rang.

  His smile disappeared under a cringe.

  I knew before I pulled the device from my pocket who it would be. I kept my narrowed and extremely disgruntled gaze on Damon's face as I swiped the screen and held it up to my ear.

  "Keen," I said, voice soft and lethal.

  "I want an update. My office. Now." Hart hung-up before I could argue.

  "You son of a bitch," I breathed.

  "You're exhausted, you need to slow down."

  "Did you tell my supervising officer that?" I demanded, feeling chilled to my bones at what he'd just done.

  "No. Only said there'd been a development and advised him, as per protocol, that I was headed to HEAT and would be unavailable for an hour or two. Whether he took advantage of the situation was entirely up to him." He did sound contrite.

  I stared at him a little longer and then shook my head.

  And because I had to have the last word, warranted or not, said, "Fuck you, Damon," and spun on my heel, leaving him in the crime lab. Without any transport to get to HEAT.

  Petty? Meh.

  And as parting statements went, it definitely lacked a certain wow factor.

  Chapter 11

  "If you don't feel, then you can't put yourself in the perp's shoes."

  Carl had always said emotions needed to be checked at the door to CIB otherwise they'd throttle you just as hard as the Detective Inspector could. David Hart was not the sort of man who tolerated sensitive feelings. Be they anger-fuelled, frustrated, disappointed or swimming in joy. A police detective was meant to have a serious demeanour and level head.

  Carl had also said that if you don't feel, then you can't put yourself in the perp's shoes. So really, he didn't give a toss what was expected of a detective, he just believed there were times and places to let the emotions out. And CIB at Auckland Central Police Station wasn't one of them.

  So, I took my sweet time moving from the crime lab through Central Station, and gathered my armour around me, before I entered the lion's den.

  I hadn't meant to let Michaels get to me, but I couldn't get past the fact he'd gone behind my back, to my superior, in order to force an issue he had with me. In my book, that was tantamount to betrayal. Partners just didn't do that sort of thin
g.

  On a flattering level, I knew he only did it because he was worried about the state of my health. I hadn't been sleeping well, I was aware of this. And eating had taken a back seat to everything else. But his concern could never outweigh the fact that he'd engineered a break by deceitfully involving Inspector Hart.

  I wasn't going to get over this any time soon and that just made me mad. I had too much to be trying to process, adding Damon's interference in my life into the mix was just the too sweet icing on the cake.

  I hated icing.

  Gathering myself, I gripped all the relevant information and headed towards Hart's office, ignoring the afternoon greetings, which segued into catcalls when I didn't join in the heckling fast enough. Detectives can smell a weakness a mile away. Mine was always facing Detective Inspector David Hart.

  "Need a lifeline in there, Keen? We could set up a signal, bust you out when you give us the nod," Cawfield yelled across the room.

  "Did you put your tactical vest on under that jacket? Might need it," Simpson added from beside him.

  "Better to relinquish your service weapon before you enter. Wouldn't want an accidental discharge on your file," Jones joined in from the opposite side of the room.

  "I'd be trigger happy around Keen," Cawfield added, bringing the conversation down to the gutter as per usual.

  Embarrassingly, I couldn't offer up a snide reply. Michaels had done a number on me, and those emotions I'd painstakingly left in the corridors between forensics and here came rushing back in. By the time I entered Hart's office, my hands were in fists, my knuckles white.

  "Shut the door. Take a seat," Hart instructed with one flick of his astute eyes over my frame.

  I did as directed and held the files on my lap.

  "You should know better than to let the bastards get to you, Keen."

  "I'm fine, sir."

  He just grunted. "Give me the report then, let's get on with this."

  I ran through the evidence to date and then included our latest findings; large sums of money on two of the informants just prior to death.

  "Pay-off?" he suggested.

  "Or payment, hard to ascertain which yet."

  "Your next move?"

  "Re-question Anton's associates, see if he fits this new dynamic. Obtain security camera footage around the fast-food restaurants on Quay Street."

  "Get computer forensics to go through them for you," Hart recommended. "Anything in particular you think you'll find there?"

  I shook my head. "It's a fishing expedition, sir. And my gut is telling me to check it out."

  "Carl always liked your gut."

  "Detective Forrester taught me to trust it, sir."

  He nodded. "What else?"

  "We have an invite to the back room of Zero Gravity tomorrow night." I worked hard not to blush at the logical conclusions the Inspector would make with that statement.

  "You prepared for what you'll see?" he asked, tone serious and professional, which helped settle my restless nerves.

  "As prepared as I can be, sir. It's not my usual hangout."

  "No, I dear say it's not." And just what the hell did that mean? "You'll be fine, Detective. Just follow your partner's lead, stick together, and get the fuck out if you're made. The usual procedure."

  The usual procedure. Somehow I doubted there would be anything usual about the entire thing.

  "Have you considered setting a trap?" Hart asked, leaning back in his swivel chair, ankle to knee, eyes staring up at the ceiling. His contemplative stance.

  "A trap? Draw the killer out with a staged meet?"

  "Exactly. If you were to do it, what informant would you use?"

  Oh, hell. Did he really want me to pull a civilian into this?

  "I'm not sure, sir. It seems wrong."

  "Something to consider, Keen. You'd keep him safe, watch over him for the duration. One small risk to prevent the deaths of many."

  "For the good of the cause, sir?" I asked, purposely keeping my voice devoid of inflections.

  "He's not going to stop, Keen. You know this. I know this. He knows this. And you can't avoid your contacts indefinitely, it's just impossible for a detective to do their job otherwise. We rely too heavily on sources, without their inside knowledge we'd be constantly behind the eight ball and the criminals would be in charge. It's the way it is."

  The way it is. Don't have to like it, just have to live with it. But could I live with setting up one of my guys to trap a murderer?

  What would Carl have said? Have done? I had a gut roiling feeling he'd have agreed with the Inspector on this one.

  "All right, that's it for now. Keep me informed." He nodded toward the door and turned his attention to something on his desk. I'd been dismissed.

  I didn't waste time getting out of there, half of me expecting him to make a last minute comment about the state of my dress or the shadows under my eyes, the need to look after myself. But David Hart was a career detective, unlike Michaels, and didn't step over that mark.

  The Inspector would have known I was aware of my fatigue and the consequences of it. He'd only step in when it actually affected my job. He'd trust his detectives to keep an eye on it, and if they didn't, know that he'd come down hard.

  Relief was the only feeling I had when I shut his office door behind me. Something must have shown on my face, because unbelievably the entire room returned their attention to their desks or computer screens, and didn't offer up a jab. Or maybe it was because Ryan Pierce was there and his eyes were boring into Cawfield and Simpson's heads.

  "Hey," he offered when I sank down into the chair at my desk. Without a further word he pushed a take-away coffee cup across my desk, followed by a brown paper bag full of doughnut holes. The cut out little sugar coated pieces from the centre of a doughnut ring.

  "Could you be any more clichéd?" I asked, passing over the bag in favour of caffeine instead.

  "Marie finds it appealing," he murmured, reaching in and helping himself to a doughnut hole. "And anyway, Daisy bought me these."

  I smiled, I couldn't help it. Thinking of Ryan's gorgeous, blonde and bubbly six year old daughter always made me smile. He noticed and grinned back proudly at me.

  "Have you been summoned for the Declan King spill-over court case yet?" he asked.

  "Ah, bugger it. I'd forgotten all about that."

  The Declan King spill-over case, as we called it, wasn't actually to do with the trial of Declan King, a former notorious Auckland crime lord, but rather to do with the fall-out from his death several months ago. He'd had vast interests in much of Auckland's night time scene, as well as several front companies that hid a good portion of his dirty money, whilst managing to work closely with legitimate holdings, some even connected to cops and a swathe of prominent lawyers.

  It was almost as though the man had been laughing in all our faces posthumously. It was a proverbial clusterfuck of inter-related criminal activity, the fact that people of good standing were being sucked into it too, only made it more interesting to the press and public. Carl, Pierce and I had all worked the case, along with a fair few of the other detectives in CIB. At some stage I would have to give evidence in court; I hadn't been summoned for that as yet.

  I shook my head to answer his earlier question, and asked, "Have they set a date?"

  "The Crown Prosecutor managed to pin one down next month. Got my call-up yesterday."

  "I guess mine's in the mail," I grumbled.

  "Fun, fun, fun," Pierce agreed.

  "Isn't it always?"

  He chuffed out a laugh. "Where's your partner?"

  My hands tightened on my paper coffee cup, making the material buckle. Pierce noticed.

  "Busy checking up on his other job," I forced out.

  "Not going good, huh? Want me to kick his arse for you?"

  I smiled, showing teeth. "Not before I do, Sarge."

  "That's the spirit," he quipped. "Right, I'm off; got a canary to make sing. Catch you later, Keen."<
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  Talk of Pierce's snitch made me think of what the Inspector had suggested. Could I actually do it? Set a trap using an innocent - well, innocent in this regard - civilian. I knew it might just come to that. For now though, I'd follow more traditional leads.

  I spent the next two hours going over the evidence reports, forensics and autopsies, seeing if I'd missed anything. Taking the odd break to munch down a chocolate bar, organise the warrant for the security camera footage down at the restaurants on Quay Street, and offering a few ribs back to those detectives still on station. Two hours went too fast and I would have kept at it, but my cellphone buzzed with a call from Michaels.

  I let it go to voice-mail in a fit of childish pique.

  Knowing he'd try here next, I grabbed my jacket, locked my desk drawer and logged out of my computer, then high-tailed it out of the station thinking fresh air was the solution to everything.

  He was still my partner, so I figured I'd give it an extra hour or two and then touch base. Just long enough for him to know I was still pissed off. But I had no intention of locking him out indefinitely. My anger may have demanded it, but my gut and Carl's incessant tut-tutting inside my head, let me know I couldn't succumb to base emotions. We both had a job to do, despite his untrustworthy behaviour.

  Despite the fact that sometimes I couldn't even think straight when he was so near.

  I'd known it was going to be hard, I just hadn't figured how hard it would be. I pushed it all to the back of my mind as I approached my next mark.

  For a twenty-eight year old drop-out, Anton Burgess hung around with a very young crowd. No doubt corrupting them, or taking advantage of them, I was never too sure. He was a clever sneak, that's why Carl had used him. He found out things that other informants rarely knew. His death had shocked me. Not just the brutality of it, the fact it had looked personal; knives always are. But that he'd allowed himself to get into a situation that stole his life. Anton Burgess had been more intelligent than that.