A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 16

  "Yes," I confirmed. "The body in the burned out boot. I see you received the files."

  "Received them and read them, Lara," the doctor said, indicating the seats for us to take. I limped across to the farthest, placing my back to the bookshelf, leaving the window and door at my front. Damon sat with his back to the window unperturbed, the doctor watched on passively but didn't say a thing.

  "What can you tell us about the perpetrator, Dr Hennessey?" I asked, crossing my legs and realising I'd mirrored the action with my arms. I waited for the doctor to divert his attention to the file in his lap before I corrected my posture.

  "He's speaking to you," Hennessey said, without beating about the bush. The guy may have scared the bejeebers out of me, but he was a crack hand at profiling crims.

  "To me in particular or to the Police?" I queried.

  "Good question," Hennessey acknowledged. "There is no way to be sure with the information on hand, but considering this is your case..."

  "Was, I'm no longer lead. Pierce is now." And why the hell did I give the shrink ammunition like that?

  "Ah," he murmured, his eyes flicking to Damon and then back down to the file resting on his lap. Damon was my buffer, had he not been here the doctor would have asked the dreaded, "And how does that make you feel?" question.

  "You have been the publicised lead detective until today," the doctor went on. "So, let's say the message is most likely for you, not Detective Pierce."

  I nodded. "Anything else?"

  "A lot, I'm afraid. Take the first murder. He used a knife. He struck quickly and without too much thought. Left to right across his throat, one slashing motion to silence the victim swiftly. There was no hesitation, the wound was deep. He was angry. It was personal. He reacted, not out of fear, but rage. What made him so irate that he struck out with death?"

  I shook my head. It was a question I had asked on more than one occasion since then.

  "OK, let's move on to the next murder," the doctor said. "We'll come back to that question in due course. The body in the car boot fire. He's been clever with this one, premeditated, whatever had surprised him enough to react on that first killing, does not exist now. He knows why he's killing them."

  "Knows why?" Damon asked, leaning forward in his chair as though transfixed by the doctor's words.

  "Precisely. The two are connected, not just through the fact that they are former informants of Detective Keen's and Detective Forrester's, but because the murderer has reason to kill them. A reason that became clearer after the first crime. What that reason is, I can't say. But he feels justified. He took the time to measure the correct combination of accelerant. He was prepared. Now, we could ask, why fire? Why not something else? I can't be certain, but I have to wonder if he wanted HEAT involved at this early stage."

  I leaned back in my chair, trying to distance myself from the question in Hennessey's eyes.

  "It's coincidence," I argued, arms crossed over chest again. I could have cursed myself, but that would have been too obvious.

  "Is it though?" the doctor asked and then looked at Damon. "You've known Detective Keen a long time." It wasn't a question, but Damon took it as one.

  "Yes."

  "You know her well," the doctor added, and Damon's eyes slid to my face. He would be useless at poker.

  "What's your point, Doc?" I asked, interrupting before Damon gave it all away.

  "Lara," Hennessey said, "I'm joining the dots." He purposely used my phrase, having heard me say it in sessions. I cocked my head and held his gaze. "If I'm wrong, stop me now. But you asked for my professional profile on a case that has become a danger to you. This involves you on multiple levels. I cannot ignore what I know and omit that information from the final evaluation."

  "Patient confidentiality," I said, my throat dry.

  "Still stands, I won't ever name names. Or would you prefer I ask Investigator Michaels to leave before I deliver my conclusions?"

  My eyes flicked to Damon's, his were narrowed and contemplative, with a hint of concern at the edges. I shook my head when I looked back at the doc.

  "Say the killer wanted HEAT involved," I relented. "It didn't necessarily mean Michaels would be the investigator assigned the case. I haven't seen him in months."

  Damon cleared his throat. The doctor and I turned to look at him. My heart flopped, my stomach clenched. I think I was going to be sick.

  "I knew about the first murder before I was privy to the case files," Damon admitted, voice low and even, so as not to startle the police detective who was teetering on the edge of an emotional ravine.

  "How?" I asked. The word a harsh whisper.

  "I should have said something," he muttered. "But I wasn't sure how connived it was."

  "What was?" I ground out and to hell with my arms being crossed now.

  "A newspaper left on my front porch. Not open to any particular page, nothing circled or highlighted. Just rolled up like it had been delivered by mistake to the wrong address. I took it inside, poured my morning coffee and thought, what the hell, I'll read the news. The second page in was an article about the murder, your face was pictured as lead detective." He ran a hand over his mouth. "I hadn't seen a picture of you in months. When the call came in that night for the car boot fire, I jumped at it." He held my gaze, his eyes sad. "I wanted to see if you looked that tired in person. I needed to know."

  I felt the blood drain from my face. It was all perfectly reasonable, but definitely orchestrated. And he hadn't approached me after all this time because he needed my help. I wasn't sure how to take that.

  Hennessey cleared his throat. "The killer wanted HEAT involved. Specifically Investigator Michaels."

  I closed my eyes and let my head roll back on the chair, tipped up to the ceiling. This could not be happening.

  "What does it mean?" I asked, still not able to look at either man.

  "Obviously he knows you. The killer knows your past." My head dropped forward and my eyes met Damon's. "He knows what Investigator Michaels means to you. Either the fact that he could throw you off your game and cloud your judgement, or because he knows the Investigator would be of some help."

  "Help? The killer's trying to help me?" My words were incredulous.

  Hennessey held up a hand to stall me. "It's a possibility, although I understand you reaching for 'spanner in the works' as a plausible explanation. I must, however, point out the escalations in complexity of the murders. You, yourself, having picked up on them. It's clear he wants us to. This is not some inexperienced and unintelligent person playing vigilante, cleaning up the streets. He has a reason for why he's doing it, one which he believes is righteous and deserved. The first was reactionary and personal, a shock at discovering whatever it is that has set him on this path. The rest have been planned, to the point of getting your attention, as though trying to shake some sense into you."

  "Shake some sense into me? What a strange choice of words," I murmured. Do I need to shake some sense into you, Sport?

  "Why strange, Detective? It's a metaphor."

  I shook the thought away. "Go on, Doc."

  "The last two murders have been of victims who had been attempted killers themselves," Hennessey continued. "One could argue the murderer was killing them to protect you, in the case of today's homicide, or in retribution for the failed attempt on your life at The Cloud."

  "Oh, this is just ridiculous," I burst out. "He got Damon involved to fuck with me, he's doing the same by killing off those informants connected to me and Carl, and just getting a kick out of doing it while I'm shaking in my boots with fear for my life."

  "Were you shaking in your boots?" Damon asked softly. "You looked very much in control."

  I flicked an annoyed glance at him and turned my attention back to Hennessey instead.

  "It's true though, isn't it? That explanation works as well."

  "Of course it does," Hennessey almost huffed. Very unlike him. "You asked for my opinion, this is it. The killer is ma
le, extremely intelligent and believes what he's doing is just. He's on a mission, it could be to protect you, it could be drive you insane." Great, too close to the truth and now it would appear in an official offender profile. "He knows a little about you, enough to pull your strings." Damon's involvement. "He also understands the system, either because he's been through it, or worked within it. That could be policeman, a fireman, or even a security guard."

  Fireman. My eyes turned to look at Damon. His were fixed on the doctor, jaw flexing, teeth ground tight. I shook my head. It was enough to have the multiple connections we already had, without introducing the HEAT arsonist into this mess.

  "Will he stop, though?" the doctor asked. "This is not a simple case of getting a taste for murder and unable to deny himself now. He has justifiable reasons for what he's doing. When those reasons no longer exist, I would say he will stop. He is controlled, level headed. He killed a person while police detectives were near." Embarrassment washed my body in pink. "He is not easily riled," he concluded. "Premeditated, justified, knowledgeable and personally interested in you, Detective Keen. That is your profile."

  I stared at the doctor as though he had two heads. Finally I managed to say, "That's not what I wanted to hear."

  "I dear say it's not," he murmured, shutting the file and reaching over the coffee table to hand it to me.

  I didn't want to take that blasted thing. I didn't want to have to face Inspector Hart and give him more fuel for his sideline Keen fire.

  "How sure are you?" I asked on a sigh, accepting the loaded bomb he gave me.

  "Very," he said softly back. "But there is always room for error, Lara. You know that."

  I lifted my gaze to his professional, but concerned face. Room for error. Now the shrink was giving me messages too.

  "Any questions?" I said to Damon, getting ready to rise from my chair.

  He shook his head, unusually quiet. We said our good-byes and left the house. As I unlocked the door to the car, Damon finally spoke up.

  "I'm beginning to think this may have absolutely nothing to do with Zero."

  I sighed and lifted my arms to rest on the roof of the car as I looked over the top at Damon.

  "I think you're right," I concurred. "Not only is the connection between informant information and the roofie scene getting thinner by the day, the profile is of a killer with more personal involvement than that. And if they wanted us to back off, why kill O'Malley? Why not let him finish what he started, at least see if he succeeded in eliminating me before they rushed in and ensured his silence. Pat was hardly going to offer up more info while swinging that chain, was he?"

  Damon scowled across the car's roof at my seemingly blasé attitude. I wasn't indifferent to my near death, I was just compartmentalising so I could do my job.

  "The profile doesn't fit," I went on. "He's self-righteous and controlled. Would killing O'Malley right then have been the act of a desperate organisation to hide their activities from the Police? Or would it have been a self-assured, justified and knowledgeable individual wanting to send a message to me?"

  "And what would the message be?" Damon asked.

  I stood listening to the late afternoon Auckland traffic, the birds up in the tree that stood sentinel outside Hennessey's window. The wind as it gently buffeted the branches, made the leaves rustle. To the breath as it eased out of my chest in a decidedly tired wheeze.

  "That it could have been me," I finally said.

  "What could have been you?"

  "The chain. Around my neck. It could have been me."

  "Lara..."

  "Think about it. O'Malley dropped that chain some distance from where he was killed. I left it behind. There is no way that chain should have been anywhere near where we found him. I'd travelled down several alleyways by then, a veritable warren of paths interlinked. I was right on O'Malley's tail, yet the killer stopped for that heavy, noisy chain, overtook me undetected, and did the deed before I arrived. Why bother? Why not throw him off the top of the containers and break his neck? Why use the chain?"

  "Fucking hell," Damon exclaimed on a harsh whisper. "You really think he was reprimanding you?"

  I wouldn't have used that exact word, not so soon after Hart had demoted me for being nearly killed twice. But it did fit.

  "It was a message," I said simply, opening up my car door and slipping inside.

  I didn't start the vehicle when Damon joined me.

  "There's probably no reason to go to Zero Gravity tonight," I pointed out, staring out the front of the windshield. "I'm all but ready to wipe its connection from this case. The roofies could be investigated at a later date."

  "Lara Keen. That is not like you," Damon chastised with a wide grin.

  "What do you mean? It just seems like a waste of effort right now when we should be concentrating on this more urgent case."

  "And the supposed drugging and potential sexual assault of victims at these clubs is not part of your job description?" he remarked, a knowing lilt to his tone. "Forgive me, but that's not the Lara Keen I know. Now, if it's because you're chickening out..."

  "Fine. We'll go. But it's strictly business."

  "Sweetheart, tell yourself that for as long as you can. But by the end of tonight, I guarantee it won't be strictly business anymore."

  I grumbled indistinctly the entire way back to CIB.

  Chapter 18

  "Focus, focus, focus. Or the bad guys win."

  The doorbell interrupted my swearing.

  Like a startled possum I froze. My eyes too round in the mirror, staring back at me with what I could only call terror. A bubble of hysterical laughter spilled up my throat. I tamped it down ruthlessly, tugged on the hem of the poor excuse for a dress I was wearing, and limped out of the bedroom toward the front door.

  Once there, I paused. Took in a deep, settling breath, centred myself and opened the door.

  Damon stood there, one hand in the front pocket of his black fitted jeans, the other hanging casually at his side, tan leather watch strap and big dial a statement of its own on his wrist. He had on thick soled boots, the jeans cuffs over the top, a large polished buckle of some designer emblem I couldn't identify graced the wide leather belt at his waist. His shirt was a black long sleeved Henley, the top three buttons at the neck undone, the sleeves pushed up displaying muscled forearms. It was untucked at the sides and back. He wore sunglasses and hadn't shaved, stubble darkening his jawline.

  But that was it. That was what he was wearing to a sex club.

  His body had been turned away slightly, looking off down the street, but upon hearing the door open he swung back to look at me, smile on his face. Which promptly fell, along with his jaw. He swallowed, ran a hand over his mouth and then removed his shades.

  "That's...that's quite a dress. I mean, it looks good. Great. Beautiful. You look beautiful. Ah, fuck." The last was said in a whisper.

  "I borrowed it," I admitted, tugging at the too short hem.

  I watched as his eyes roamed over the black lace that covered the black denim bustier of the tight fitting bodice, the denim underneath continuing on into a tight and short skirt, the lace ending mid thigh, an inch or so further than the denim. The sleeves were just back lace, no denim, down to my wrists. An attachment allowed me to place my thumb through a loop, holding the sleeve tight down to my hand. Skin peeked through the weave. It had a collar, which only seemed to make the dress more of a contradiction, the bodice almost prim, only a small amount of cleavage showing through the undone buttons at the neckline. What made it sex club appropriate was the ridiculous length, the sexy black lace, and the knee high buckled black leather boots I was wearing.

  All in all not too much skin was on show, but my figure was displayed in an enticing package, if the look on Damon's face was anything to go by. I just hoped my arse wouldn't poke out beneath the lacy hem and my broken and slightly swollen toe wouldn't fall off from lack of circulation by the end of the night.

  "Will it do OK?"
I asked, shifting and turning, looking over my back at my butt, making the hem rise up a fraction of an inch. I was starting to get into the swing things now, his reaction and stunned near silence making this ordeal so worthwhile.

  "Yes. Yes, it'll do nicely," he said in a rasp. "How the hell you can make something that displays so little flesh sexy as fuck, I will never know."

  "I got underwear to match just in case," I added and watched his body go still, back ramrod straight, matching the impressive bulge in the front of his jeans.

  "You're enjoying this," he said, astonished. "I can't believe you're enjoying this."

  "One has to have some enjoyment in their work," I pointed out. "Shall we go? Or do you want to stare, slack jawed, at my outfit a while longer?" I offered a sweet as pie smile.

  "Sweetheart," Damon drawled. "Staring is not all I have planned tonight."

  I knew he said it to even the battlefield, if you could call what we were doing a battle, but I couldn't help the shiver that went up my spine as his eyes devoured my figure hugging dress one more time. I wanted to remind him again that this was strictly business, but the argument would have been met with another 'sweetheart' comment and I knew when I needed to cut my losses. I'd had fun with his response to my outfit, I'd take what I could get for now.

  A hot palm landed on the centre of my back as Damon led me towards his black SUV. We'd decided to take his private vehicle, turning up at a mystique night in a HEAT truck or an unmarked police issue sedan with red and blue strobe lights along the back window ledge and in the front grille seemed a little short-sighted. Anonymity was the name of tonight's game.

  Damon opened the passenger door for me and waited for me to slide in, no doubt enjoying the flash of skin I displayed in the manoeuvre. Which was only confirmed when he slipped into the driver's seat and adjusted himself without any shame at all. He reached into the back of the car and returned with two masks for us to wear. Both black, but quite clearly designed for different sexes. His was plain silk. Rather like a Zorro mask, the material would mould to his face, offering a swathe of black across his eyes.