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

  I was even tempted to phone Hennessey.

  But I am my father's daughter. I may not file it away, but I definitely keep moving on.

  I stood up from the chair and dusted my jeans down. They didn't need it. They were fine. I glanced at my faded Pink Floyd t-shirt and decided a change of top was in order at least. If I had to face my old mentor, I'd do it in comfort, but with a modicum of style.

  I walked past Damon without a word and entered my bedroom down the hall. I pulled my t-shirt off over my head as I crossed to my wardrobe, chucking it on the bed, not bothering to fold it. I was working well outside of normal parameters, keeping my clothing tidy didn't even register more than a slight blip in my mind.

  My head hurt. Too much swirling around inside.

  My heart hurt. It felt empty by comparison.

  I pulled a white shirt off the rack and slipped into it, aware my bra was a dark colour and would show through if I removed my jacket later. I turned, as I started to do up the buttons, and saw Damon watching me. His dark eyes were cautious.

  "Are you going to talk about this?" he asked, carefully.

  "There's no time," I replied, finishing with the shirt and retrieving my gun from the bathroom.

  "Carl's been alive for four months without making a move, there's time," he said softly.

  "Do we have to do this now?" I asked. Using every bit of strength I had to stay focused. Focused on what came next, not what had been.

  He ran a hand through his curls, scratched the back of his head, and reluctantly, it seemed, shook his head.

  "What's next?" he asked, and I could have kissed him. I knew he wouldn't drop this forever, but I was extremely grateful he recognised my need to be doing something other than dissecting the hell out of this... debacle.

  I let a slow breath of air out and grabbed a well-worn blue dress jacket off the back of an armchair in the corner of the room. I slipped into it before I spoke.

  "His house was sold by his estate, someone else lives there. He drank at the Birdcage and ate at Angelo's, both places would recognise him and he'd run the risk of being seen by ex-colleagues. He wants to keep a low profile, so he won't go to old haunts."

  "What else?" Damon encouraged, aware, I think, that this was helping me get back on an even keel.

  "He used to like to fish out in the Motuhie Channel, heading out from Half Moon Bay Marina in his tin dinghy. But his boat's gone and he'd hardly believe I'd meet up with him out there."

  "Those are old pastimes, anyone who worked with him would be well aware of all of that. You know him. Pierce said, you knew him the best. He didn't mean any of this, Lara. He meant for you to get into Carl's head."

  I stared out the window at my neighbour's tree, blindly watching the slight breeze rustle the leaves, making them dance in the mid afternoon sun. What would Carl expect me to do?

  I struggled to think of somewhere only he and I knew. Somewhere that was just ours. But despite spending most of our time in each other's company, we didn't have a special place for just us. CIB at Central Police. My car usually, occasionally his. Angelo's during the day. The Birdcage at night. Carl didn't use a gym and he met his informants on the street, several of which on his own.

  Keeping your sources anonymous is lesson number one for any decent detective. He knew of some of mine, though. Eagle in particular. I wondered if he'd left a message there.

  "Let's try Eagle," I suggested, at a loss for what else to offer.

  "Would he be around this early in the day?" Damon asked, moving back down the hall to the front door. I slipped my battered foot into comfortable flats that had been left by the entranceway, uncaring that they didn't match my hastily thrown together outfit.

  "He won't be turning tricks, but he'll be about," I said, opening the front door. "He lives and breathes K Road. It's his livelihood and entertainment."

  Damon crossed to his HEAT truck and pulled out a dark jacket to wear over his Henley and jeans. He'd obviously not brought a change of clothes, because he was still in what he wore last night when I found him asleep in his car. The jacket on, he returned to the passenger side of my sedan, looking hot in a casual couldn't-care-less kind of way. Damon was a master of the understated. Worn jeans, scuffed boots, wide leather belt, a plain dark blue long sleeved t-shirt and black woollen trench/pea coat, with oversized buttons and buckles, just skimming his very fine butt.

  He looked like he'd stepped off a runway. I wasn't so sure that I did.

  I mentally shrugged my shoulders and slipped into the car. Fashion was not one of my strengths. At least my toe had stopped throbbing and my gun was covered.

  We drove in silence to Karangahape Road, finding carparking at the top of Queen Street, which would allow us to approach the red light part of K Road from a distance. Hopefully discovering Eagle before we made it down to the rougher end.

  The usual Auckland city shoppers and café hoppers were clogging the wide footpaths, the spill-over of chairs and tables making the going a bit haphazard. I kept my eyes peeled, checking in stores, glancing over faces to see if I could pick out Eagle or one of his boys. Eagle ran with a group of like minded young men, who I was sure made up part of his information gathering team. He always seemed to be aware of things before anyone else. Sometimes, even before the Police.

  And he was a popular guy. Both professionally and personally. If he could only apply that charisma to a mainstream job, the kid could be a high flyer. But he loved what he did and never showed any inclination to go straight.

  I found him at Starbucks, on the corner of K Road and Mercury Lane. Sitting in the middle of a group of enthusiastic and lavish young men, lording over the proceedings, which seemed to be assessing every male who walked in through the glass doors.

  His eyes picked up on me immediately, even before the door slid shut at our backs, but moved off my unimpressive form and surveyed the much more presentable male at my back. Before we'd even made it across the shop floor his posse had noticed Damon as well.

  "A nine point five, for sure," one of them supplied.

  "Too straight. Loses a mark just for the fact he's with a chick," another countered.

  "Nah, she's good camo," one more suggested. "Makes him stand out like a lickable lollipop at a candy store."

  Eagle smirked, his eyes returning to mine. He didn't correct his compadres.

  "Keen," he greeted. "Slummin' it?"

  I wasn't entirely sure if he was referring to my clothing or the locale. I chose not to comment.

  "Need a word," I said with a nod of my head and walked to an empty table across the way. Damon sat down beside me, fussing with his jacket sleeve, either because he was uncomfortable being scrutinised, or trying to improve his score out of ten.

  I pressed my lips in a thin line so as not to smile.

  Eagle slid into a chair beside Damon, moving the seat closer at the same time. He leaned in, breathed deeply, eyelids fluttering dramatically.

  "Ralph Lauren? Or Armani?" he asked, lounging back in his chair and affecting a languid pose.

  I raised my eyebrows at Eagle, not impressed with his little act.

  "Armani," I replied for Damon, making him turn his head and offer me his own smirk. "Heard anything of interest lately?" I asked, trying to get Eagle to focus.

  He shrugged. "Y'been busy. Word is y'out of a job."

  I snorted. "Would I be here if I wasn't getting paid?"

  Eagle smiled slowly. It was too knowing for a kid his age.

  "Detective, ya couldn't keep away." Unfortunately it was true.

  I didn't reply, just added, "Any messages come through for me?"

  "Messages? Are ya s'pectin' one?" he returned.

  "Maybe." My turn to shrug.

  Eagle left me hanging for a long moment, then shook his head. "Nothin' to report."

  "You sure?" If Carl didn't contact me through Eagle, then how? And I was certain Carl was wanting to get in touch.

  The messages. The security camera footage. He wanted me t
o come out and play.

  Well, Old Man. Here I am. Where are you?

  "I'm sure, Keen. I wouldn't lie to yous," Eagle offered, voice low and serious, the act long gone. "Whatcha gone and done, anyway? Why're ya flavour of the month?"

  "Am I?" I asked and received that Eagle non-committal shrug in reply.

  "Y'name keeps poppin' up," he admitted. "Can't tell ya why." He seemed put out by that fact. Understandably. Eagle had a reputation, and I could hardly pay him well if he had nothing to impart. "But someone's askin' after yous. They're just not askin' the right people."

  I didn't like the sound of that.

  "Purposely avoiding you and your gang?" Damon asked, the first time he'd ever participated in a conversation while I was questioning an informant. I was momentarily surprised he'd overstepped the mark, so took too long to recognise the significance of his observation.

  "Maybe," Eagle replied, eyeing Damon with obvious interest. "Maybe I been too busy."

  "Cut the crap, Eagle," I chastised, bringing the boy back on target. "Who have they approached?"

  Eagle's eyes swung back to me, holding a hell of a lot more intelligence than your average street worker.

  "Mainly they been houndin' Carl's," he finally said, the delay in his words carrying far more import than usual.

  Or perhaps that was because the information was noteworthy.

  "Paying well?" I asked, working on automatic now. My gut pushing me towards a conclusion I couldn't yet see.

  "Yeah," Eagle agreed. "Better than you."

  "Any idea who?"

  "Too clever for me, Keen. Too clever for me."

  Which meant they were using intermediaries or covering their tracks with great care. Eagle would have caught wind of an identity had they not.

  "And they've definitely been asking about me?" I queried, just to be sure my instincts weren't firing off blind.

  "Like I said," Eagle began, "flavour of the month."

  "All right," I replied, nodding my head, lining up the dots. "Take it easy, huh," I offered, placing my hand down on the table's surface and waiting for Eagle to lean forward and rest his palm on top.

  He did, holding my gaze, and as we both moved, him taking the note I'd had folded underneath my fingers, he said, "You take it easy, Keen. Would miss ya, if y'didn't come 'round no more."

  Then he was gone and miraculously so was his merry band of men.

  Damon and I sat silently for a while, letting the hubbub of a busy café roll over us as we both contemplated Eagle's words. This may have been because of Carl, but there was no denying now that it revolved around me.

  "He's really protecting you, isn't he?" Damon remarked.

  "Who? Eagle?" I obtusely offered, knowing damn well he was referring to Carl.

  "You know who I mean," he murmured, barely audible above the coffee machine grinding beans in the background.

  "He wouldn't have to, if he hadn't have faked his own death," I pointed out, standing from my seat and walking toward the counter. As we were here, might as well fuel up with caffeine. I had a feeling this was going to be a very long day.

  Caramel macchiato in hand, we walked back to my car. I didn't wait for Damon to ask, "What's next?"

  "I've been thinking..." I started.

  "A dangerous pastime," Damon quipped, making me smile..

  "...of the only other place connected to Carl that I ever go."

  "And where's that?" Damon asked, looking over the top of my car as we'd arrived.

  "Purewa Cemetery," I said on a breath of heavy air.

  "Good call," Damon replied, steadily. His eyes never leaving my emotionless face, understanding written all over his.

  I nodded. It was the only location I could think of that Carl would connect to 'us'. Of course, every time I'd been there, I'd talked to a memorial plaque on the wall and not him. But I couldn't help wondering if he'd been nearby. Watching. Waiting. Wanting to shake some sense into me.

  I slipped into the car and without allowing myself more time to reconsider, headed towards Meadowbank and the large cemetery there.

  "So," Damon said into the silence of the sedan. "Eagle's info..." he left the sentence open.

  "Yeah," I replied, not answering at all. I didn't need to, Damon got it.

  Whoever hired the informants to take me out, was the one Eagle had said was asking around about me as well. Carl's informants. About information they thought I knew. Who would approach narks on the street? Who could get close to them? Most police sources are very cagey about who they snitch to. Dollars talk, but every one of them knows to pick and choose. So, I could only assume, this person of interest was known to them. How? What was the connection?

  It seemed we were taking one step forward and two steps back.

  I pulled into Purewa and turned off the car. Parking was right next to the memorial area, a covered walkway with shiny brass plaques on a pristine white wall. It was some distance from the Crematorium itself, set up in a tranquil area meant to soothe. There was nothing relaxing about coming here. At least, there never had been for me. I'd sought comfort, looking at inconsequential words on a tiny square of brass. I hadn't found any.

  We walked across the grass towards the plaques, my eyes scanning the environment in a way they hadn't ever before. Where would he hide? Was he even here? I noted security cameras, old style rotating ones, that scanned an area and then swung away to cover somewhere else. I counted to thirty while it was angled away from the Memorial Wall.

  Half a minute to be unobserved.

  I knew exactly where the message would be.

  I walked down the row, glancing anywhere but at the names of those who came before Carl's. His was one of the more recent additions, right down the end, still covered by security cameras, but farther away from the road. A hedge sat ten feet further on from the end of the covered area. A good place to retreat to when the camera lens returned.

  I stopped next to Carl's plaque, not looking at it, but observing the area from someone else's point of view. I'd always been too emotional when I came here. Not Detective Keen, but Lara or Sport. I assessed the area with completely new eyes for once, realising how damn easy it would have been to get the drop on me.

  Carl didn't want me dead, though. He was trying to save my life.

  By hiding from me.

  But not anymore.

  I turned towards the plaque, Damon coming up on my right hand side and seeing the graffiti at the same time I did.

  ESR673

  "What the hell does that mean?" he asked, lifting a finger to rub at the black spray paint. It came away clean. The message had been here long enough to dry.

  "How long does it take spray paint to dry?" I asked, pulling my cellphone from my pocket and dialling in the Police Communication's number.

  "It's not enamel," Damon supplied. "So, five minutes to touch, completely within an hour."

  I glanced around the area again, knowing Carl wasn't here, but unable to stop myself.

  "Comms, Kathy," came the voice down the line.

  "This is Detective Lara Keen. Can I have a QV, please?"

  "QV?" Damon whispered in question. I mouthed, "Query Vehicle."

  "Go ahead, Detective," Kathy chirped.

  "Echo-sierra-romeo-six-seven-three."

  "Standby." I waited, tapping my good toe on the concrete beneath my feet. "That comes back as a 2014 black Jaguar F-Type R Coupe registered to a Simon Aaron Kahui. No tickets issued. Would you like a QP?"

  "Yes, please," I rasped, already well aware of who Simon Kahui was, but a Query Person would give me any outstanding warrants.

  Not that this person would be wanted for arrest.

  Not yet.

  I put my back to Carl's plaque, it was a mockery now, and looked out over the immaculately kept lawn to the headstones in the distance. A couple were paying their respects at one, a gardener was tending another further on. No one else stood out.

  Simon Aaron Kahui. Now why would you write that, Old Man?
r />   "You there, Detective?" Kathy from Comms asked.

  "Yes, go ahead."

  "Male. Maori. Date of birth: June 27, 1965. No prior arrests, no outstanding warrants. Last known address is 48 Cliff Road, St Heliers Bay, Auckland. There is a note attached," Kathy added. "Oh, do you know who he is?" she asked, with increased interest.

  "Yes," I replied, voice tight. "Auckland City's Crown Prosecutor." And then I hung up.

  Chapter 32

  "Pay attention, Sport. Don't fucking fall asleep on the job."

  What the hell was going on?

  "Come on," I said to Damon, eyes scanning the area as I pocketed my cellphone, and started back to the vehicle.

  "What have you found out?" Damon asked.

  "In the car," I snapped, not wanting to talk about this in the open where anyone could be watching unobserved.

  I had no doubt Carl had sprayed that license plate number on the memorial wall while the security cameras were turned away, not that I needed confirmation that the message was from him. No, I just needed a translator. What the hell, Carl? The Crown Prosecutor? He was one of us.

  Somehow, though, that rang a little too close for comfort. Carl was one of us. The informants were an extension of us. And now a crown solicitor, one of sixteen appointed throughout the country by the Solicitor-General to prosecute major indictable criminal offences, was implicated as well.

  I shook my head, unlocking the car, and did a quiet last minute survey of the surroundings. He could be here, watching. I wouldn't know. He'd wait until I'd figured out this last message before he made a move. But I had a feeling that Carl was about to perform his final act.

  Just what would it be?

  I slipped into the car and started it before Damon had buckled up. I had to get away from here. I planned to never come back again, if I could help it.

  "OK, what's got you so on edge?" Damon demanded, clearly I wasn't hiding my reaction well.

  I sucked in a deep breath to settle my nerves and pulled out onto St Johns Road.

  "That was a license plate number," I finally said.

  "I gathered that. Query vehicle," he replied, emphasising the last word.