A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 4

  "Can't put the fire out on their own?"

  "Keen, make sure you just assist him with the case."

  "Give those Firies an inch and they'll hand you back six."

  "She knows how to handle six inches, don't you Keen?"

  "I think she could handle ten."

  I sighed. Sometimes being the only female in the CIB had its perks. Sometimes not.

  "Steady on, Cawfield," I ribbed the last heckler. "What would you know of ten inches? I'm sure yours is only about three."

  "Ah, Keen. Come over here and we'll get the ruler out."

  "In your dreams, Detective," I shot back and walked out the door.

  It wasn't the heckling that did it. I was used to that and the boys didn't mean any real harm. Rather like black humour at a murder scene. It's not intended to be offensive, it's purely an outlet of emotion, enabling us to remain even keeled.

  But the taunting did have one effect. It threw Michaels off his guard. So when I rounded on him in the corridor and pushed him back hard against the wall with my forearm to his throat, he didn't stand a chance.

  Face to face, nose to nose, I whispered harshly, "You will tell me why the hell you are here. As there's no way I went through that fucking shit in the Inspector's office because you've just got an itch to scratch."

  He held my furious glare with a passive one of his own, then whispered back, leaning forward so his lips were within a millimetre of mine, "You still feel fucking good pressed against my body, Lara."

  I blinked. So not the reply I had expected.

  His hands landed on my hips, thumbs stroking, and then he pushed me away as though I was paper light.

  "Still think there's an ulterior reason?" he asked, as he strode off down the hall passed a wide eyed Ryan Pierce.

  Oh, yeah. Now more so than ever. The bastard was definitely hiding something.

  Chapter 4

  "Bureaucracy's got a hell of a lot to answer for."

  "He teamed you up with Michaels?" Pierce asked, clearly unprepared for this turn of events.

  "Said we were too thin on the ground to spare another detective to partner me up with."

  "What am I? Chopped liver."

  I smiled. "Maybe Harvey's coming back soon," I offered.

  Ryan scratched at his beard, then looked over his shoulder at an impatiently waiting Michaels down by the door at the end of the hallway we were in.

  "You gonna be OK with him?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "Sure. How bad could it be?"

  Ryan chuffed out a laugh. "If you need back-up, just drop me a line. Harvey or no Harvey, I'm your man."

  "Thanks, Pierce. Carl always said you were a good bet."

  Ryan's face broke into a wide smile.

  "Takes one to know one." His hand landed on my shoulder and gave a soft squeeze, and then he walked on towards CIB.

  I wondered what Carl would think of Michaels joining forces with me for this case. No doubt he'd be pretty philosophical about the whole inter-service teaming up and consider it a great use of governmental resources. But then he'd be just as likely to say bureaucracy's got a hell of a lot to answer for.

  I approached Michaels with a little trepidation. He looked slightly unhinged right now. His hands were fisted tightly at his sides, his jaw was set firm, and those dark, intense eyes were scanning the corridor over my back, as though looking for a threat or watching one leave.

  "What's your problem?" I asked, starting to push the door open at his side.

  "How do you put up with them?"

  "Who? The boys?"

  He huffed. "An apt moniker. Certainly behaved childishly enough."

  "It's just par for the course. No harm no foul, that sort of thing."

  "It's sexual harassment."

  "Whoa," I said, coming to a stop and spinning to face him. "Sexual harassment is you saying I feel good pressed up against your body while your thumbs stroke intimately over my hip bones."

  "You felt that? I wondered," he replied smoothly, continuing on out of the door. "And it's only sexual harassment if it's unwanted. What we're doing is establishing a mutually desired personal relationship."

  "We are not establishing any sort of relationship," I shot back, heading towards where I parked my car.

  I could see his vehicle over in the public parking area, but he didn't even head in that direction, just stopped at the passenger side of mine, waiting for me to unlock the door. I mentally shrugged. He was my partner, it made sense if we actually shared the same vehicle while this case ran its course.

  I slid in behind the steering wheel and started the car before he'd even buckled up. His long legs seemed to be crowded in the footwell of the passenger side, until he found the right lever to move the seat back a few necessary inches and spread himself out. I could smell his cologne. I opened my window.

  "So, partner," he said, emphasising the word. "What's next?"

  I wanted to sigh, but I needed sustenance first. Not to mention another coffee.

  "I get hungry when I get my arse chewed off," I offered as explanation for where we were going. "You eaten breakfast yet?"

  "No, skipped it to beat you to the station."

  A burst of laughter shot out my mouth. I knew it! The bastard had set me up.

  "There it is," he murmured, looking at me from the corner of his eye. "Missed it."

  "Don't," I whispered, as I negotiated traffic onto Queen Street.

  "We should talk about what happened," he said quietly back.

  "There's nothing to talk about and we've a case to solve."

  At least him mentioning our tenuous past history made me focus on what was important right now. Anton and Tommy. And possibly more of my guys if my gut was telling it right.

  "Thomas Withers is not the first death."

  "I gathered that," Michaels replied steadily, all investigator now, no more flirty wet-dream trying to get back in my pants.

  "Anton Burgess was also an informant of mine and had his head almost sliced off with a serrated knife three days ago."

  Michaels whistled low. "Any other connection?"

  "I used them on this case I'm working. Ever heard of Zero Gravity?"

  His head spun so quickly to face me, I almost jumped at the sudden movement.

  "Everyone's heard of Zero," he said carefully. Too carefully.

  "And what have you heard, Michaels?"

  "It's a sex club. Invitation only to the back rooms."

  My gut kept on pushing me.

  "Have you ever been invited?" I asked, unwillingly holding my breath while I waited for him to reply.

  "Yes," he said, watching my face carefully for a reaction.

  For a second I wasn't sure how to take that, then the cop stepped forward and started to plan.

  "Could you get another invitation?"

  "Yes," he said more slowly than last time, his voice lowering slightly. "What are you concerned about? Sex clubs aren't illegal."

  No, they weren't.

  But... "You sound a tad defensive there, Investigator. Something to hide?"

  "Sweetheart, I'm an open book," he shot back to deflect. "What's happening at Zero that involves CIB?"

  "Roofies. Rohypnol. DFSA."

  "Drug Facilitated Sexual Assault. Not entirely uncommon in any bar scene in Auckland city, I should think. What's that you're told as a teenager? Never take your eyes off your drink?"

  "Yeah, well this one's more insidious. The predator is not your average date rape enthusiast. We have reason to believe the benzos are placed in the product before they are opened."

  "The manufacturer?"

  "All checked out clean. If it's happening, it's happening after market, but pre-shelving at the clubs."

  "That sounds like an extremely involved and committed undertaking. Why are you the only detective on the case?"

  "Because at this stage, it's all hearsay. We don't even know if what we've been told is legit. Can't waste good taxpayers' money on a wild goose chase. Just one lowly
paid cop."

  "And somehow this has something to do with your informants' deaths?"

  "That's the question, isn't it? For now it's the only lead I've got."

  "No other connections?" Michaels pushed, as I parallel parked the car outside a café down on the waterfront.

  "They were both Carl's as well." The car interior sounded too silent after I switched the engine off.

  "I'm sorry about your partner," Michaels said softly.

  "Shit happens," I spat as I wrenched the door open and sucked in mouthfuls of air. My knuckles turned white on the door handle as I came to my feet on the footpath beside the car. My chest hurt.

  When would that desolate feeling go away? If the shrink was right, possibly never. What a depressing thought.

  "I like this place," Michaels said at my side, looking up at the striped blue and gold awning of the little Italian restaurant I'd chosen for our early lunch. "They do a good Fettuccine Alfredo."

  "I like the chicken club sandwich," I argued.

  "Spoken like a true cop."

  I ignored the sarcasm and walked into the store.

  "Hey, Detective Keen! Long time no see," Angelo called out. "You take a seat, I bring your sandwich over. What your man having?"

  I glanced up at Michaels, noting the stunned look on his face at the familiarity I shared with the proprietor. Did he think I was antisocial? Or was it just that someone was happy to see me at all?

  "He likes your Alfredo, Angelo," I replied, seeing as Michaels appeared mute.

  "Everyone likes my Alfredo. Even Carl."

  I stumbled, just a slight misstep on hearing Angelo say Carl's name. Damon's hot hand wrapped around my upper arm and steadied me, but he didn't make a sound or pass judgement, just guided me to a vacant chair.

  I sat down feeling the weight of my grief consume me. Shaking off the morbid sensation, I poured two glasses of water from the decanter waiting on the table. I sucked back half of mine before I lifted my eyes to Michaels' face. Concern etched fine lines around his eyes and mouth, but still he didn't say what was obviously on his mind.

  I wasn't sure if I should be pissed off or thankful. Neither a welcome emotion.

  "I've warned my contacts," I said eventually, after making sure we were far enough away from the other patrons to not be overheard. I was vaguely impressed with the location in the room that Damon had chosen. Then equally as disgusted that I'd relied on him to do so.

  "There's not much more you can do than that," Michaels murmured, sipping from his own water.

  "I still don't get it. Murder's a pretty big thing. What's the motive?"

  "If it is the clubs," Michaels said, voice pitched low for only me to hear, "Then it's money. Profitability of the drugs. The informants were about to disclose too much."

  I tapped my finger restlessly on the table's wooden surface, staring off out of the window at the super yachts moored in the marina outside.

  "This isn't even a top ten case," I pointed out.

  "Top ten?"

  "Those cases the press are aware of and have top priority and first call on resources in the department. It's surveillance, intel gathering, confirming a tip-off. Nothing else. If they know we're investigating already, then they have more than enough time to cover their tracks or take a hiatus from the distribution for a while. Let things settle. Resorting to murder this early in the piece is extreme."

  "So, they're extreme. Drugs will do that to you."

  I shook my head. "It doesn't sit well."

  Go with your gut. If there's no evidence, follow that tug to where there is.

  I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table top, rubbing my hands over my face, my eyes closed. What would Carl do?

  "You look shattered, Lara. Are you sleeping? Have you slept since the..."

  "I'm fine," I snapped, sitting upright just as Angelo brought our plates across.

  "I put in extra mayo, just how you like, Detective. Not so sure how your man like his Alfredo, but I do a little twist to make it special, eh?"

  "Thanks, Angelo. And he's not my man. He's my partner. Investigator Damon Michaels of HEAT, Angelo Berti from Florence." I waved my hand between the two men as I introduced them.

  "Firenze, è bello," Michaels murmured, shaking the older man's hand, making Angelo run off excitedly in Italian which Damon clearly didn't understand at all.

  I snorted into my sandwich as I watched him try to explain, using his high school level Italian language skills, and found myself smiling. There was precious little left to smile about in my life right now. Oh, I knew the sun would shine again one day. When I was ready. And Carl had stopped visiting my dreams. But until then, I'd treasure every grin, every chuckle, every single moment of amusement like the jewels that they were.

  Precious.

  I glanced up and found Damon watching me, as Angelo went on and on about Florence and wines and something about bridges in Italian. My Italian language skills no doubt even worse than Michaels'. We both let the man run out of steam on his own as our eyes held fast on each other.

  Oh, fuck. This was not what I needed. This complication in the middle of a complicated case.

  Finally Angelo realised there was some sort of tension hanging in the air between us and took a quiet step back and left us alone. The sounds of the general hubbub of restaurant eaters surrounded us, and for a moment out of time I even forgot Carl.

  Then Damon's phone rang and he shook himself minutely and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve the device.

  "Michaels," he announced into the receiver, just as I finished my last bite. It was a good sandwich, thick on the mayo and chicken, light on the salad. Angelo was right, just how I liked it.

  I watched distractedly as Michaels first sat forward, then abruptly stood to full height.

  "I'm on my way. Hold him there until I arrive," he barked into the phone, setting my spine rigid and my senses on high alert.

  The phone swiped closed under his thumb and he re-pocketed the device, then looked down at his uneaten meal.

  "Damn, I was hungry," he muttered.

  "What's up?" I asked as Angelo scurried over with a takeaway container, used to Carl and I pulling up sticks midway through a meal and therefore sensing our imminent departure right now.

  "I take care of this, Investigator Michaels," the man murmured, as Damon nodded and then grimaced at me.

  "I need a favour," he announced.

  "OK," I said slowly. "But I'm not letting you drive."

  He huffed out a breath and ran a hand over the back of his neck. I knew that move, he'd used it in the past. When anxious. When trying to figure out a way to hide something he didn't want me to know.

  I pushed back out of my chair, throwing down some notes on the table, which Damon tried to swipe up and replace with his own, only to have me slap his hand, grab the cash and say, "Put it on my tab, Angelo."

  "Will do, Detective."

  Damon just shook his head as he followed me out of the store.

  "Are you going to tell me what's up?" I asked across the roof of my car as I unlocked the door.

  "Just something I have to check on back at the office. It won't take long."

  Biting back my bullshit comment I slid into the vehicle and started it up. I may have taken the corners a little more aggressively than I intended, but we arrived at HEAT HQ in record time.

  "You're a maniac, you know that?" Michaels murmured as we exited the vehicle out the back of the two storey art deco styled building that is Pitt Street Fire Station. It was the first words he'd uttered since leaving Angelo's. "How the hell they let you in the police force with those driving skills, I'll never know," he added for good measure, making me wonder whether this was his way of apologising for being a prick.

  "I'll have you know," I replied with a faux pleasant smile as we walked through the doors and up the stairs, which bypassed the watch area and led directly to HEAT. "That it took three weeks of intensive defensive driver training to get
me to that level of competency. I can manoeuvre a vehicle on two wheels through an obstacle course while sucking on a melting Popsicle."

  He stopped just inside the main room of HEAT's offices, several pairs of eyes coming up and staring at us with amused interest, as Damon swung back to look at me.

  "A Popsicle?" he said, sounding a little stunned.

  "Well, it was either that or a hot dog on a stick, but tomato sauce is a bitch to clean."

  Silence.

  He swung back around and glared at the men all watching, some with open mouths, others with differing levels of smirks, and a couple offering winks, and grumbled, "Guys, you all remember Detective Keen."

  "Vividly," one man replied, another added, "Absolutely," while still someone else said, "Haven't forgotten a thing."

  Yeah, that was the problem. I remembered the HEAT guys too. And I liked them.

  Shame, though, about their boss.

  Chapter 5

  "Curiosity didn't just kill the cat, it also fucked with the police detective who wasn't focused as well."

  Damon marched over to a long dining table and threw his container from Angelo's down on top. The scent of Italian herbs wafted up out of the box making a few of the guys sitting around the table lean closer.

  "Don't touch that!" Michaels ordered. "Is he in my office?"

  "Yeah, Flack's with him," Marc replied, returning his attention to the hot rod car magazine he was reading. I'd worked with Marc on various chem lab busts. He was a modified roadster enthusiast with large bulging arm muscles and the obligatory tattoos to go with them. Plus one hell of a good sense of humour.

  He was also the head of HEAT's Fire Prevention Division, had a science degree, and knew how to dismantle bombs.

  "It's the third time this month, Damon," Jude murmured from his seat across the table. He was nursing a steaming mug of coffee, that from here I could almost taste. Dark and sweet, just like him.

  Jude was a big teddy bear of a guy with fists the size of dinner plates. He worked along side Marc in Prevention, kind of like his second in command.

  Michaels flicked his eyes towards me when Jude had spoken, "Well, let's keep it in house for now, OK?" All eyes lifted to my face.