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

  "It's password protected," I said, pocketing my phone again.

  "And the password is?"

  "Phoenix. Capital P, the rest lower case, all one word."

  "Phoenix," he murmured. "Rising from the ashes."

  "Stubbornly clinging to something that should have been destroyed by fire."

  His lips twitched. "Life, like love, is not something one should ever give up on, Lara."

  "So you say."

  He held my gaze, a slight look of defeat entering the dark brown in his eyes.

  "I'll see you in the morning," he murmured, and then slipped out of the car.

  I watched him walk the short distance to his HEAT vehicle, unable to pull my gaze away from his back. Then shook myself awake, turned the car engine over and pulled out of the lot. I had every intention of driving home. Pouring myself a glass of wine and soaking in the bath, then reading over reports and notes on the case in bed. Until finally I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  But somehow I found myself standing in front of the memorial plaques at Purewa Cemetery, staring at Carl's name on the wall. I didn't come here often. It was too morbid, and really, it's not like he would answer any questions I had. But here I was, alone late at night, looking for something that I knew I couldn't find here.

  I told myself it was that need for distance. A break from the case to clear my head. But I'd learned long ago that lying to yourself was a sure-fire way to make things worse.

  "So, here I am," I whispered, and naturally no one replied. "Where are you, I wonder," I added, and scuffed the toe of my shoe on the pavers beneath my feet just to be doing something. Anything at all.

  I shook my head, angry with myself for being so fucking sentimental, then with hands thrust deep in my pockets I turned and strode back to my car.

  It was useless to live in the past, nothing could ever change it. Carl Forrester was dead and no amount of pleading with a higher deity would bring him back.

  I checked my phone, making sure there were no new messages, then drove forlornly home.

  It was four in the morning when the call came in.

  "Detective Keen, Kathy at Comms. We've got a unit outside The Cloud." Ah, fuck it. "A body has been found, query gunshot. There's a flag in the system connecting you to the location yesterday. Do you want it?"

  I rolled over to sit on the side of the bed and stared at the carpet for a second.

  "I'll be there in fifteen."

  "Roger copy, assigning you now," the dispatcher said and hung up.

  I kept staring at the carpet for a full minute more, then returned the phone to its base and started to dress. I made sure, this time, to grab clean clothes that had at least some respectability to them, having thrown my outfit in the laundry basket when I got home. This time I opted for jeans, a white shirt and blue jacket to hide my holstered gun. The inspector wasn't a fan of jeans for his detectives, but nearly every single one of them in CIB liked to flaunt denim when they could.

  I needed at least something to smile about tonight. Rebelling with the dress code was as close as I'd get.

  I dialled Michaels' cellphone whilst enroute. It went straight to voice mail, so I had to settle for leaving a message. Praying that some enterprising young uniformed officer had grabbed take-away coffees before I got there, I went over the case as it stood in my mind. Two dead informants, one attempted murder by .38 at The Cloud, or it could have just been to unsettle us and death wasn't foremost on the shooter's mind, and now a body back at The Cloud.

  Logic told me it was going to be Tank's. Why, when I hadn't even touched base with him, didn't make any sense, though, at all. The previous deaths were with snitches I had met with and swapped information for cash. Granted, Anton didn't have much to give me that was helpful, other than a few generalisations about current known whereabouts of certain criminals and the like. But Tommy had given up intel that pertained to the underground club scene.

  The connection was too slim. My gut told me this had nothing to do with the roofies at the clubs. But then, if not, what was it all about?

  Informants. Meeting with me or in the case of Tank, almost meeting with me. Same location as the meets.

  I shook the questions free for now, first I needed to confirm the body was indeed Tank's. This could all be a coincidence and nothing more.

  I parked where I'd managed to get a spot earlier, three marked cop cars already on the scene, yellow tape cordoning off the entire area around The Cloud structure. A constable standing at this end, ready to deflect or direct as necessary. I flashed my badge and slipped under the tape, following his directions to the where the victim could be found.

  Just as I neared the scene, my cellphone rang. I held my hand up to the officer approaching me and swiped to activate the call.

  "Keen," I said into the piece, seeing the body of the victim from where I stood. "Shit," I muttered, recognising Tank's large form resting, as though posed, next to the particle board that had been used to seal the glass door shattered from the bullet yesterday.

  Blood pooled through his security guard uniform, from the looks of it he'd been shot more than once. No matter how many times I see the dark stain of spilled blood, no matter how far away I glimpse at it, no matter how much is there, every single time it makes my stomach roll and my breath hitch. There's no denying the reaction even after all of these years.

  I turned away and devoted my attention to the caller on the other end of the line.

  "We really should stop connecting like this in the middle of the fucking night, Keen," Pierce's voice murmured into my ear.

  "Don't tell me," I quipped, "You've been called in for a murder too."

  "No, not murder. I'll leave those to you. My call-out, although I'm guessing not pertaining to your case, is right up your alley."

  I groaned, not bothering to hide my dislike of where this was going.

  "Spill, Pierce."

  "Arson."

  "Oh, come on! I'm not the only detective assigned to HEAT."

  "Yeah, but if you're wondering where your boy is, he's with me."

  "Well that explained him not answering his cellphone," I reasoned.

  "There's more," Pierce added, the sounds of conversation becoming less and less distinct in the background. I figured Pierce was attempting some privacy for this next bit.

  "There always is," I muttered.

  "Something's not right about this one," Pierce shared.

  "God, Pierce. I'm standing in the freezing cold beside a dead body and you're phoning to use me as a sounding board on an arson? Which, by the way, is never right."

  "Damn, did they not have coffee waiting, Keen?"

  No, they didn't. I flicked a frown toward the uniformed officer waiting for my attention.

  "It's hard to get good help these days," I offered. "So, what's your gut telling you?" I asked, returning us to the real reason why Ryan had phoned.

  We'd gotten used to pitting ideas against each other since Carl left and Harvey was suspended. A detective has to have someone they can turn to, to bounce ideas off, despite my earlier complaining words.

  "I don't think this is an isolated case, and I checked with Comms. There's been no arsons recently, but Michaels is acting like this was expected and means something. Something personal," he added. "Look, I just thought you should know, considering he's your temporary partner and all."

  I ran a hand over my face, closing my eyes while I thought that through.

  "I gather he's closing you out," I said, lids still down while I pictured the scene in my head.

  "Pretty much."

  "What do you want me to do?" I asked, resigned to the fact that there was more going on than just the underground club scene. And I had thought that was complicated enough.

  "Stick some dynamite up his arse and make him play ball."

  "Now there's an image I'd rather not have burned on my retinas," I shot back. I sighed. "I'm a little tied up right now, but send through what you manage to uncover there and
I'll have him on about it later when we meet up. I still assume he'll be on this case with me, or does it look like he's jumping ship already?"

  Strange how that left me feeling uncertain. Was Damon backing out already, giving up before the battle had even begun?

  "Hasn't led me to believe that, but I'll make sure he's aware you're on another murder scene. And thanks, I'll send through what I've got as soon as we wrap up here."

  "OK, Sarge. Talk soon."

  I hung up and turned to face the uniform again, who seemed super eager to hand over the crime scene to CIB. I didn't blame him, we were exposed here at the end of Queen's Wharf, but that's why they paid us the big bucks. Or not.

  "What have you got for me, Officer?" I asked, walking towards him and Tank's body.

  "Gunshots heard around three-thirty, Detective. Two in total, but nothing else witnessed. We were the first on scene, found the body as it is now, haven't touched anything else, other than to secure the area. We have the original witness to the gunshots sitting in one of the units, waiting to make a statement, and the manager of The Cloud on the way down here now to see if they recognise the victim. As he's wearing a security officer uniform, we assume he could have been working here."

  He had been. And sleeping here too. I nodded.

  "Any other witnesses rounded up who heard the shots?" I asked as I walked to the other side of the body and found the weapon. Gripped in Tank's bloody hand.

  "No, Detective. What with the noise of Quay Street, it's surprising the guy walking past heard anything at all."

  No, it wasn't. The killer wanted the body found right then.

  "Suicide?" the officer asked.

  I crouched down and looked into the pale face of my dead informant and shook my head.

  "No. Homicide."

  "But he's holding the gun."

  "And it's probably the gun that killed him, and he possibly even fired it." Forensics would determine that easily enough. "But it wasn't suicide."

  I could tell the cop was looking at me as though I'd lost the plot, but I switched off from the surroundings and let my senses get to work on the immediate scene. Ignoring the metallic smell of blood mixed with the ammonia of urine, and cutting my emotions off from the fact that this was once a man, not just a body, I catalogued the location of each wound. It was never easy, but necessary. You had to treat each victim like a job.

  At least, most of the time.

  Two obvious bullet wounds. Both of them could have been the fatal shot. Left upper chest, right above the heart, close range. Centre of the forehead, minimal blood loss. The bullet to the head was post mortem, the one in the chest killed him. That was my bet, anyway.

  But here he was holding the smoking gun. And I'd bet my money both shots were fired from this weapon. Impossible for a dead man to shoot himself in the head.

  I leaned forward, looking at the positioning of the body. It seemed overly staged. Legs crossed at the ankles, as though he was sitting down and taking a lunch break. One hand, his right, holding the weapon on top of his thigh. The other hand in the left pocket of his trousers, looked like it was gripping something.

  I stared at the bulge in the pocket as the crime lab guys arrived, setting up flood lights and screens, rolling in trolleys with gear and a stretcher to take the body away afterwards.

  "Can someone get photographs done quickly, please?" I asked.

  "Sure thing. Anywhere in particular you want to look at first?" a forensics, overall wearing, shoe covered, and hair covered, guy asked.

  "The pocket," I replied pointing where I needed him to take shots.

  I stood up and gave him some space, wishing to God I had a coffee cup in my hand, and turned my attention to the wider scene. It was hard to tell if Tank had been shot where he sat, but my guess was he had. No blood splatter or smears to indicate he was dragged there. Probably positioned after death, but I was prepared to wait for the forensics report to confirm that. Anything, though, was possible with this perp.

  Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary by the time I'd done a thorough walk through of the area and scene. I instructed a couple of uniforms to work with the crime lab to gather any evidence down the sides of the building, including a good portion of the Wharf itself, but I didn't tell them that I thought it was a waste of time.

  This guy was too good.

  "Something in the pocket, Detective," the photographer said.

  I walked over and nodded for him to retrieve it, saving me from having to don gloves.

  Slowly he pulled the item out, releasing it from the grip Tank's fingers had around the handle.

  "A .38 calibre pistol, Detective," the guy said.

  I stared at it for a second and then ordered, "Bag it, and check it against the bullet found at this location last night. It'll match."

  Now the question was, had the gun been planted or was it Tank's? And the answer to that would tell us who had fired at Damon and me yesterday.

  Of course, proving who it belonged to was a fucking long shot.

  Bottom line though, I was definitely being fucking played.

  Chapter 8

  "Looks like a Lily, bites like a Venus Fly Trap."

  I checked the information Pierce had sent through regarding the arson and confirmed with Comms that he and HEAT were still on scene. Putting off paperwork seemed like a good idea, and finding out just what the hell Damon was up to even better.

  I needed my partner focused on this case, not something he was getting all territorial over with Ryan Pierce.

  My gut rocked and rolled on the way over to the address on my GPS, forcing me to make an impromptu and brief stop at a petrol station for the Emergency Services standard of steak and cheese pie with double shot of espresso coffee on the side. I felt rather disgusted with myself for eating the fat laden pastry, but the second the caffeine hit my tongue all guilt was wiped clean.

  Dusting off the crumbs, and swiping the back of my hand over my mouth to ensure I didn't have any tomato sauce peeking at the edges of my lips, I watched the scene outside my car window for several minutes. Noting the three fire engines in situ, the burned out garage attached to a rather nicely presented refurbished council house, the charred and destroyed exotic looking vehicle inside said burned out garage, and the untold number of HEAT vehicles that took up half the street.

  This wasn't a normal arson, all right. This was intimately related to the guys at HEAT. And if I wasn't mistaken, that was a hot rod turned to ash in the garage.

  Marc's house.

  "Bugger it," I muttered as I climbed out of the car, searching for Detective Sergeant Pierce first out of professional respect.

  I found him arguing quietly with Michaels, several aggravated and adrenaline fuelled HEAT guys right at his back. And Ryan was facing them alone with a sense of calm and self possession few men had when in the middle of a showdown with angry and determined firemen.

  I walked over, ignoring the annoyed glares from men I had only just yesterday shared a pasta meal and coffee with at HEAT HQ's table. They clearly didn't want Ryan to have back-up, and they sure as hell didn't want that back-up to be me.

  "What's the story?" I said, interrupting Michaels mid rant, directing my attention and question to Pierce.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Michaels demanded. Pierce and I ignored him.

  Turning to me, Ryan said, "The house belongs to a HEAT team member."

  "Marc Holland," I supplied, receiving a raised eyebrow from Pierce and an undecipherable mutter from Michaels.

  "Yes, Marc Holland," Pierce confirmed. "At this point and time HEAT has declined any further assistance from CIB."

  I spun to look at Michaels. "Why?"

  "That's what I was asking," Pierce offered to my side, shoulder to shoulder, facing the HEAT guys. This should be fun.

  "This is ridiculous," Michaels exclaimed. "We just want a moment to assess the scene without your lot traipsing all over it."

  "We do not traipse," I argued. "And since whe
n has HEAT ever had a scene like this to themselves?"

  "Pointed that out already," Pierce muttered.

  "Just give us half an hour," Michaels tried.

  "Why?" I pushed.

  "Because I'm asking."

  "Not good enough," Pierce said bluntly in the first indication of him being riled.

  "Lara," Damon almost pleaded, his eyes on mine and looking fierce. "Just half an hour for us to check a few things out, then forensics can move in and work with my team."

  I really had no idea what was going on. The request was unusual for so many reasons. HEAT Investigation Division were the experts on fire related crimes, but they were not the law. They always worked in conjunction with the Police, never alone. And besides, Damon asking me this was out of line. This wasn't even my case.

  "It's Ryan's call," I finally said and the look of disbelief on Damon's face almost made me take a step back.

  What the hell had he expected? We had no promise to each other, professional or otherwise. But still I felt like I'd let him down. Not given my trust when I should have. Damon had always been able to make me feel that way, yet he was the one who betrayed any trust we ever had.

  Pierce turned to his forensics team on site and gave them the go-ahead to start sifting through the scene, Damon just stared daggers at me, but barked out instructions for his guys to doggedly follow the crime lab inside the garage.

  I wanted to sigh. I wanted to pull my hair out and give a little scream. But instead I said, "There's been a third murder. Tank, outside The Cloud."

  I saw him struggle with the need to turn his back, to tell me to go to hell, and say he wasn't interested. But Damon Michaels is an investigator through and through. Even when pissed off at me, the crime came first.

  "How?" he asked, a one word sentence, but at least he was engaging.

  "Gunshots, two. Posed to look like a suicide, but I'm certain the second shot to the forehead was carried out after death."

  He nodded, started to pace in front of me, wheels turning inside his head.