A Righteous Kill (9 page)

What she wore to bed.

He knew what transference was, hell he’d deflected it a time or two. He couldn’t twist his obsession with catching John the Baptist into an obsession with the madman’s alluring victim. When she looked at him like she did now, like she trusted him implicitly, it made him want to run like hell. It scared the holy bejeezus out of him and conflicted the two halves of his nature. Part of him wanted to be what she saw when she looked at him like that. The rest of him knew what he actually
was
. A man on this side of a monster, using the rigid rules and protocols of the law to harness the taint of evil within himself.

The direct imperative to keep Hero at arm’s length became his daily mantra. They would keep things professional. He would do his best to keep her safe, whatever it took, but there were lines he would absolutely not cross.

Rule number one: Avoid being alone together at all costs.

Rule number two: Refer to rule number one.

The Special Agent in Charge of the Portland FBI Headquarters, Hank Trojanowski, charged into the apartment with all the grace of a stampeding rhino.

“Ramirez. Di Petro. As of right now, you’re taking 12 hour shifts as Ms. Connor’s personal shadows. Either one or both of you will be glued to her side until this evil bastard makes his move. This is our chance to catch this killer.”

***

A loose seam in Director Trojanowski’s suit jacket shoulder drove Hero to the brink of madness. The late afternoon sunlight kept glinting off the string which was the same color of grey as his thinning hair. Her fingers itched to pluck it for him, but she folded them tightly in her lap to stifle the urge. Her hands were clammy and her mouth was dry. She desperately wished it could be the other way around. She needed a drink. A stiff one. She looked at Luca who urgently argued with Director Trojanowski regarding all the reasons he shouldn’t have to stay with her.

What the hell was with him? It seemed that he even found her
handshake
distasteful and took special precaution to keep any physical interaction very brief. She tried not to be offended. Maybe she wasn’t his type? Maybe he only liked Latino girls?

That was an awfully racist assumption to make
, she chided herself. She knew from Rown that it was against most law-enforcement policy to “fraternize” with suspects or victims. But Hero had never been much for rules or policies. Especially when they made no sense. Oh, and when they got in the way of something she wanted.

“How am I going to conduct an investigation if I’m not in the office during the day?” Luca challenged his boss, crossing thick arms over his chest.

Director Trojanowski was built like a string bean, kinda thin with lumps in unexpected places. He sounded like Darth Vader, though, and Hero imagined that most people found that unsettling. “Well that’s easy. Di Petro will take the day shift, six to six, while you put in your time at the office and have a few hours to yourself. Then you’ll be here from around six p.m. to six a.m. You two can adjust hours as needed.”

“Sounds good, boss,” Di Petro piped in from where he was directing the different field units that now crowded her home.

Luca pinned an accusing stare on her. “What about weekends?” he continued stubbornly.

“One of you takes Saturdays off, one of you takes Sunday.” The Director shrugged. “It’s undercover field work, Ramirez, it’s not like you haven’t done this for weeks on end before.”

“Yeah man.” Di Petro wandered over. “Think of all the wicked sweet overtime.” He waggled his dark brows. “You paid off your bike with what you earned on that human trafficking case a year ago.” Point made, he popped his gum and plunged his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Besides, now we might actually be able to catch this prick.”

Luca ignored him. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate if a woman spent the evening hours here— wait—
undercover
?”

Trojanowski turned to Hero then, joining her on the couch at a circumspect distance. “Tell me what you think of this, Ms. Conner.”

“It’s Katrova-Connor,” she corrected. “But you can call me Hero.” She liked the Director, and did her best to muster up a smile to give him.

“Thank you.” He patted her hands in a fatherly gesture. “I know you’re an artist by trade, but according to your profile, you do most of your work during the day and much of your socializing and running around in the evenings, am I correct?”

Hero tried not to be disconcerted that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had a profile on her. What else did it say in there?

“Generally,” she shrugged. She did some of her best pottery work in the middle of the night and usually slept in until about nine-thirty or ten. She liked to sculpt during the day when the sun helped to direct her with shadows and shades. Two nights a week, she taught a yoga class. Early mornings were pointless and had no use to her at all. She had to do shipping during banking hours and could work on her website whenever. However, those hours didn’t include gallery shows, art exhibits, weekend farmer’s markets and festivals, which accounted for a ton of her income. She traveled to several of those pretty much everywhere along the coast, especially in the summer/autumn months.

“My schedule is all over the place. Anyone who thinks I’m an idle starving artist has another thing coming.” She winked up at the agents. “You two will have to keep up.”

Trojanowski smirked. “We’re well aware of that. We’ve seen your income tax history.”

Her brows drew together at that and she hoped she hid her wince. Did they know about all the stuff she
didn’t
claim?

“We’re not the IRS,” he chuckled.

She let out a nervous laugh. Guess you didn’t get to be where he was in the Bureau if you weren’t damn good at reading people.

“Anyway, in light of recent case developments we at the Bureau feel it would be safer if you took an agent with you everywhere.”

“Does
recent case developments
mean the dead goat head in my fridge?” That poor goat. It had to have been huge, judging from the size of his horned head, and pure white, with those creepy, grey, square-shaped pupils. Despite that, Hero mourned its pointless death. Had it been afraid? Had it struggled for its life as she had?

“Uh, that would be correct.” Their conversation was interrupted as Hero’s entire refrigerator rolled by on a dolly pushed by a man and woman with “PORTLAND CSU” reflecting off their police jackets. Roger Daltry’s voice screamed through her mind.

Who are you? Who, who? Who, who
?

God, she was losing it.

At least they wrapped the fridge closed with crime scene tape.

“It’s difficult to explain a Federal tail to those in your social group or professional life, and it tends to make people jumpy,” Director Trojanowski was saying.

Hero squinted at him, trying to reach his point before he did.

“Which poses a public safety issue. Also, a
uniformed
body guard might scare off the perpetrator.”

“Wait.” Hero worried about where this was going. “Isn’t that the idea?”

“Well Ms. Katrova-Connor, Hero, ah, our best chance of catching John the Baptist is if he attempts to… contact you again.”

“You mean attempts to
kill
her again,” Luca interjected. His demeanor had been stormy before. Now it was thunderous. “We’re not using her as live bait. There has to be another option that doesn’t involve—”

“I’m sorry, but does your name title have ‘Director’ in front of it? Because it damn well better if you’re issuing orders, Ramirez.” Trojanowski stood and drew himself up to his full height, which was still considerably shorter than Luca.

Luca’s jaw set forward, a muscle working furiously on the left side, “No
sir
, but we can’t—”

“Yes,” Hero interrupted. “I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you think is best.”

“Hero, you should think carefully about this.” Luca insisted, his black eyes glittering with warning.

“What’s there to think about? I’m not living like this. And I don’t want another woman to go through what I did. For whatever reason, this ass hat picked me, and I intend for that to be the biggest mistake he ever made. You know, other than killing people.” She stood up, because it seemed like the thing to do. “I’m in. I’ll be your bait.”

“Right on, sister.” Di Petro clapped her on the back. “You’ve got a pair on you.”

Hero smiled at Agent Di Petro. She’d had an easy rapport with the East Coast transplant since they’d met at the Bureau offices when she’d given her first statement. She liked his sharp, lanky Italian good looks and his laid back, easy smile. He reminded her of a thirty-something Mark Wahlberg and she got the impression that he hid his keen intelligence behind his thick Southie accent and inappropriate humor. He liked people to underestimate him. And that made him dangerous.

“Excellent.” Trojanowski looked pleased. “So, like I said, an obvious agent would be difficult, but if he were to be something closer, like say, an artist’s assistant or a boyfriend, it would explain their constant presence. Agent Di Petro has consulted for Interpol on some international art theft cases back in Boston and Philadelphia. I feel that he’s more suitable to act as your protégé.”

Vince nodded, eyeing his partner with a knowing smirk.

That left Luca as the love interest.

Hero bit her lip. Her temperature spiked. How could it be that her body responded to him even in the middle of such chaos and danger?

The agent in question looked like he could spit nails.

Every cloud really
did
have a silver lining. Sure, a psychopath wanted her dead, but she’d also get to watch the tight-assed Agent Ramirez squirm. He’d spent weeks infiltrating a human trafficking operation without complaint, but he was pissed about pretending to be her boyfriend? What was so wrong with her? Better yet, what was
his
problem? She was an excellent girlfriend. In whatever capacity. He should
be
so lucky.

“Sounds perfect,” she agreed. “Agent Ramirez can sleep on my couch.”

The men all dubiously eyed the couch in question.

The director shrugged. “He’s slept on worse, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, he has.” Vince clapped Luca on the shoulder, losing the battle with his mocking smile.

Luca just glared at the couch in pure disgust, his crossed arms straining the sleeves of his suit coat.

Hero looked over her shoulder. What? Her couch was comfy. Well, it was more pretty than practical. And now that she looked closely, she doubted Luca could stretch his six foot plus frame end to end. Maybe if he moved some of the pillows.

Oh hell, she’d offer him the air mattress in her closet. But only after he stopped being a pouty dickweed.

“Hero, this is
very
important,” Director Trojanowski claimed her attention with the grim severity in his voice. “Intelligence has gone over your case and they strongly feel that John the Baptist is someone you know. Or, at least, have met in a personal or professional capacity.”

Hero’s heart stalled. “How does that figure?”

“To start with, the extreme differences between you and the previous victims. You’re not a sex worker. You have a strong religious background. No addictions. You don’t come from a broken or abusive family. You’re educated, successful, et cetera.”

Didn’t coffee count as an addiction anymore? Hero pressed her lips between her teeth. “My religious background isn’t
that
strong,” she confessed. “I’m more of a Christmas and Easter Catholic. For my parents, mostly. I mean, I’m more spiritual than religious.”

“Either way, the psychological profile suggests that John the Baptist has likely been close to you this entire time and that something you did drew his… attention. We believe he kills these women in the way he does to save their souls. He’s just never left any indication as to why. If this is the case, then he won’t stop until he feels as though he’s
saved
you.”

“Until he kills me, you mean.” Hero rubbed at the scars on her hands again, her eyes flicking to Agent Ramirez.

In that moment, with his intense black eyes boring into hers, Hero knew they both wondered the same thing.

What had she done to make this fanatic want her dead?

Chapter Seven

“I am a great eater of beef

and I believe that does harm to my wit.”

~William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

Luca stepped out of his car and checked his watch. Six o’clock, dead on. Grabbing his overnight bag, laptop, and briefcase, he looked up at the mansion. The dark grey brick seemed blue in the waning light. It matched the cherry wood pillars and window accents.

Hero’s apartment was around the back through a narrow pathway between the house and the extra garage. The one big enough for boats and shit.

Long way from where he grew up. His parent’s trailer back in El Paso could have fit in the extra garage like—he leaned over and looked in the dark window—at least three times.

His Ferragamo Tosco Leather Oxfords made a smart clip he enjoyed on the slate flagstones of the drive. He had about a hundred more steps to get his head in the right place. Something he always had to do before seeing Hero. He sure as shit hadn’t been prepared this afternoon. He’d just rushed over, afraid for Hero’s safety. Everything had spun out of control from there.

So he had to sleep in the same vicinity as Hero. No big deal. She was nothing more than a breakable object that he needed to keep intact. She was the job. He just needed to do his job without—
doing
his job.

The covering over the oval pool flapped in a sudden gust of winter wind, and Luca turned to scan the shadowed forest guarding the acre back yard and a view of the river. A tactical nightmare, this house. Almost impossible to protect from all sides. Like all these umpteen million dollar homes off Riverside Drive, any assailant could melt into the trees and escape through the Highland Forest with no problem.