For Love or Vengeance (3 page)

The plan was for him and Alexander to coordinate with Detective Daly and visit the residences of the victims, as well as the locations where their bodies had been found. After that they would check out their places of employment and reinterview everyone involved at each site in the hopes of finding some new fact that might assist in tracking down the killer.

While he analyzed his notes, he sipped his coffee, and every now and again shot a glance at Alexander, who was also working on the case, her head of dark curly hair bent downward over the papers on her desk. She seemed unaffected by their discussion, which made him wonder if there was any humanity beneath that too-perfect physical form.

When he finished the last of his coffee, he took a break to refill it, and on the way back he paused for a moment to glance out the windows. The sun had finally begun to creep over the horizon. On the streets below in Federal Plaza, the activity of pedestrians and vehicles had picked up, signaling that Manhattan had finished taking its obligatory nap.

In just the week that he had been here, he had realized how true it was that the city never slept—although it did slow down for those witching hours just before dawn.

When he returned to his desk, a Starbucks coffee waited for him. Vanilla latté, he guessed as he picked it up and the aroma wafted up to him.

A peace offering?

Helene sensed Miguel’s presence well before he appeared at her side, latté in hand. Looking up, she saw the bewilderment on his face. He wasn’t the only one. She was just as perplexed. Normally she didn’t give a rat’s ass what her partners thought of her.

She didn’t understand why it made a difference with this one, but amazingly, it did.

As he continued to stand there silently, she swiveled her chair around and met his gaze directly. “I know I can be a bitch, Sanchez. I have trouble playing well with others.”

He chuckled at her directness and shook his head. “You are something, Alexander, although I’m not quite sure what just yet.”

“What are
you
, Sanchez?” she asked, wanting some tidbit that she could use to make partnering with him easier. And to tame her reaction to him.

Shrugging, he said, “I’m just a regular Joe. No hidden agendas. Don’t want to do anything besides catching the bad guy.”

She didn’t need her second sight to know he was being totally honest, and that bothered her. In her millennia of dealing with humans, such individuals had been few and far between. Unfortunately, in her experience, they didn’t last long in the real world.

She raised her latte and proposed a toast, hoping his story would end better than the others she had witnessed. “Here’s to regular Joes, Sanchez.”

“Miguel,” he said. “Call me, Miguel.”

It was an intimacy she wasn’t ready for. She tapped his cup with hers, swiveled her chair back toward her desk, and said, “Get a move on, Sanchez. We’ve got to hit the road soon.”

“You are a tough nut, Helene,” he said, and she sensed his departure. And ignored the way her name on his tongue caused a funny vibration in the pit of her stomach.

He’s a regular Joe. And regular Joes don’t mix well with goddesses
, she reminded herself firmly. Even so, she was hard pressed to forget the fascinating mix of emotions she had perceived inside him. Not to mention his exceptional human form.

She gave an inward groan.
Time to satisfy that uniquely human physical itch
.

She slid one last look at her new partner, appreciating how handsome he was yet again.

Definitely time to scratch that itch
.

But not with a human.

And
especially
not with Special Agent Sanchez.

Since arriving in New York, she had sensed that the city had its share of immortals. The unusual thrum of power she had experienced on more than one occasion had clued her in to the fact that there was an underground of otherworldly beings mingling amongst the humans.

Vampires, shapeshifters, and other creatures certainly added an interesting spice to the mix in more ways than one. For starters, their underworld would likely have its own ethics and methods for dealing with evil. Methods more brutal—and likely more inventive—than those she employed in her mortal disguise.

Then there was the possibility of enjoying the company of other immortals, who were generally far superior to the temporal beings she was forced to endure in her current position. Humans who were for the most part pathetically weak and unfortunately boring.

Still, there were exceptions.

She lifted her gaze back to Sanchez.
No
. Not boring, but decidedly off limits.

She resumed her review of the file. Her main mission had to be to catch the serial killer the press had dubbed the Butcher. She couldn’t afford to falter in her quest. The cost wasn’t just the loss of another human life. Failure was not an option. If she did mess up, her time on Earth would come to an end and she would be forced to return to Olympus.

Olympus, where she would not only have to suffer the jests and intrigues of her fellow gods and goddesses, but also her father, Zeus. A father who, on the worst day of her existence, had made her fully and vividly comprehend exactly what justice demanded.

Vengeance had called to her that day, and she had answered. Some might say she had been born for it. Never again would she let someone suffer as she had. Or get away with harming others because they were more powerful. Justice and vengeance were her destiny.

She couldn’t let Sanchez’s doubts or her confusing attraction to him—a mere mortal—disrupt her mission.

And yet…a little bit of her wondered what might happen if, just this once, she explored her fascination with a regular Joe.

Chapter Four

Detective Peter Daly was a good-looking man. Longish sandy-blond hair brushed the neck of his plain white button-down. The black suit he wore was of average quality, as were his shoes, but after meeting his gaze Helene understood he was anything but average.

Deep intelligence hid behind seemingly lazy blue eyes, but they observed everything and used it to his advantage. The fact that he gave her barely a once-over also told her that despite the lack of a wedding ring, Daly was seriously involved with someone.

After Daly shook hands with Sanchez, he motioned them in the direction of where the first body had been found—the decaying framework of an old pier on the West Side. A damp morning chill permeated the early fall day as they stood on the weed-choked grass and dirt at what had once been an entrance to the building on the pier. All that remained now were the twisted and rusted struts of the walls and roof.

“Motorist on the parkway thought they saw something weird,” Daly said, and pointed toward the road that ran beside the water. It was the Henry Hudson Parkway. On a typical morning, cars would inch along on it as commuters made their way to work.

“The call came in during the early morning rush hour,” Sanchez said, moving to the mouth of the building, arms akimbo as he examined the structure.

“Motorist phoned it in from their car,” Daly said. “Police unit arrived about ten minutes later and found the body. Secured the scene.”

Helene walked to stand by Sanchez, considered the dilapidated structure, then turned to review the area around them. Violence left behind a disturbance in the forces of the universe and at times she could pick up on such a rift. Unfortunately, the incident had happened too long ago for her to read anything from the energies. They had long since returned to normal.

“Not many ways to access this spot,” she said.

Daly nodded. “Just this small side street or an approach from the water. There’s a marina a few blocks south of here.”

Sanchez shifted to look down the river toward the marina. “Lots of boats. Your report says that no one at the marina noticed anyone docking or leaving this area that night.”

“That’s correct. Which leaves us with someone using a vehicle to transport and dump the body,” Daly said.

“Time of death was around 9:00 p.m.?” Helene asked, wanting to confirm.

“The ME says TOD was around nine. Cause of death was strangulation, but not before the bastard tortured the victim,” Daly replied. Deep lines bracketed his mouth for a moment before he continued. “I was the first detective on the scene. I knew we would be looking for more victims as soon as I saw the body.”

Helene could well imagine his reaction. She had seen the photos and picked up on the remnants of the violence.

Some cultures believed photographs captured the souls of individuals, and while not completely accurate, some photographs could record the essence of the subject. It was why good photography invoked such emotions in people—because even with a mortal’s limited abilities to see beyond their plane, the strength of the energy captured in the photo resonated with them.

“Report says you checked all the traffic cams in the area,” Sanchez said as they moved away from the building and back toward Daly.

“We did. Unfortunately, the parkway gets a lot of traffic all day long. Cams on the various traffic lights in the area didn’t reveal anything unusual.”

“No witnesses?” Helene asked.

“No witnesses,” Daly confirmed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook. “Vic was last seen at around 6:00 p.m., three nights before. He told a neighbor he had gotten a call for an audition.”

Sanchez asked, “But you have nothing as to who called, where they were meeting—”

“Nothing. Same for the other three victims. This guy is good at hiding his tracks.”

“Why do you say ‘guy’?” Helene asked, although she knew the answer that would come.

“Most serial killers are white and between the ages of twenty and fifty. Intelligent. Loners. Male,” Daly responded.

“
Usually
male, although we shouldn’t exclude that it could be a woman. The damage to the genital area spoke of great rage,” Helene reminded them. She could well understand a woman’s desire to “bobbit” a male who had violated her.

Daly looked to Sanchez, who just shrugged and said, “Don’t want to rule anything out at this point, Detective.”

With a shrug, Daly said, “You’re the profilers. Any more questions, or are you ready to view the other crime scenes?”

“We’re ready,” Helene said, and glanced at Sanchez to make sure he was onboard, reminding herself to play well with her new partner. She didn’t want a repeat of what had happened in Philly.

Or at least she told herself that was the reason for making nice.

Miguel watched as Helene efficiently walked on those impractical three-inch heels from the table to the bulletin boards. When he had first noticed them this morning he had immediately thought two things.

The first he had forced from his mind because he was her partner.

The second was annoyance…because he was her partner. How was she ever going to keep up in those crazy-high, asking-for-all-kinds-of-trouble heels?

But she had.

All day long as Detective Daly had taken them from one crime scene to another, laying out the basics of how the victims had been found and describing the area roadways and issues to the New York newbies, she had been right there beside him, never faltering on those incredibly sexy heels that made her legs look—

Damn
. He shoved his mind back to the photos Helene was sticking up on the bulletin boards.

“Four victims. Three men. One woman. Two white, one Hispanic, and one mixed race,” she said after she had pinned the last photo and stepped back to examine them, one hand resting on the curve of her hip.

Miguel rose from his chair, grabbed a marker, and wrote down the name of each victim, their occupation, home residence, and location where their body had been found. Helene stepped to a large map of Manhattan and stuck pins in for each of the locations—green for residences, red for the crime scenes.

When they were both done, they stood shoulder to shoulder and examined the map. With those incredible high heels, Helene stood just a few inches below his six-foot-plus height and, as close as they were, her fragrance wafted around him. Not quite flowery, but very refreshing, even after a day spent traipsing around Manhattan. He had to fight back the urge to press closer to that alluring scent.

Focusing his attention back on the case, he peered at the pins on the map that delineated an area from the upper edges of Tribeca to a spot just around the start of Spanish Harlem.

“Doesn’t tell us much, does it?” Miguel said, and rubbed his hand across his mouth.

“Only that the victims had either enough money or roommates to stay out of the sketchier parts of the city. We’re assuming the money came from their day jobs?” she asked, heading to the narrow conference room table where they had laid out their notes.

Miguel quickly answered and went to the left side of the first bulletin board. “This vic, Greg Thomas, had landed a few minor roles in off-off-Broadway plays.”

On the right side of the board was Jim Middletown, victim number two. Helene said, “Middletown had one role on Broadway in the chorus several years ago. He’s been struggling ever since.”

Miguel jotted down the notes and together they went through the remaining two victims, placing yellow pins on the map for each of the locations where they had worked. It demarcated a much smaller area, mostly in Midtown.

Miguel motioned to the bulletin boards and map with the marker. “We have nothing that connects the victims. Right? Other than acting?”

Helene flipped through her notes, her head tilted at an angle where the thick curls of her dark hair fell forward, hiding her face. He wanted to walk over and pull it back because he wanted to see her reaction to what she was reading. During the course of the day he had learned he could read many of her reactions from her expressive face. Anger. Annoyance. Satisfaction when something had seemed to click as Daly spoke.

The last emotion brought a change to her that was quite enticing. Her nearly black eyes would warm, almost glitter with the excitement of making the connection while her full lips formed a welcoming smile that brought out a hint of dimple on her right cheek.

When she finally looked up from the notes, a furrow marred the line of her brow. She narrowed her eyes and considered the boards. She plucked the marker from his hand. At the first bulletin board, she wrote as she said, “Three of the four victims had agents.”

She moved briskly as she added notes to their profiles, but paused as she got to victim number four. She tapped the board with the marker. “This vic lost his agent because he was getting jobs on the side. The agent got pissed he wasn’t getting his share.” She wrote down the name of the former agent.

Miguel said, “What if all of them were getting gigs on the side?”

That hint of satisfaction slowly blossomed, softening and brightening her features. “Where do you go to find an acting job?”

“The previous team who worked this case—”

“Forget them. They got this far and hit a stone wall,” Helene jumped in, annoyance obvious in her voice.

He normally wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss what other FBI agents had done. After all, they were professionals and their ideas should not easily be disregarded. But she was right when she said they had hit a wall, and even ADIC Hernandez thought they’d been off in their profile.

So he did as she asked and suggested places where the four victims may have gotten leads on possible openings. “Newspapers, the Internet, Craigslist. Word of mouth.” He shrugged.

“How about we start with the Internet and Craigslist?” she said, and quickly dashed off some notes on each of the bulletin boards before stepping back and reading them off.

With one hand at her hip again, she ticked off the facts in the air with the marker. Then they reviewed the information their tech people had gotten from all the hard drives and computers collected from the victims’ homes. An easy-going vibe zapped between them as they riffled through the notes or stood at the bulletin board. At one point they both went for the marker at the same time, and bumped into each other.

The accidental contact sent a jolt of awareness through him. Apparently she felt it, too. They both quickly shifted to opposite sides of the table, almost as if it could create a barrier to the connection growing between them.

He grabbed his notes on that victim and flipped through them. “No computer. And his cell service plan didn’t include a data plan.”

“So it would be totally out of character for vic number four to go online for information. If we assume the serial killer hasn’t altered his MO—”

“Because it would be unusual for him to do that so early in the game,” Miguel agreed, and walked to the bulletin boards. “The cause of death on all of them is still the same—strangulation. All were tortured and posed. Dump sites are all very similar, as is the time of death and timing between the murders.”

Helene nodded, approached the boards, and put an X through the word “computer” on three of the four boards. “So the COD, TOD, and everything else means the killer hasn’t deviated from his plan. So we can infer—”

“That the information about the jobs did not come via a computer. So the newspaper or word of mouth is the most likely source.”

A smile came to her face, but it was bracketed by lines of worry. “It’ll be harder to make the connection between the unsub and such old-fashioned sources. I just hope we’re not too late to stop the next one.”

Miguel looked at the dates of the murders. Each of the killings had occurred roughly two weeks apart. And each of the victims had been tortured for a day or more before being strangled, dumped, and posed.

Which meant that their killer had likely already taken his next victim.

“Damn. We’ve only got a day or so before the next body turns up,” Miguel said.

Helene’s determined gaze met his. “Not if we stop him first.”