For Love or Vengeance

by Caridad Piñeiro

  But for now, as darkness lay over the city and the horizon showed only the barest hint of the coming dawn, she would have to wait until her partner arrived.

  Her very sexy, but unfortunately too mortal partner.

  “You’re here early,” she heard from behind her, and turned to see Sanchez toss a brown paper bag on top of his desk. A smudge of grease had darkened one corner of the bag and made it slightly translucent.

  “So are you,” she replied. He looked tired, although he was as fashionably dressed as he’d been the day before. Shirt pressed. Suit stylish. Hair spiked into place, and not a hint of morning beard on his handsome face.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d come in and review the case.” He picked up his brightly colored coffee mug.

  “Likewise,” she said, and strangely, she hoped his lack of sleep had something to do with her.

  As he walked away toward the break room, she shocked herself by popping up out of her chair and following him. He shot her a questioning look as he pushed the buttons on the machine to get his coffee. She just played it cool and smiled.

  When he moved away to add milk and sugar, she stepped beside him to program her own cup. He was barely a foot away, and there was no denying what she was sensing using her second sight.

  His heartbeat slowly gained speed and his aura went to an intense purple, proof of his passion and conflict. She shot him a look from the corner of her eye and caught him watching her, his pupils wide and dark with desire.

  He hid his reaction as he stood there, blowing on the hot fragrant liquid before taking a sip. She finished prepping her coffee and at his questioning glance, she said lightly, “Got a problem, Sanchez?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Nope. You just strike me as more of a latté type, Alexander.”

  “Nearest Starbucks doesn’t open until six so I’ve got to make do,” she said, and turned, leaving him to chase after her as she headed back to her desk on incredibly thin three-inch heels.

  With the awareness of his attraction strong, and her own desire awakening, she hoped he would go back to go to his own desk, but instead he perched on the edge of hers and took a sip of his coffee, then said, “Tell me about yourself.”

  It was distracting to have him so close. First, because he was a big man. A handsome big man. And her human female form was responding to the nearness of all that masculinity and imposing stature. Second, because his aura was still remarkably strong, and filled with desire as well as the conflict she had sensed yesterday. Now, an overriding push of determination colored his aura. The warring emotions in this man continued to intrigue her.

  “So?” he prompted at her delay.

  “Not much to tell. Grew up in central Pennsylvania. Went to college at Penn State followed by law school at Villanova. Philly field office for six years before transferring here.”

  She had repeated the history so many times it almost felt real. If anyone bothered to check it out, all the necessary records would be there, courtesy of her immortal powers.

  He blew on his coffee again and considered her over the rim of the mug, his emerald gaze intense. “Not much personal info.”

  “I don’t believe in TMI, but apparently you do, so let’s see what I can figure out about you.” She leaned back in her chair so she could get a really good look at him. Narrowing her gaze, she appreciated him physically, examining all the details visible to her mortal eyes. She had to quell her own desire as his intense masculinity awakened the need in her female body. A purely human physical need. The goddess in her had no interest in him. No desire to explore such a complex and yet simple man.

  Motioning to his multicolored coffee mug, emblazoned with a cartoon character, she said, “ ‘World’s Best Uncle’ tells me you’ve got at least one sibling with kids, and that you must spend some quality time with them if they shelled out the bucks for the mug. Probably young children, because older ones would not think such a mug was cool.”

  He looked at the whimsical drawing on his mug, smirked, and nodded.

  She continued. No wedding ring. No tan line on your ring finger, so you were either divorced a long time ago or never married. I’m going with never married because you don’t strike me as the kind to give up.”

  Before he could say anything else, curiosity made her reach out with her second sight and she was instantly sorry she had.

  His loneliness touched something deep inside her, as did the guilt he carried in his heart. She sensed his huge and nearly overwhelming pain, but she couldn’t sympathize. She also couldn’t let him continue to suffer, because those emotions would affect any case on which they worked.

  “You’ve devoted your life to the Bureau, but you screwed up,” she said. “At least you think you did. Get over it, Sanchez. The guilt trip isn’t going to help anyone.”

  He surged to his feet, color draining from his face at her words, his fingertips white from the pressure he exerted on the mug. “What can you know what I’m feeling?”

  “I know,” she said calmly, aware that she was treading on dangerous and unknown ground. She could not become involved in his futile emotions. It was bad enough she was battling a physical attraction to him. Human emotions were never reliable. She could not let his feelings of guilt interfere with her mission. She took a deep breath. “My last investigation involved either losing the victim or catching the perp. Only one choice in my mind. Only one choice you should have made as well. If you have any doubt about that, you’re no good to the Bureau or to me as a partner.”

  “Cold, Alexander. Downright frigid,” Miguel said, stunned at her insensitivity. He stalked to his desk, the heat of anger filling his gut as he sat down. He cradled his coffee mug—a gift from his ten-year-old niece, just she’d guessed—in his hands while her words replayed in his head.

  As infuriated as he was, he couldn’t deny the truth in them. She wasn’t the first person to tell him so. Her words echoed those of his old ADIC, and of the counselor he had seen after the shooting. They were also the reverberation of his own conscience as he considered leaving the Bureau immediately after the incident, aware that his efficacy as an agent might have been compromised. He acknowledged that faced with a similar situation, he might not be able to make the necessary choice.

  Unlike Special Agent Alexander, who seemed supremely confident that she could make the decision that might cost a life.

  Of course, she had made that decision. She’d just said that when forced to choose between losing the victim and getting the perpetrator on her last assignment, she’d gone for the perp. Her cold-bloodedness scared him almost as much as his own growing indecision. He couldn’t stomach such a strict end-justifies-the-means attitude, especially when it possibly involved someone’s death.

  Easing out a breath, he returned his attention to the serial killer file. One thing was certain, if he and his new partner couldn’t make any progress, there’d be even more killings. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

  Moving aside his coffee mug and the brown paper bag containing a toasted buttered bagel he no longer craved, he picked up the stack of notes he had made based on his review and the discussion they’d had with ADIC Hernandez last night.

  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 fina
lly 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 are
a,” 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?