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.”
Chapter Five
“You’re so pretty-y-y.”
He moved in time to his song, prancing around the table bearing his instruments of mayhem. In one hand he held cheap costume jewelry mucked up with gore from his earlier victims. Dancing the fingers of his other hand across the gleaming steel knives, probes, and clamps neatly laid out on the table, he grabbed one long, sharp probe, and tossed back the boa he wore around his neck.
With the probe gripped elegantly in his hand, he neared the naked young man strapped to an adjacent table and continued with his serenade.
“Oh so pretty-y-y…”
He smiled and leaned his face close to that of the handsome male whose eyes bulged with terror. Muffled sounds escaped the gag around his victim’s mouth, although he would soon remove the binding so the young man could sing. He loved to hear them sing. He trailed the sharp point of the probe along the perfect skin of the man’s face, leaving behind a nasty scratch.
But the scratch was nothing compared to what was to come.
Nothing compared to what he had suffered. It hadn’t been
bad enough that he’d lost the use of his legs. They’d rejected him time and time again for one role or another. He was “never right for the role” but he’d known what they meant. They didn’t want a cripple ruining their production.
But no one could refuse him now, he thought as he started singing once and smiled at the pleasant tune. He knew what was soon to some.
“Oh so pretty and witty and…dead.”
Helene’s eyes blurred from reading the long list of numbers on the LUDS from all four victims’ cell phones and even a landline. As it turned out, victim number four might have been totally technologically challenged, but he had definitely known how to use both his phones.
Even with her super-human ability to speed-read and interpret the data, the overload was taxing. Besides, she had never really been good with numbers. Maybe it was because she was a binary kind of goddess: “1” stood for good, and “0” stood for evil. In her book, that was all that was needed to mete out justice.
As she let her mind play with all the numbers, mentally arranging and rearranging them in orders that might make sense, she leaned back in her chair and dragged her hair away from her face. Once again the numbers melded into a jumble, warning her that even goddesses needed a break.
Did her partner? She looked over at Sanchez.
His head of caramel-colored hair was bent down as he went through the weekly newspapers they had found at the homes of three of the four victims. All his attention was now focused on those materials, but during the long course of the day she had known when his attention had been on her.
It had been disconcerting to feel the change in his aura as desire slipped out before he reined it back in. His need had awakened a corresponding pull within her. But his determined control had brought her an unusual spurt of disappointment.
Which made no sense. Disappointment meant she had been hoping he’d do something about that desire. She didn’t normally bother with mortals. They were too frail and inconsequential. But it was getting harder to think that way about Miguel as she spent more time with him.
Miguel was anything but frail and inconsequential. He was bright, respectful, and responsible, and she was finding it very easy to work with him. When combined with his looks, those qualities made him even sexier. Which was making it difficult to battle her attraction.
Needing a jolt of sugar and caffeine to get her focused once again, she rose. “I’m going for coffee. Can I get you something?” she asked, the earlier camaraderie lingering.
“Actually, I’ll come with,” he said, stood, and grabbed his jacket, slipping it over his broadly muscled shoulders.
She asked, surprised, “You’ll come with?”
He finished shrugging on the jacket and stared at her, a boyish grin on his face. “Yes, as in go with you to get a cup of coffee, because I need a break and partners do that kind of thing.”
His voice was almost singsong and obviously teasing.
She didn’t do teasing all that well, but somehow found herself kidding him in return with, “Really? Do partners maybe also spring for cinnamon scones?”
He rounded his desk, tucked her arm into his, and said, “If that’s what floats your boat.”
With gentle pressure he urged her toward the elevator. Once they were there, she shifted away from him. His presence continued to be a challenge, and if she really admitted what would float her boat—she would probably shock the hell out of him.
And possibly herself.
She was silent while they waited for the elevator, trying to restrain her wayward thoughts. But her partner didn’t seem to understand she needed a little space.
“Find anything in the numbers yet?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Miguel waited for Helene to ask him how it was going, but she didn’t, hard nut that she was. So instead he mimicked, “And how are you doing, Miguel?” He lowered his tone. “Not finding much yet, Helene.”
The barest tilt of her lips told him he might be making inroads on his taciturn partner, so he continued, raising his pitch once more. “If we’re not finding anything, Miguel, maybe we should try running through all the victims’ backgrounds again.” Then lower. “Yeah. And their credit card purchases, address books, and anything else they’ve got lying around.”
She finally looked at him, but with a growing glimmer of a smile. “You work hard at being annoying.”
“But not as hard as you work at being a cold-hearted bitch,” he said, but again with a lilt of humor to soften his words.
“Actually, the bitchiness comes naturally. It’s being nice that’s a ball-buster,” she said, deadpan, drawing a chuckle from him.
“Well, as long as we understand each other,” he said as they exited the elevator, left the FBI building, and walked the couple of blocks to the nearest Starbucks.
It was late, almost ten, and the staff was cleaning up as they arrived. The cashier pasted on a smile and took their order while a barista with dark circles under her eyes and a sleeve of tattoos grabbed the cups to fill their orders.
They were silent once again while they waited, and after prepping their coffees, exited into the comfortable autumn night. Pedestrian traffic had dwindled, but taxis and other vehicles still rushed past on the streets as they strolled back to the office.
After they had taken sips of their coffees, he asked, “Seriously, though. Do you feel as if we’re following another round of dead leads?”
“Possibly. Although I did notice an uptick in phone activity immediately before the possible dates of their disappearances,” she said.
“I wish I could say the same about the trade newspapers the victims had. They have all kinds of casting calls and news, but nothing that connects back to the victims.”
Helene nodded, took another sip of the fragrant coffee, a caramel macchiato this time. “It’ll happen. I just…”
Miguel understood her unspoken words. She was hoping they would put something together before the next victim was killed. He wanted to do the same, but based on all the information, they were no closer to a clue. All he could do was echo her sentiment.
“It’ll happen.”
They continued walking, sipping their coffees, the time companionable despite the silence. As they approached Federal Plaza, Miguel caught sight of ADIC Hernandez hurrying away from the building in the direction of Tribeca.
He pointed with his cup at the ADIC. “Someone is sure in a rush to get home.”
Helene watched their boss race westward. Even from this distance, with her second sight she could feel Hernandez’s excitement. In a burst of mental connection, two words formed in her mind—Blood Bank.
“He’s got a hot date,” she told her partner with a knowing smile, certain she hadn’t misread the signals from their ADIC. But what did going out have to do with a blood bank?
“Lucky him,” Sanchez murmured.
She glanced over at him and noticed a sad expression on his face. For reasons she couldn’t even begin to understand, she once again couldn’t resist teasing her partner. “What’s the matter, Sanchez? Feeling a little lonely in the Big Apple?”
He stiffened beside her. His sadness was nearly overwhelming, impossible to miss as his aura changed to a troubled blue-red.
“I’m sorry, Sanchez. I—”
“Miguel. The name is Miguel, and I don’t need someone like you feeling sorry for me.” He quickened his pace, leaving her in his dust.
Someone like me? She tore after him, caught up, and grabbed his arm. She whirled him around forcefully. “Someone like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
His face was stony. “It means that no matter how intelligent and beautiful you are, it can’t make up for your apparent lack of a heart. Do you ever feel sympathy for anyone else? For yourself?” Miguel reached over and plucked her hand off his suit jacket as if removing a piece of nasty garbage.
She didn’t know why it mattered what he thought, or how that simple action was more painful than a knife thrust to he
r middle. But it hurt—something she hadn’t thought possible after so many years of guarding her heart against both gods and mortals.
Her shoulders sank and she battled the tightness in her chest that almost choked her reply. “What do you know about real pain? About the humiliation of being lied to? Of being abused?”
The world shifted then, as if Atlas himself had heard her agony and moved to her side. But it wasn’t Atlas who stepped forward and tenderly brushed aside the curls that a soft autumn breeze had blown onto her face. It was no god who dared to trace his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone and wipe away a mortified tear.
It was a human. A mortal whom she feared could be more dangerous to her existence than anyone had been in over two millennia.
“I’m sorry, Helene. I shouldn’t have judged you so quickly,” he said, and again caressed her face with his thumb before another tender pass of his hand across her hair.
That simple touch eased past her armor, weakening her defenses. She had to shore them up or risk even more problems with her new partner. Straightening her spine, she defiantly tilted her head up. Combined with her heels, that brought her nearly eye to eye to his six-foot something height. She needed to establish some distance.
“This is the reason partners shouldn’t get personally involved, Sanchez. All you need to know about me is that when it comes time to pull the trigger, I will. Can you say the same?”
He surprised her by brushing aside some more curls and offering a smile tinged with regret. “Let’s hope neither of us has to do any shooting on this case. I’d rather that justice makes sure this bastard fries.”
He turned and they resumed their walk back to the office, both silent.
Helene was certain of one thing—justice would prevail. She had no intention of failing.
What she wasn’t so sure about was Miguel. And what his intentions would mean for her life.
It was midnight before they decided to call it a night.
None of the information they had sifted through had yielded any nuggets of value, just wasted time.
For Love or Vengeance Page 4
