A Righteous Kill (20 page)

One word echoed through her mind again and again as she clutched at a pillar in order to remain upright, made all the more terrible because of Officer Daniels’s young and airy voice.

Beware.

***

Exhausted and starving, Luca left Hero with Vince in the entry while he did a quick sweep of her loft before letting them in. He knew it was redundant, but that didn’t stop him.

“We’re good.” He said, and collapsed deeper into the Lovesac than he’d meant to. That might have been a mistake, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He’d let Vince and Angora handle the press as neither he nor Hero was really dressed
or
up for it. They’d stayed through the entire processing of the porch and the final sweep of the house to make sure Angora was safe. Luca didn’t know the time, but midnight was a distant memory.

Vince took up a standing vigil by the kitchen table, a sure sign he was also hungry.

Hero, on the other hand, reminded him of a butterfly on crack. She flitted around her apartment in a flurry of activity, not really accomplishing anything or staying in one place long enough to be caught.

“You know what pisses me off the most about tonight?” she finally exploded, but didn’t wait for a response. “Just what the hell does he think he means by those flowers?
Beware.
I have become the personification of
ware
. The embodiment of
ware
. Tell me, Agent Ramirez, just how frigging much more
ware
could he expect me to
be
? I let two FBI agents move in to my
house
. I wake up
ware.
I go to bed
ware—”

“It’s wary,” Luca corrected without thinking.

Hero paused in her tirade and Vince made frantic neck slashing moves from behind her.

“What did you say?” she asked slowly.

“Nothing. You want to take a shower before bed, you know, wash off the day?” He threw an arm over his exhausted eyes. Maybe if he avoided eye contact he wouldn’t be turned to stone.

Hero was quiet for a moment, and Luca didn’t dare look. “Actually, yes. That sounds incredible.” Luca didn’t so much as twitch until the bathroom door closed and the water went on.

Vince let out a loud breath. “Close one. I was about to duck and cover.”

Luca thought about shrugging, but it seemed like it would take too much effort. “I didn’t want to give it much precedence in public, but what do you think about this accomplice idea?”

The couch offered its own sigh as Vince sat down. “Fucking A, you had to
sleep
on this thing?”

Luca just moaned in response.

“I think this is a one man job but I’m not willing to rule out any possibilities.” Vince got down to business. “An accomplice would help explain how the girls are moved in and out of the van and on and off the cross and what not. But Hero never mentioned anything about a second assailant. Not even extra footsteps in the dark or what have you.”

“I’m trying to figure out how the hand writing on the notes could be so different.” Luca sat up with a lot of effort. “I’d never let Hero hear me say this, but it just—
feels
different. I mean, it could be as simple as the flowers aren’t from John the Baptist.”

“If not from him, then who? A copycat maybe? Some sick piece of shit just trying to freak her out?”

“Could be.” Luca shook his head. “But it just feels too personal for that. You know, I remember studying the Freeway Killer in Quantico and what’s sticking in my mind is that he recruited fucked up, weak-willed, like-minded kids to help him.”

“Sounds right.” Vince was waiting for him to get to the point.

“Remember when we interviewed Father McMurtry and Father Michael? They were the last two to see Hero the night she was attacked.”

“Sure.”

“I recall Father Michael stating something about being hand-picked by Father McMurtry and groomed to take over his job when he retires.”

“After everything that’s happened with Professor Alec, and the fact that the hobo that supposedly called in the crime is still at large, you still want to pin this on the priests?” Vince sounded unconvinced.

At the sound of the professor’s name, Luca’s body involuntarily tensed. “I’m so tired, I don’t know what I’m saying, but it might be worth looking into.”

Vince looked at his watch. “Can’t hurt.”

“Before you leave, did Bea tell you about the new suspect?” Luca asked.

The sound of the shower died in the middle of his update regarding Two Rivers. As Luca talked, he was dimly aware of the sounds Hero made in her room as she dressed in her sleepwear.

“I’m not one to second guess your instincts,” Vince said. “They’ve been my constant companion for two years and I’ve developed a healthy respect. Besides, with a name like
Two Rivers
this
Eat, Pray, Love
mother fucker most definitely has something to hide.”

Luca had known Vince would agree.

“But he has an alibi for the flowers. He was at the yoga studio with us.” Hero said as she emerged from her room in her night uniform of flowing cotton pants and a tight tank. She walked to the fridge and took out some carrot juice, kale, and a banana. “Want a smoothie?”

“We didn’t leave the yoga studio right away,” Luca pointed out. “And the incident was fresh when we pulled up.
Rivers
had plenty of time to get over here and be chased off by the police by the time we pulled up. And I’d rather eat my own gym shorts, but thanks for offering.”

Hero put too many green things into a blender, and then threw in the banana, some honey, and the carrot juice. “That would be awfully risky.”

“The gym shorts or the flowers?” Vince joked.

Luca was too tired to examine the urge to drown his partner in shallow water every time he made Hero laugh.

“Both, I guess, but I was talking about the flowers.”

“More risky than crucifying prostitutes and dumping them in a river?” Luca asked.

Hero paused. Her smile suffered a painful death and she looked at him as though to ask him
why
. Instead she murmured, “Good point,” and flipped on the noisy blender, a troubled frown creasing between her eyebrows.

“Smooth,” Vince smirked.

“It’s not my job to be smooth. It’s my job to keep her alive.”

Vince shook his head.

“You mind sticking around while I shower?” Luca stood.

“Sure. It’s the least I can do since I’m grabbing a burger and fries on the way home, and I know what’s waiting for
you
in the fridge.”

Luca’s dirty tank slapped him in the face as he made his way toward the bathroom Hero just vacated.

The better part of a half an hour and an empty hot water tank later, Luca stepped from the sauna he’d created. Vince was nowhere to be found and the rhythmic spin of Hero’s wheel competed with her Indie rock from the workshop.

He padded past the kitchen clad in only his TapOut sleep pants. She didn’t look up when he leaned against the entry. Damp hair held back by Mr. Huang’s chopsticks, her freshly scrubbed face already sported a streak of red clay. The lithe muscles in her arms flexed with the push and pull movements of her hands. Her thighs were parted around the machine and she gripped it with her knees. As Luca studied her, he realized that she was using her entire body to shape the spinning clay. Her breath synchronized with her actions. Her skilled hands pulled at the cylinder, coaxing it to lift higher, then smoothed back down with even, constant pressure. The movements were so sexual; wet and strong and rhythmic, a little messy and slippery, needing practice and skill to truly master.

Hero was an artisan. And he was toast.

Adjusting his posture to allow for less room in his pants, he broke the moment as only he know how. By opening his mouth.

“Where’s Vince?” he asked.

Hero didn’t look up. “I told him I was going to sleep and sent him home.”

“But you’re not sleeping,” he pointed out the obvious.

Her unbound breasts bobbed beneath her tank with her careless shrug. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Which could be sooner than later. Want some coffee?”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” She could take that to the fucking bank. “And don’t think you can distract me with amazing coffee. I’m starting to become familiar with your diversion tactics.” He schooled his voice into a gentle reprimand. “It’s two a.m., Hero.”

“Only in this time zone,” she said brightly.

“Hero.”

“There’s no time like the present, right?”

“
Hero
.”

“Someone wants me dead,” she said as though she was informing him that he’d missed a phone call. “And I want to finish my flower vase right now, okay?”

He winced. “Flower vase? Isn’t that kind of—”

“Ironic?” she supplied.

“I was going to say
masochistic
, but let’s go with your thing.”

She finally spared him a glance, which turned into a second lingering one when she realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. “Either way, I’m working. So go away or pull up a chair. But don’t just lurk all dark and shirtless in the doorway, speaking of unfair diversion tactics.”

Okay then
. Luca debated for less time than he should have while staring at the packed dirt floor of her little cellar-turned-workshop. It was late. He wasn’t in a strong frame of mind and she looked like a disheveled pinup girl. He should plant his ass on that godforsaken couch and go to sleep like a good agent. “Let me get my shoes.” He turned around.

“Don’t,” she softly called after him.

“What?”

“Don’t get your shoes. Let your feet enjoy the fine-grain clay earth, it’ll help ground your energy.”

He cast a dubious frown at the dirt. “I’ll have you know, my energy is
plenty
grounded.”

Her dainty hand disappeared inside the vase and the entire shape of the thing magically changed. “You wouldn’t want those expensive shoes of yours to get stained or ruined, would you?”

That would be a
negative
. He stepped down into the damp and chilly workshop. She was right though, the cool packed dirt felt great against his bare feet, still warm from a punishing shower.

The cellar was square, no bigger than twenty by twenty. Surrounded by so many breakable objects, Luca felt like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Tall silver metal shelves lined every wall and held their
objects d’art
in a manner suggestive of the red light districts of Amsterdam and Copenhagen. Curves. They were everywhere. Shamelessly displayed in an endless array of shapes and sizes, each piece of pottery advertised the colorful fulfillment of a different utility. Their coils and curvatures all reminiscent of their creator; vibrant, feminine, sensual, and beautiful in a way that was indefinably complex and unique.

He needed to sit the fuck down before he initiated a
Ghost
moment or some shit. No offense to Swayze, may he rest in peace, but he hated that damned movie. He was more of a Roadhouse kind of guy.

Luca slowly reached for a folding chair, conveniently tucked between a shelf and the wall. Unfolding it, he placed it facing her on the opposite side of the wheel and sat, elbows on his splayed knees, hands hanging loose between them.

He should be thinking about the case. Going over files. Checking on flower shops. Refreshing his email until the reports from the scene processors started to flow in. If he wasn’t sleeping, he should be useful.

Moments like this disturbed him. The rhythm of her wheel, the sight of her working was starting to lull him into a warm sort of oblivion. That place where it felt safe to desire. To examine the epoxy that held the cracks together and contemplate the thoughts that got lost in the every day. The way he lived, case to case, arrest to arrest—kill to kill if need be— didn’t leave a lot of opportunity for introspection. Which was the point. He avoided words that needed avoiding. Words like
home, future
, and
family
. To a man like him, those words were radical ideals, something he fought for, but never truly intended to have.

The items surrounding him in this room, they belonged in a house, matching a color scheme picked out at the Home Depot. Mugs would be used for coffee accidentally spilled on laptop keyboards. Dishes of all shapes would fill a kitchen and be called upon to entertain guests. Vases would hold flowers or different arrangements, maybe to be broken by a rowdy child. These were the pieces of a life he didn’t have. Luca tried to remember the last time he’d eaten anything that didn’t come out of a flimsy cardboard box or wrapped in paper. He drank out of the same stainless steel coffee mug and reused gas station plastic water bottles. He never spent money on things like this. He never wanted anyone he brought back to his apartment to feel at home, because then he could be sure they’d leave.

“What’s up with that, anyway?” Hero asked him, still absorbed in her work.

He had to take a few moments to assure himself that he’d said nothing of his inner thoughts out loud. “Uh—what?”

“Your shoes, you’re more of a girl about them than I am.” She flicked a perceptive look from beneath her lashes before returning to her project. “Why is that?”

“I have to dress professionally for my job,” he said dismissively.

“There’s professional, and then there are seven hundred dollar shoes.”

“What else do I have to spend my money on?”

She raised her eye-brow.

“I like to be stylish
and
comfortable.” He didn’t like the defensive note edging into his voice.

She snorted.

“I have a foot condition?”

“Oh yeah? What’s it called?”

He thought about it, trying to come up with a convincing lie. Corns? Bunions? No. Too gross. Bone spurs? Would he be limping?

“You’re so full of shit,” she accused with a warm laugh. “Come on, Agent Ramirez, you have me at a disadvantage here. You have files full of information about me. You probably know more about me than my own parents.” Her smile faltered, and still her hands never wavered from the clay’s relentless formation. “You’ve seen me naked, half-dead, ripped open and bleeding. You witnessed the most— incomparably horrible experience of my lifetime, but I know next to nothing about you that I haven’t put together by observation.”