For Love or Vengeance

by Caridad Piñeiro

  She went willingly, basking in a serenity that filled a part of her that had been empty for so long, she hadn’t known it could be any other way. But now she knew. And when he was gone from her life, as surely he would be soon, she would feel that emptiness even more profoundly.

  “Helene?” he asked. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” she replied, unwilling to allow him further entry into that space. Distracting him from probing deeper by saying, “I’m just thinking about the case.”

  “We’ll get a break soon. I promise.”

  Such earnestness in his voice and the way his hand tightened at her waist. But then, she had sensed that determination in him from the first. Admired it.

  “I know, Miguel. I just wish we’d had that break a little sooner.”

  “Yeah.” He moved so they were face to face, cupped her cheek and ran his thumb across her lips. “It was hard to make the call to Lanie’s parents.”

  Very hard. She recalled the words of comfort he had used, and the pain in his voice as he’d said them. Which was only a fraction of the agony in the cries and denials from the girl’s parents when he had broken the news.

  But he had done it, gracefully and full of compassion.

  Raising her hand, she trailed it over the tight line of his jaw. “You handled it well.” Far better than she could have. In a few hours, they would have to speak to the roommates. “Will you tell her friends? I’m not sure I…”

  “Can do it right?” he completed for her. He touched her chin with his fingers and urged her gaze upward. “I know you feel for them.”

  He moved his hand down to her heart. “I see you hurting. I understand how much you want justice for Lanie.”

  She glanced down to where his hand rested. She covered it with hers, pressed it tight, until he could feel the steady beat of her heart. A human heart that was filled with uncertainty.

  Not like her real heart. Her immortal heart knew no doubts or hesitation. Only black and white. Only true justice.

  “Maybe the pain I feel is because I’ve failed. Failed to find justice,” she said, unwilling to believe it was about anything else.

  He shook his head. “You know that’s not true. You feel pain for the victims and their plight. And you haven’t failed. This was a setback, yes. But we will not fail. You know that.”

  She wanted to believe him. She wished that she wouldn’t disappoint his belief in her. And yet she knew she would. “The only thing I know for sure is that I want this bastard to pay for his crimes. That’s the only certain thing within me.”

  Miguel didn’t doubt it. Helene’s resolve was apparent from her tone to the hard glitter in her eyes. But he also knew where such a single-minded mentality could lead.

  She immediately picked up on that, surprising him as she always did with the way she could read him. She frowned and opened her mouth—to tell him where to go, no doubt.

  He mounted a defense before she could utter a word. “Justice needs to be balanced with compassion, Helene. Otherwise, it’s just vengeance.”

  The peaceful moment between them was shattered.

  As she regarded him, he sensed something pass between them, so strong it was almost physical, but the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come.

  “Vengeance is mine,” she said darkly. She shifted away and slipped from the bed to gather her clothes.

  He sat up and watched her jerky movements as she dressed and composed herself, then turned to face him, fully armored, that almost impenetrable shield behind which she hid all her emotions firmly in place once again.

  Almost impenetrable…because he had breached it. Twice.

  “Don’t go in anger, Helene.”

  “You want me to be like you, but like I told you before—”

  “I know. You don’t do warm and fuzzy. Has compassion been so lacking in your life?” he asked, wondering at what could have produced a woman like Helene.

  A harsh laugh ripped from her. “Lacking? You might say that. My father raped me repeatedly. My mother did nothing about it. Those around me watched as if it were some kind of game.”

  He froze in total shock, then surged from the bed and encircled her in his arms as she was about to run. Her back was as rigid and cold as Arctic ice against his front. “I’m so sorry, Helene.” He felt speechless with horror, swamped by anger. “I wish…there was something I could do.”

  She twisted in his arms and freed herself. She faced him, her fists clenched at her sides. “You can keep your damn compassion. And all those wounded feelings that make you soft inside. The only thing I want, the only thing that will make things right, is to see that every victim gets justice for the crimes against them.”

  Before he could say another word, she was in flight, rushing from the room as if the hounds of hell were on her tail.

  He dropped back down on the edge of the bed, shocked by Helene’s revelations, though deep inside, he’d known there must have been something very bad that had happened to her to create the kind of woman that she was. One who was always armored against the world, hiding her real emotions beneath a difficult and steel-hard exterior.

  Fury swelled within him. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to exact punishment for the crimes committed against her. But only for a moment, because in his heart he understood that vengeance only brought more pain and anger, while true justice brought peace.

  As he dressed, he noticed the red imprint of her lipstick where she had kissed his chest. He should go home, get some sleep and a change of clothes. But he knew Helene would not be going home. She would be heading straight back to the office to work on the case. So he would, too, despite his exhaustion.

  What the hell. He always kept a spare shirt in his desk. And who needed sleep, anyway?

  Helene was at her desk going over the notes when Miguel came in, less than fifteen minutes after she had arrived. Damn. She’d hoped he would go home instead. She didn’t really want to face him. What on Earth had possessed her to tell him about her crappy past?

  He walked up with a cup carrier in one hand and a small paper bag with the logo of a nearby burger franchise in the other. Without a word, he put down the bag, removed a coffee and set it on her desk. Then he took out a breakfast sandwich and did the same.

  “Sorry it’s not Starbucks, but I figured you needed something to fuel you.”

  She steeled herself and met his gaze, expecting to see pity there after her revelation. Instead, there was admiration and a more troubling emotion. Something that felt a lot like—

  No. Not love, she told herself. No one could love someone broken like her.

  “Thank you,” she replied, and dipped her head in appreciation.

  He offered her a guarded smile, picked up the remaining cup of coffee and the bag. Walking to his desk, he set everything down and took off his suit jacket.

  “Miguel?” She wanted to offer him something more…after what they had shared earlier.

  He pivoted toward her. There was lipstick on his shirt. An imprint of her lips, bright red, like a burst of blood against the glaring white of his shirt.

  Suddenly, visions burst through her brain like a runaway locomotive. Gunfire. Blood. Bullets. Miguel’s body lifeless on the ground while another man stood over him. The man’s face was in shadow. The Butcher. The certain knowledge came to her a millisecond before the window into the future closed to her second sight. The blood drained from her face, and she grasped the arms of her chair for support.

  “Helene?” Miguel came around the desk, obviously worried.

  “I’m okay.” She held up her hand to keep him away, afraid of what else she might see if he came closer. Afraid to see him lying there again, dead. No.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, juggling a plastic bag with a clean shirt in his hands.

  “Yeah. I’m going into the war room. I know there’s something there we’re not seeing.” Helene grabbed her notes and rushed to the other room. Dropping down into a chair, she dragged her hands through h
er hair and squeezed her eyes shut. No. No way.

  She focused her energies and marshaled control over her chaotic emotions, so she could interpret the images that had pummeled her so badly. Was that truly his future? She was wrong. Had to be.

  With logic and reason guiding her, she took a deep breath and allowed the visions to play in her brain. But each time as she reached the image of Miguel lying on the floor in a pool of blood, anguish flooded her veins and her concentration failed her.

  Failed because she was too emotionally connected to what she was seeing. To him. Her emotions were distorting her ability to get to the truth.

  This was not getting her anywhere but deeper in despair.

  She shook her head, dislodging the unwanted visions.

  She focused instead on the crime scene photos and all the information on the bulletin boards. She opened her mind and reached out to the various consciousnesses that existed on this mortal plane and beyond, in hopes of gaining new insights about the killer.

  But the universe refused to help.

  She rose, picked up a photo of Lanie from yesterday’s crime scene, and tacked it onto the board beneath the other victim connected to the same Broadway show. Running her fingers across the glossy photo, she summoned up the disjointed visions she had gotten from her reading of Lanie.

  Jarring images of light and dark. Two different voices—one smooth, the other disturbing. The two faces of the killer? Or maybe two killers? She glanced at the traits they had assigned to his profile.

  LONER. INTELLIGENT. STRONG. SEXUALLY INADEQUATE.

  She added another. FORMER ACTOR. Then she quickly amended it to FORMER ACTOR/PRODUCER/DIRECTOR.

  A hand settled on her shoulder. She started badly, and instinctively pushed back with a blast of goddess power.

  Miguel went sailing back, hitting the wall with a solid thud. Coffee splashed everywhere.

  He wavered on his feet for a second, then straightened with a stunned look on his face. He glanced down at the brown mess on what had been his pristine white shirt, then back up at her. “Princess, you can really pack a wallop.”

  Shit. She was nearly as shocked as he was. Oh my God. She had never lost control of her goddess power like that before. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

  He touched the sore spot on his chest where she’d hit him with the heel of her hand, and winced. “That’s going to leave a bruise.”

  She grimaced. “You caught me off guard.”

  “Note to self—” he set the now near-empty coffee cup on the table and wiped at the brown splotch soaking his shirt “—partner can handle herself quite well.”

  Damn him for being so nice about this. In her world, her actions would have yielded a much different response. Punishment.

  “There’s a department store near Penn Station that opens early. I’ll buy you a new shirt,” she said, and turned back toward the bulletin board to hide her guilt.

  He moved to her side—more carefully this time. “You don’t have to buy me a shirt, princess.”

  She suddenly wondered when the endearment had become that rather than a chastisement.

  With an embarrassed glance at his ruined shirt, she said, “I’ve wrecked two of them tonight. Seems only fair.”

  His sexy laugh started a curl of warmth in her core. “I would gladly sacrifice another for you.”

  She met his gaze full on this time, warmed by the gleam of desire dancing with amusement in his eyes. “You may regret making that offer.”

  He slipped his hand to her waist and inched her close, then brushed a quick kiss across her lips and whispered, “Never.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  On their way to Lanie Santini’s apartment, Helene insisted Miguel stop at the Penn Station store so she could buy him the shirt. He argued, of course, but she would have none of it. She bought him the most expensive designer button-down they carried. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford it. Or a thousand more like it. She deliberately chose one that was striped with blue, not solid white. She still couldn’t shake the vision she’d had of his body lifeless on the ground, his white shirt blossoming with blood.

  She couldn’t help glancing worriedly at his chest. No gunshot wound, but she did see the burgeoning bruise as he pulled off the coffee-stained shirt and slipped on the new one.

  He caught the direction of her gaze. “No worries. I’m actually glad you can take care of yourself.”

  God, she hoped so. Meanwhile… Despite everything in her brain telling her not to touch him, she did anyway, laying her hand over the bruise and pushing outward with her power. It was the least she could do. Beneath her hand his skin grew warm as she released a small wave of healing energy.

  He put his hand over hers. “That feels good.”

  As a cover, she pressed in just a little, then stroked back and forth. “Just a massage trick I learned.”

  “You’ll have to show me more of those when we have some free time,” he said, shooting her a bad-boy grin that created a whole different kind of heat between their hands.

  Slowly, she pulled away from him. “If we have free time. I get the feeling we’re close to a break. If we do—”

  “We won’t have any time to rest. Especially not with this lunatic’s timetable.”

  Helene sobered, realizing they probably had only days before the killer would be on the hunt again, and took another victim.

  When Miguel finished putting on his shirt and slipping on his holster, they drove the short distance to Herald Square, where Lanie had shared an apartment with her three roommates.

  The security guard in the building’s lobby waved them through after seeing their credentials, but he must have called ahead because Brewster Williams was waiting at the apartment door when Helene and Miguel arrived on her floor.

  “We just turned on the news. Was it Lanie?” she asked, her expression fearful.

  Compassion, Helene told herself firmly. She laid a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder and said as gently as she could, “Why don’t we step into the apartment?”

  Miguel raised a brow at her tone, obviously surprised, but she arched hers right back. The caring bit definitely worked for him, and in reality, being extra nice hadn’t taken that much more effort on her part. Who said that an old dog couldn’t learn a new trick?

  Brewster led them inside. The other two roommates were sitting on the couch, eyes glued to a large television, watching a news report on the discovery of the Butcher’s latest victim.

  Brewster joined her friends on the couch, and Miguel walked over, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and shut off the TV.

  “It was Lanie, wasn’t it?” roommate number two asked, tears in her eyes.

  “We’re sorry,” Miguel began, but stopped as the three young women began wailing and hugging one another, heads bent together in grief.

  They were wasting time and time was precious. Helene moved toward them, intending to urge them to calm down, but Miguel blocked her path. When she met his gaze, he shook his head. Relenting, she crossed her arms and stood there waiting.

  One of the roommates finally emerged from the huddle, her face red, her eyes swollen with tears. She swiped at her cheeks and said, “What can we do? How can we help?”

  Helene reached into her jacket and took out a copy of the fake casting call flier. She unfolded it and handed it to the young woman. “We believe this is the key to who killed her.”

  The roommate glanced at the paper, but shook her head. “This doesn’t look familiar.”

  She elbowed the woman next to her, who was still crying and hugging Brewster. The second roommate pulled herself away and took the copy. With a shake of her head, she passed it to Brewster, who took one look at it and paled to an almost bloodless color.

  “This? But—it can’t be. I only wanted to help,” she cried, staring at the copy.

  “You know what this is?” Miguel asked, and went to sit beside her on the couch.

  B
rewster held it out to him, her hands shaking. “Casting calls. I’m over there sometimes and pick them up for Lanie.”

  Miguel took the paper, folded it, and handed it to Helene. “Over where?”

  “The theater district. I hit up the shops and theaters in that area to sell them ad space,” Brewster answered.

  “Ad space?”

  “I work for a community website, selling advertising space to neighborhood businesses.”

  “What day were you there?” Helene asked, striving for sympathy in her tone.

  “My God! I killed Lanie, didn’t I? It’s all my fault she’s dead,” the woman sobbed, wringing her hands as fresh tears spilled.

  “You are not responsible for what happened,” Miguel said, and laid his hands over the young woman’s, stilling the nervous motion.

  “I am responsible! I should never have given her that paper,” Brewster wailed, rocking back and forth. Her two roommates hugged her from either side, trying to comfort her, nearly knocking Miguel over. He got up and stood next to Helene.

  “When did you pick up the casting call paper? What day?” she repeated more forcefully, squelching her growing impatience.

  Shaking her head back and forth, Brewster finally answered. “The same day Lanie disappeared.”

  Helene met Miguel’s gaze for a second before she focused on the young women again. “Do you have a list of the shops you visited that day?”

  More wagging of her head. “I only have a list of the ads that I sold, but I must have visited dozens of other shops.”

  “We’ll need that list,” Helene told her. “Can you remember any of the other places you stopped?”

  “My manager has the list. As for the businesses, I just walk up and down all the streets in the area and stop at almost every shop, deli, restaurant, you name it.”

  Helene handed the young woman her business card and a pen. “Can you write your manager’s information on the back?”

  Bracing the card on her knee, Brewster jotted down the details and handed it back to her.

  “Thank you.” She nodded at Miguel and jerked her head toward the door.

  He said to the roommates with sympathy, “We’re very sorry for your loss. We’ll keep you informed of any developments. Here’s my card if you need anything in the meantime.” He produced another card and gave it to Brewster.