A Righteous Kill (36 page)

Alec turned to address Luca, once again, “You see, our Id might be worried about the survival of our physical forms, but our Ego and Super-Ego can’t process the idea of our consciousness ceasing to exist after death. As such, we endlessly search for ways to impress a Universal Creator so He may allow us to continue on as we are or furthermore, to cosmically advance somehow. Because of our predatory natures, this tends to turn into climbing to the top of a mountain of martyrs to reach out to God. The Super-Ego convinces the Ego that each kill is righteous. That each soul, though a creation of your God, or theirs, continues on as will yours. And thus, instead of robbing someone of their life, you’ve only facilitated the inevitable soul’s meeting of the Divine, be that what it may.

“It’s truly an ingenious way to explain away our more… barbaric tendencies, wouldn’t you say? When sanctified by God; hate crimes, sectarianism, torture, murder, even genocide all become…” Alec spread his fingers as though to encompass all those things. “Acceptable.”

Luca wrinkled his forehead. “Yes, but society as a whole has decided that all of those things are
not
acceptable.”

“Only
very
recently,” Alec argued. “Who’s to say? Are these tendencies evil? Or merely animal? Humans are arguably the only sentient creatures who feel true empathy. We don’t cull the herd, as it were, or abandon our weak.” His thin features curled into a wry form of amusement. “At least, civilized society likes to think so. We’re the only ones on the planet who have the tendency to feel remorse for ending another’s life. Doesn’t it logically follow, then, that we’d scramble to smother that remorse with excuses for our unavoidable inhumanity toward each other? Why take responsibility for your own selfish brutal behavior toward your fellow men when you can blame it on the influence of a devil? Better yet, why allow your soul suffer the eternal consequences when a demigod will do it for you?”

“You mean Christ?”

“Christ, yes, and the myriad of other allegorical virgin-born, half-human/half-God, bringers of light, enlightenment and saviors of humanity—many whom were resurrected from the dead, by the way—including Krishna, Horus, Apollo, Mithras, Baal, Osiris, Adonis—”

“We get it.” Vince held up a hand. “What are you saying, all this has to do with John the Baptist?”

The professor’s lips pulled away from his teeth in a victorious smile of relish he likely never showed to his students.

Luca decided to steal his thunder, just because he was sick of hearing the guy enjoy the sound of his own voice. “Serial killers are regarded as a particular kind of evil within our society because they tend to kill without remorse.” He speared the professor with a meaningful look of his own.

“Precisely my point, Agent Ramirez.”

Luca nodded. The FBI labeled serial killers as psychopaths or sociopaths because of the driving force behind their kills or because of the horror of the crimes, themselves. But from the beginning of this ordeal, it was evident that John the Baptist was a different breed of killer. Hero had described the drops of his tears on her skin. The uncontained signs of remorse for his actions. That had been a game changer. And the symbol in front of him was yet another.

Vince’s eyes bounced between them. “Am I the only one
not
getting the point? Use smaller words.”

“The point is, Agent Di Petro, whoever painted this symbol of a demon on Hero’s wall had a powerful message to convey. Perhaps the priests are right, and it is directly tied to Asmodeus’s connotations of lust and Hell and hedonism.” Alec picked up the photo and scrutinized it again with a mysterious half-smile. “Or maybe, this has nothing to do with sex, but instead the killer is merely fulfilling a bloodlust for other stimulating physical releases such as violence and vengeance and possession.” He placed the bloody symbol on top of the open pages of the book, right beneath Luca’s nose. “Or he’s trying to communicate with someone attached to the case who personifies those aspects of the
ashma daeva
. Let me ask you this, Agent Ramirez, what is a politically correct word for vengeance, revenge, or retribution? How can a man commit socially sanctioned violence without fear of the same?”

Their eyes met and held. A breathless moment came and went, rife with all kinds of inconceivable impulses. Violence, vengeance, and possession. All those things leapt through the currents of air between them and only the twitch of a muscle would have manifested them in the most primal way. Evil or animal? Luca felt the pull of both sides of his nature. The animal would squelch a threat, take down his prey, and establish dominance for the sake of survival and propagation. The evil would gloat over the victory and enjoy the kill.

A cold smile stretched Luca’s lips as he saw his own knowledge reflected in the way the shorter man’s eyes flicked away from his. Either way, Luca would have won any contest between them. They both knew it.

“Lemme see that.” Vince broke the moment by grabbing the book and discarding the photo to the desk as he scanned the page and then turned it to the next one. He had a talent for scanning a document and picking out the important things.

“Yes well,” Professor Alec busily shuffled papers, the universal symbol of dismissal. “I hope I was able to shed some illumination on the case.”

“Ramirez, take a look at this.” Vince turned the book to face him, pointing to yet another image on a subsequent page. “It’s a picture of our demon.”

Luca leaned in and then gaped. Asmodeus was illustrated as possessing three heads, the middle one that of a man, the left one a goat or ram, and the third an angry-looking bull.

Holy shit, another piece of the puzzle snuggly clicked into place.

“May I ask who else was murdered?” Professor Alec asked quietly from where he’d reclaimed his seat.

“What?” Luca turned to face him once again, reaching for the photo and returning it to its folder.

“All that blood, to whom did it belong, if not Hero?” Alec’s eyes followed the picture back into the jacket, morbid curiosity shone in his symmetrical face and Luca narrowed his eyes at his apparent lack of concern, convinced now, more than ever, that the guy was just this side of a full blown psychotic. “Or have you been able to ascertain that?” There was the condescension again.

Prick.

“I’m not allowed to disclose that to the public.” Luca enjoyed lumping the pompous blowhard in with the general populace. “Thanks again for your time.”

“I don’t imagine that will be the last blood spilt before this is all over.”

Luca paused at the door. Was that a threat or an observation? Or both?

“Give Hero my regards, would you?”

Fat fucking chance, psycho.
“Sure thing.”

Vince tapped on the receptionist’s desk as they departed. “See you around, Mary-Louise. You’re a peach.”

She visibly fought to maintain her frown. “I thought I was a gem.”

“That too.”

Luca barely heard as he blindly took the corridor, his mind spinning like the tires on his car, laying some rubber on the inside of his skull. Probably he was going in the right direction.

“Soooooo…that guy’s a knob,” Vince said, catching up with him.

“That’s not the only four-letter word that applies.”

“The bull’s blood makes a lot more sense now. I mean, I was glad when it wasn’t human blood all over the bedroom, but the whole animal thing has had me more than a little confounded.”

Luca nodded. What they’d kept from Professor Alec was that the buckets of blood in Hero’s room had been identified as pure bovine. Not a single trace of human DNA in the entire mess.

Bulls had a somewhat fringe connotation in regards to western religion, but it had cast one more shadow on an already maddeningly cluttered case. Now a new, infinitely frightening possibility swam to the forefront of Luca’s churning thoughts. A goat’s head. Bull’s blood. All they were missing was the body of a man. So far, the only victims they knew of were female. The consideration whispering through his thoughts was somewhat of a long shot, but the dread gathering in his gut told him it was too much to ignore. What if the symbol in the bulls’ blood had nothing to do with Hero? Or at least, not directly. What if the demon symbol was meant as a warning for
him
? Professor Alec had been more than helpful. If he was their perpetrator, was he counting on this visit so he could finally point the investigation in the right direction? Was he that desperate for the real message to be heard?

The professor’s chilling questions echoed through the near-empty halls of the college.
What is a politically correct word for vengeance, revenge, or retribution?

The answer was
justice.
Luca was certain of it.

How can a man commit socially sanctioned violence, even kill, without fear of same?

That was easy. He could become a soldier...

Or a Cop.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.”

~William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

“I can’t wear this! What was I thinking?
Who
let me decide that buying this was a good idea?” Hero’s voice reached from her bedroom to where Vince and Luca sprawled uncomfortably on her couch. Right after leaving for a long weekend with Josiah Winthrop, Angora had paid for a professional bio-cleaning service to take care of Hero’s bedroom as an early Christmas present. Included in the offer was a brand new bed, which was now buried under Hero’s entire wardrobe as she discarded candidates for tonight’s Art Gallery exhibit.

“You look nice,” Stef decided. “Very—uh—professional. Successful.”

Luca squirmed. Hero’s friend should stay away from words with so many
S
’s in them. Also, despite the man’s sexual proclivities, Luca didn’t know how he felt about another dude in the room while Hero dressed… and undressed.

“I look like Hillary
freaking
Clinton!”

“No, you do
not
!” Stef insisted. “That bitch looks powerful. Also, she puts mad amounts of highlights in her hair.”

“What, are you saying I look helpless?”

“
No
. No no no.” Stef backpedaled. “I’m saying she’s all, ‘fuck with me and I’ll make your family disappear,’ you know, all Whitewatergate style. And
you
look really… nice.”

A tick of silence went by. Then, “Get me out of this without messing up my hair.”

“Yes, ma’am. Luckily, we bought five different looks. One of them will work.”

Luca checked his watch. If they left this very moment, he’d only have to break a few speed laws to get downtown on time. Any later, and he’d have to resort to lights and sirens to make it to her art exhibit. He shifted to alleviate the pressure mounting in his back. Fucking couch.

Friday night snuck up on him faster than he’d expected. Office hours had been busy and torturous in the aftermath of the Sgt. Mazure debacle. He’d been wading through reports, paperwork, and inquiries with a machete. He’d coordinated an agent for Hero’s Yoga class replacement tonight, on the off chance that Reese “Two Rivers” Donovan showed up. Organized and approved press releases, and checked in with the Irish Embassy about those slow-moving medical records. When he appeared for his evening shifts with Hero, she was polite, but distracted, spending most of her time in the studio with the door shut and the music loud.

Luca hated to admit it, but he missed her. She hadn’t invited him to have sex with her once in almost a whole week. Not since Sunday. It felt like she was starting to dismiss him and, though Luca knew it was for the best, he despised the distance. Secretly, he was glad they were going into public because they would be playing the role of a couple again. He would get to touch her. She’d be forced to look into his eyes, an action she’d been avoiding for days.

“She’s been sleeping on the couch, you know,” Vince murmured quietly as not to be overheard in the other room. He sat to his left dressed much like Luca in loose-fitting designer jeans and a tight t-shirt/jacket combo. “After you leave in the morning, she just collapses into it and sleeps until noon.”

Luca was glad to hear she was at least sleeping a little. “It’s still not enough.”

“Yeah…” Vince motioned to the row of new gallon-sized cylindrical cans perched patiently against the wall. “She says she can’t sleep in her room until she paints it. She can’t look at the white.”

“At least she’s talking to
one
of us,” Luca muttered.

Vince cast him a speculative look. “What happened between the two of you Sunday night? Something’s changed. Did you—say something to her?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Luca searched his memory. “I don’t know what’s going on.” It frustrated the hell out of him, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it right before they spent an entire night out together. He checked his watch again. “What’s taking her so long? We’re going to be late.”

Vince waved his hand toward the door absently. “She’s a chick. They always take forever to get ready.”

“She’s generally pretty low maintenance when it comes to this kind of thing,” Luca said.

“Hmm,” Vince considered. “Let me see something.
Hey, Hero
,” he called loud enough to be heard in the next room. “You have any competition you’re expecting tonight?”

“Talia Malone,” Hero called back. “She works in bronze, and she
hates
me. That bitch ripped off one of my ideas and sold it for five thousand dollars. So I got her sculptures banned from the gallery.”

“Ouch,” Vince laughed.

“I know.” Hero sounded disappointed. “That’s bad for my karma, but it felt really good at the time.”

Turning back to Luca with a knowing smile, Vince said, “See, my man? Rule
numero uno
of female modern warfare: Thou shalt lookest finer and more bootylicious than thine opponent.”

“No one says
bootylicious
anymore.”

Vince shrugged. “Just sayin’.”