For Love or Vengeance (17 page)

Bingo
.

Miguel reached for his cell phone, but before he could grab it, something hard and sharp jabbed into his back, followed by a jolt of searing pain.

His knees buckled and his body jerked as a shock of electricity burned across his nerve endings. He collapsed to his hands and knees. He heard the squeak of wheels close to his shoulder. He forced his splitting head upward.

Gold sat in his chair beside him, a twisted look on his face and a Taser in his hand.

“Figured it out, didn’t you? It’s a shame you won’t be able to tell anyone,” the Butcher said.

Then he jabbed the Taser into Miguel’s neck and fired again.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Helene’s energies felt scattered. She kept thinking about Miguel—how angry he was at her—for doing her damn job. She put her hands to her head and pressed. This eerie feeling of foreboding wasn’t helping. It was giving her a headache. And keeping that terrible vision of Miguel lying dead running through her mind over and over.

She really needed to focus on work.

Taking a deep breath, she gave up on the computer and went over to the photos of the Butcher’s victims on the bulletin board. She studied each of them carefully, then reached up and laid her hand on the photo of Lanie. Using the photo as a conduit, she called up her second sight and retrieved the last bits of memory she’d gotten from Lanie’s body. Disjointed images of darkness and intense light swept through her. And voices. Not one, but two distinct voices this time.

Diana had looked up from the computer and was watching her with interest, but didn’t question what she was doing.

“Gold and Smith are in this together,” Helene said, withdrawing her hand. She turned to Diana. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Gold has to be the mastermind and Smith the muscle.”

“So how do we prove that?” Diana said. “The boss wants evidence.”

For the hundredth time, Helene reexamined the poses and locations on the photos and tried to decipher what they meant. Closing her eyes, she reviewed everything she’d learned about Gold in the past few hours from all those articles. Finally, something clicked in her memory. Turning back to Diana, she said, “There was an article about Gold in a local newspaper. I recall a photo of him in Stage Left.”

Diana nodded. “I know which one you mean.” With a few quick keystrokes, she pulled up the image. It was a photo of Gold posing against the back wall of his shop that was covered with framed posters and playbills. The caption read:
Store owner Tim Gold displays memorabilia from his days on Broadway.

“Hmm,” Diana murmured, and with a few more taps, enlarged the image.

Helene pointed to the part of the photo showing some of the wall behind Gold. “Blow up this section here.”

As the pixelated image of a framed theater program filled the screen, they both leaned in and peered closer at it.

Diana straightened. “My God.”

The scene on the poster was nearly identical to one of the crime scene photos.

Helene exclaimed, “That’s it! He’s recreating the posters from his old shows.”

“I’ll print them out.” Diana’s fingers flew over the keyboard.

Helene reached for the phone. “I’ll call Miguel.” But her call went straight to voice mail. “What the hell,” she muttered in irritation—and a spurt of unease crawled down her back. “He’s got his phone turned off.”

“Try Daly,” Diana said as the printer started to hum. “He should be there by now.”

“Good idea.” Detective Daly had been sent in as Miguel’s backup. Helene punched in his cell number. When the NYPD detective answered, she greeted him and said, “I need to talk to Sanchez. He’s not answering his cell. It’s important.”

“If you find him, let me know,” Daly said.

“What’s that mean?” she demanded, that feeling of foreboding roaring back.

“When I got here, Stage Left was closed,” Daly said, “and Sanchez was nowhere in sight. He’s gone. We can’t reach him on his cell, either.”

“And you didn’t call us?” Foreboding morphed into concern.

“Been a bit busy looking for him,” he said. “I’ve got two uniforms out canvassing. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

Helene hung up, the knot of worry in her gut tightening to the point of pain.

“What’s going on?” Diana asked, concern filling her expression.

“They can’t find Miguel,” Helene said as she speed-dialed him again, but again it went straight to voice mail.

“He’s probably on his way back here,” Diana said. “Or maybe followed one of the suspects after the shop closed and forgot to call in.”

Helene wanted to believe that, but she’d been sensing danger all day. And that vision… She reached out with her powers and tried to feel Miguel’s energy, his life force, but instead sensed a troubling disruption in her connection with him.

Something was very wrong.

She called down to the tech specialists and asked them to pinpoint a location on his cell phone.

Helene waited anxiously. “The bastards have Miguel,” she said to Diana. “I’m sure of it.”

“Damn. You think?”

“He said he was going into the shop. Somehow, Gold must have figured out he was a cop.”

The tech came back on the line. “Sorry. We’re not getting any pings from his phone at any of the cell towers within a hundred-mile radius. His battery’s probably dead.”

She waited until she thanked him and hung up to curse. “Damn it, I told him to wait for backup.”

“Smith would have recognized him,” Diana said grimly. “He may have spotted Miguel and told Gold. But why would they grab him?”

“Miguel must have seen the posters and made the connection,” Helene said as she pulled the screen shots Diana had selected out of the tray. “I need to get down to Stage Left—”

“No. Daly has the shop under control. If Miguel is there, they’ll find him. But my guess is that’s not where they’re holding him.”

Helene thought about that for a second. “You’re right. They wouldn’t be keeping their victims at the shop. And they weren’t killing them at the dump sites. They must have another place. But where?”

“Coming up.” The whole time, Diana had continued typing. She hit one final key. “Okay. Gold owns several properties besides the shop. If Gold is the Butcher, my money’s on one of those.”

“We’re going to need a search warrant. This time, the judge better sign it,” Helene said, grinding her jaw. She swiped up the phone and dialed ADIC Hernandez’s office. When his assistant answered, she said, “Please tell ADIC Hernandez we have a missing agent. We need him in the war room ASAP.”

She whirled and faced Diana. “Can you print that list for me?”

Diana narrowed her eyes. “If you plan to go in without a warrant—”

“I am not going to blow the case,” she said. It was her job to give the Butcher the justice he deserved. If she failed, she had too much to lose—her time here on Earth…

And Miguel.

She didn’t want to risk either one. But she could not lose Miguel. He was more important to her than anything else.

Possibly even justice.

Diana rose and beckoned her over to the table. “Let’s match up those printouts of the posters and programs to the crime scene photos.”

Helene blinked, then realized she was still holding them. She went over and spread them out on the table. One by one, they figured out the pairings, and tacked the printout on the board next to the matching crime scene photo.

ADIC Hernandez walked into the room just as they pinned up the last one. “You’ve clearly made a break,” he said, pausing in front of the board, hands on his hips, scanning their work. Then he turned to them. “The missing agent is Sanchez?”

They brought him up to speed, then Diana went to the printer and fetched the last printout. She handed it to the ADIC. “These are the addresses of two other properties Gold owns besides Stage Left. One is a residence, the other is a store that sells theatrical props.”

Hernandez reviewed the addresses and handed the list to Helene. “Call Daly and give him these locations. Tell him we need NYPD to set up a perimeter and treat them both as possible crime scenes.”

He looked at Diana. “We’ll get a warrant drafted and over to a judge while you meet up with Daly at the shop. I’ll send Flores and Fontaine to his residence uptown. And Alexander—”

“I’ll take the prop shop downtown. It’s close to the Sanitation Department buildings where one of the bodies was found,” Helene said, itching to hit the road.

Hernandez eyeballed her and Diana. “If there are any signs of suspicious activity—”

“We won’t go in without backup,” Diana assured him.

But Helene couldn’t make that promise, so she stayed silent. If there was any chance she could rescue Miguel and catch Gold and Smith, she would take it. With or without backup. With or without the warrant. She would not sacrifice either Miguel or justice, simply because the machinations of mortal legal systems worked too slowly.

Now she just needed to find him. And quickly.

Her sense of impending doom was growing by the minute.

Miguel woke to cold dampness along one side of his body. And dark, deceiving gray all around him. He blinked to clear his vision.

He was lying on a cement floor, his hands tied behind him.

Awkwardly, he sat up. The room spun in dizzying circles for a moment before the world righted itself again. He took a deep breath to control the roiling nausea in his stomach.

And smelled blood.

Not fresh—the smell wasn’t strong enough for that.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and he looked around. A few feet away from him, telltale stains on the floor confirmed the scent. Blood stains. A lot of them. In the middle of the stains stood a stainless steel table, a dull gleam outlined in the dim light.

The murder scene.

The Butcher’s slaughterhouse.

Miguel scanned the room, searching for a way out.

“Don’t try,” came a voice from above. Gold’s voice. Being broadcast from a speaker.

“No need. My people are on their way,” he called out, trying to sound convincing. And praying he was right and the cavalry arrived in time.

“I’m sure that’s what you’re hoping, but not every story has a happily ever after.”

Gold’s voice was calm and unworried. Scarily so. Clearly, the bastard had no doubts that Miguel’s final act would be over before anyone found him. Not good. He could write that off as the sociopath’s delusion talking, but there was always the chance that Gold had fooled them all.

“This story’s ending is already written, Gold,” he said just as calmly, though his heart was racing. “You behind bars, along with your fuck-up sidekick, Andrew.”

A full-bodied laugh exploded through the air. “Your dialogue is so dated cop show, Special Agent Sanchez. Can’t you at least be a little more original?”

Total psycho
, Miguel thought, peering into the darkness to try and make out more about the room where he was being kept. He searched for the camera Gold was watching him through. Gold probably recorded everything as he tortured his victims, convinced of the beauty of his masterpieces.

Miguel needed to get the fucker down here so he could overpower him. He forced out a snort and said, “How’s this for original. The great Tim Gold is a no-talent sham. This sad little horror show is strictly B-movie material.”

The laughter boomed through the air again followed by long slow claps. “Better, Agent Sanchez. But you’ll see just how talentless I am once we start this little horror show.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Two uniformed officers were waiting for Helene at the door to Gold’s prop shop. One held a bolt cutter and the other a battering ram.

As she walked up and flashed her badge, she asked, “Anyone inside?”

“Nope.” The first officer pointed at the entry. The thick wooden door was shut tight with a heavy deadbolt and thick chains wound around the outside door handles. “We knocked but didn’t get an answer.”

The message tone went off on her cell, and she quickly opened the text. It was from Diana.

We got the warrant
. There was a link to the paperwork.

Relief surged through Helene. For once, the wheels of justice had moved swiftly.

“We’ve got the warrant,” she announced to the two officers. “Open up.”

The bolt cutter sliced through the chain with little effort, but it took two or three shots with the battering ram to break through the heavy-duty lock and thick wood of the door.

When it burst open, they steadied their weapons and flashlights, and cautiously entered. It was dark, but she found a switch by the doorframe and flipped on the light.

A thick trail of blood led away from the entrance.

Oh God. Miguel!

Her stomach flip-flopped and a wave of raw fear went through her.

Holding her gun with both hands, she and the officers wove silently through the rows of shelves, following the trail, which got bigger and messier as they crept deeper into the shop.

So much blood
.

Cold sweat erupted and rolled down the back of her neck.
Dear Zeus, please let it not be Miguel’s
.

The blood trail ended at an old-fashioned steamer trunk covered in labels from all over the world. She and one of the officers trained their weapons on the trunk while the other uniform tried the lock. He yanked and pulled, but it didn’t budge.

Helene waved him off. “Let me try.” She laid her hand on the lock. With a surge of power, she reached inside to crack the inner mechanism, and the lock popped open.

“What the—”

“Open it,” she ordered, cutting off their astonished questions. Then she stepped back, weapon trained on the trunk.

The officer slowly lifted the lid.

He gasped, swallowed down his reaction, and stepped back. “It’s one of the suspects.”

Intense relief swept through her and she approached the trunk. It was Andrew Smith. Or rather, Smith’s broken torso. It had been crammed into the trunk with his head resting on its midsection. The decapitation explained all the blood.

Helene turned away from the body and motioned to the rest of the shop. “We need to continue the search. Special Agent Sanchez may be here, along with the second suspect. Stay alert.”

Each took a row, and they moved in unison toward the back of the space.

She released some of her power, amplifying her senses to everything around her. Searching for any sign of Miguel or Gold.

The life forces she sensed around her were too small to be human. Rats and other vermin, probably.

As she passed a shelf of masks, a scintilla of a scent grabbed her attention, but it quickly vanished.

A trace of Miguel?

She reached the end of the row and glanced at the others. They shook their heads.

Damn! Where
was
he?

Stalking back to the trunk, she told the two police officers to secure the scene outside while she called the medical examiner. But instead, when they’d gone, she placed her hand on Smith’s head. His dyed black hair felt coarse beneath her hand as she centered her powers on recapturing the scattered remnants of his life force. She needed a last image or a sound, anything that might lead her to Miguel.

The air around her shimmered, and beneath her hand a faint glow appeared. But the only image that came to her was Gold’s face. Before she could reach in deeper, the last of his life forces vanished from her grasp.

Cursing, she stood, phoned the ME, and headed outside.

The two uniforms stood at the door, waiting for further instructions.

“Wait here until the ME arrives,” she said. “I want to check out the area.”

One of them opened his mouth to argue—probably about waiting for backup—but her glare silenced him.

She stalked away, her heels tapping sharply on the sidewalk as she walked to the corner and looked around the empty, rundown block of businesses. The whole place felt deserted. There were a few warehouses, most of them empty. Most were one-story structures, but one rose up slightly higher than the rest. The building’s cornice was ornate and corbelled. Too ornate to be a warehouse.

She strode swiftly toward it, releasing her senses and inner sight, searching for signs of life and reaching out to find Miguel’s unique signature.

Halfway to the building, the air seemed to shift. She focused on the disturbance and realized it was two very different energies clashing against one another.

Good and evil.

Very evil.

And very good.

Miguel
.

Hope swelled within her and she started running toward where the disturbance was centered.

She stopped short when she turned the corner and saw what the ornate building was.

An old theater.

It looked deserted and showed signs of age, but it was not in disrepair. In fact, it was in good-enough shape that someone coming for an audition might not doubt that it was actually a working theater.

She had to hurry.

If Gold had been desperate enough to kill Smith, he would not waste any time disposing of Miguel.

As she ran to the entrance, she called ADIC Hernandez. He wasn’t in, so she phoned Diana and gave her the address.

“I’m on my way. Do
not
go in without me,” Diana said above the sounds of her slamming desk drawers and crashing chair as she grabbed her gear and took off.

But Helene had already broken through the front-door lock and was stepping inside.

Warrant be damned
.

Besides, she had a feeling Gold would not surrender easily, so it was unlikely a trial would even be needed.

Especially if the bastard had hurt Miguel.

She would visit the agonies of hell on Gold, then give him the justice he deserved.

She paused inside the lobby of the theater, trying to decide where to go. Closing her eyes, she sent out a blast of energy. When it bounced back, it carried echoes of the life forces of two men, pinpointing their location.

She rushed through the lobby and down the center aisle of the theater, then sprinted down a hallway lined with dressing rooms, pulling up at a door to the backstage area.

Voices drifted to her from beyond the door.

Gold’s. And Miguel’s.

Yanking out her weapon, she approached cautiously. She hesitated at the door and used her second sight to place the two energy signatures. They were close together.

Too close
.

What was that psychopath doing to Miguel?

Inhaling deeply, she raised her gun and threw open the door.