Free A Righteous Kill by Kerrigan Byrne Page B

Her hand idly rubbed at the side of her slim waist, where he knew a deep scar still healed.
    Had that only been less than two months ago?
    Luca told himself the tightness in his chest was just pity. He’d been eating, drinking, and sleeping John the Baptist for the better part of a year. More so these last two months. Living every moment trying to beat some invisible countdown to another dead body was taking its toll on his sanity. He’d chosen this, though. He could walk away from it anytime. Dump the file in another poor sucker’s lap and wash his hands of this job.
    As a victim, Hero didn’t have that luxury. On top of it all, her home had been invaded.
    Luca never had to grapple with the fear of impotence, but this shit was every bit as emasculating as a limp dick. He couldn’t very well hand-cuff her delicate, bangled wrists to his. No matter how badly he wanted to. And short of doing that, he couldn’t be sure of her safety. Since the night he’d spent with her in the hospital, she’d been part of his every unfettered thought. If he wasn’t pouring over case files, notes, photographs, profiles, and forensic evidence, he was wondering if she slept okay. If nightmares plagued her. If her body recovered properly.
    What she wore to bed.
    He knew what transference was, hell he’d deflected it a time or two. He couldn’t twist his obsession with catching John the Baptist into an obsession with the madman’s alluring victim. When she looked at him like she did now, like she trusted him implicitly, it made him want to run like hell. It scared the holy bejeezus out of him and conflicted the two halves of his nature. Part of him wanted to be what she saw when she looked at him like that. The rest of him knew what he actually was . A man on this side of a monster, using the rigid rules and protocols of the law to harness the taint of evil within himself.
    The direct imperative to keep Hero at arm’s length became his daily mantra. They would keep things professional. He would do his best to keep her safe, whatever it took, but there were lines he would absolutely not cross.
    Rule number one: Avoid being alone together at all costs.
    Rule number two: Refer to rule number one.
    The Special Agent in Charge of the Portland FBI Headquarters, Hank Trojanowski, charged into the apartment with all the grace of a stampeding rhino.
    “Ramirez. Di Petro. As of right now, you’re taking 12 hour shifts as Ms. Connor’s personal shadows. Either one or both of you will be glued to her side until this evil bastard makes his move. This is our chance to catch this killer.”
    ***
    A loose seam in Director Trojanowski’s suit jacket shoulder drove Hero to the brink of madness. The late afternoon sunlight kept glinting off the string which was the same color of grey as his thinning hair. Her fingers itched to pluck it for him, but she folded them tightly in her lap to stifle the urge. Her hands were clammy and her mouth was dry. She desperately wished it could be the other way around. She needed a drink. A stiff one. She looked at Luca who urgently argued with Director Trojanowski regarding all the reasons he shouldn’t have to stay with her.
    What the hell was with him? It seemed that he even found her handshake distasteful and took special precaution to keep any physical interaction very brief. She tried not to be offended. Maybe she wasn’t his type? Maybe he only liked Latino girls?
    That was an awfully racist assumption to make , she chided herself. She knew from Rown that it was against most law-enforcement policy to “fraternize” with suspects or victims. But Hero had never been much for rules or policies. Especially when they made no sense. Oh, and when they got in the way of something she wanted.
    “How am I going to conduct an investigation if I’m not in the office during the day?” Luca challenged his boss, crossing thick arms over his chest.
    Director Trojanowski was built like a string bean, kinda thin with lumps