A Righteous Kill by Kerrigan Byrne

in unexpected places. He sounded like Darth Vader, though, and Hero imagined that most people found that unsettling. “Well that’s easy. Di Petro will take the day shift, six to six, while you put in your time at the office and have a few hours to yourself. Then you’ll be here from around six p.m. to six a.m. You two can adjust hours as needed.”
    “Sounds good, boss,” Di Petro piped in from where he was directing the different field units that now crowded her home.
    Luca pinned an accusing stare on her. “What about weekends?” he continued stubbornly.
    “One of you takes Saturdays off, one of you takes Sunday.” The Director shrugged. “It’s undercover field work, Ramirez, it’s not like you haven’t done this for weeks on end before.”
    “Yeah man.” Di Petro wandered over. “Think of all the wicked sweet overtime.” He waggled his dark brows. “You paid off your bike with what you earned on that human trafficking case a year ago.” Point made, he popped his gum and plunged his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Besides, now we might actually be able to catch this prick.”
    Luca ignored him. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate if a woman spent the evening hours here— wait— undercover ?”
    Trojanowski turned to Hero then, joining her on the couch at a circumspect distance. “Tell me what you think of this, Ms. Conner.”
    “It’s Katrova-Connor,” she corrected. “But you can call me Hero.” She liked the Director, and did her best to muster up a smile to give him.
    “Thank you.” He patted her hands in a fatherly gesture. “I know you’re an artist by trade, but according to your profile, you do most of your work during the day and much of your socializing and running around in the evenings, am I correct?”
    Hero tried not to be disconcerted that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had a profile on her. What else did it say in there?
    “Generally,” she shrugged. She did some of her best pottery work in the middle of the night and usually slept in until about nine-thirty or ten. She liked to sculpt during the day when the sun helped to direct her with shadows and shades. Two nights a week, she taught a yoga class. Early mornings were pointless and had no use to her at all. She had to do shipping during banking hours and could work on her website whenever. However, those hours didn’t include gallery shows, art exhibits, weekend farmer’s markets and festivals, which accounted for a ton of her income. She traveled to several of those pretty much everywhere along the coast, especially in the summer/autumn months.
    “My schedule is all over the place. Anyone who thinks I’m an idle starving artist has another thing coming.” She winked up at the agents. “You two will have to keep up.”
    Trojanowski smirked. “We’re well aware of that. We’ve seen your income tax history.”
    Her brows drew together at that and she hoped she hid her wince. Did they know about all the stuff she didn’t claim?
    “We’re not the IRS,” he chuckled.
    She let out a nervous laugh. Guess you didn’t get to be where he was in the Bureau if you weren’t damn good at reading people.
    “Anyway, in light of recent case developments we at the Bureau feel it would be safer if you took an agent with you everywhere.”
    “Does recent case developments mean the dead goat head in my fridge?” That poor goat. It had to have been huge, judging from the size of his horned head, and pure white, with those creepy, grey, square-shaped pupils. Despite that, Hero mourned its pointless death. Had it been afraid? Had it struggled for its life as she had?
    “Uh, that would be correct.” Their conversation was interrupted as Hero’s entire refrigerator rolled by on a dolly pushed by a man and woman with “PORTLAND CSU” reflecting off their police jackets. Roger Daltry’s voice screamed through her mind.
    Who are you? Who, who? Who, who ?
    God, she was losing it.
    At least they wrapped the fridge