I don't own these characters, they're owned by NBC, who I'm not sure knows what to do with them, and ABC, who I'm very sure didn't know what to do with them, and all the great people (who do know what to do with them) involved in making these two shows. I'm not making any money off this, so feedback to betha@gwu.edu is greatly appreciated.
What do you need to know? Well, if you're a Profiler fan and have never seen Cupid, Trevor Hale thinks he's Cupid, God of Love--the jury will forever be out on whether or not he really was. Dr. Claire Allen is sort of his guardian, appointed by the psych board to counsel him and assure that he's no harm to society. Champ is Trevor's roommate and co-worker at Taggerty's, a restaurant/bar.
If you're a Cupid fan and you've never seen Profiler, Dr. Samantha Waters is a profiler for the FBI. She works for the Violent Crimes Task Force (VCTF), along with Agent John Grant, a former detective for the Atlanta Police Department. Their boss is Agent Bailey Malone, who also happens to be a long-time friend of Sam's.
Intuition
by Beth Arritt
Copyright 1999
"And that is why Mr. Roper bought it."
"You're trying to tell me Mr. Roper believed Jack was gay because he was really attracted to him?" Champ shook his head. "We need to get you more day shifts so you aren't watching so much TV."
Trevor handed a drink to a customer, ignoring the money the man tried to give him. "People see what they want to see. You know why?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me," Champ muttered as he took the man's money for the drink and gave him his change.
"Love, my friend. Human perceptions are based in that all-consuming search for love. Mr. Roper thought Jack was cute, and when Jack said he was gay, bingo!"
Champ raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Why do I bother?" he asked before continuing the debate. "Have you forgotten that Mr. Roper was married?"
"Nope. That's my final proof. Did you ever take a good look at Mrs. Roper? Those big bones, that husky voice...." He trailed off at the sound of raised voices in a corner of the bar. The shouting caught Champ's attention, as well as the attention of most of Taggerty's customers.
"I've had it!" the blonde screamed at her companion. "I'm sick of the way you're always staring at other women whenever we go somewhere." She jumped out of her seat and turned to leave.
The dark-haired man grabbed her arm. "Don't run out of here on me!"
"I just told you I was joining the space program and planning to spend the next five years on Mars and you were so busy ogling the waitress you said it sounded like a great idea! Why should I stick around?"
"Because you're making a scene!"
Something in her stance changed, and the scowl on her face was replaced by a wide smile. "That's not a scene," she said sweetly. She picked up the pitcher of beer on the table and dumped it over his head. "That's a scene!" she yelled before she stormed out.
"Isn't that one of your matches?" Champ asked, as he turned to where Trevor had been standing. But Trevor was already on the other side of the bar, following the blonde out of the building.
***
Trevor caught up with the girl at the street corner. "Melissa, wait up!"
She started to cross the street, then stopped as a car nearly took her leg off. "Trevor, I don't care what you say about him, I don't care if you think the two of us are the love match of the century, I am not putting up with his crap anymore!"
"Okay, calm down. What did he do?"
She turned watery eyes on him. "What did he do?" she echoed. "What does he always do? He was more interested in every other woman in the bar than he was in me. It's the same wherever we go. How long will it be before he starts going out with them behind my back, if he isn't doing it already?"
He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "So Steve isn't the right guy for you. We'll find someone who is."
She gave him a sardonic smile as she wiped at one of her eyes. "Trevor Hale, bartender extrordinaire and full-time matchmaker. Do they teach this kind of thing in bartending school, or does it just come naturally to you?"
"I never went to bartending school."
"So it's a gift." She shrugged his hand off her shoulder. "Thanks for trying your skills on me, Trevor, but I think I'll just go home for now. I'm a little put off on men at the moment," she declared as she stepped out into the street.
"Okay, but come back tomorrow, we'll look at other possibilities!"
She gave him an exaggerated shake of her head as she continued walking, never looking back. He watched her go for another moment, then returned to Taggerty's.
***
"Is she okay?" Champ asked as Trevor ducked back behind the bar.
"She'll be fine. She's just suffering from a case of testosterone poisoning." He glared in Steve's direction. "Guys like that make my job so much harder."
"Maybe you should just give up on the matchmaking for a while before one of your couples ends up killing each other."
Trevor frowned at him. "And maybe you should give up acting before one of your critics cuts you to ribbons."
"Hey, man, that's not funny."
"Neither is telling me to give up my life's calling," Trevor replied as he moved out of hearing range before Champ could say anything else.
***
It was three a.m. by the time they got out of Taggerty's. Champ went off with his current girlfriend, leaving Trevor to walk home alone. He whistled as he wandered down the sidewalk, trying not to think of all the progress he wasn't making when there was no one around to help find love. The way these people acted, he would never make it to a hundred couples. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that he hadn't been brought back during the sixties. With all the drugs and free love, he'd have been back to Olympus in a week. Ten days, tops. And that was if he took time off to sleep.
He looked around at the buildings and lots. No wonder people were so uptight. This area was depressing. Maybe he'd have better luck in prettier surroundings. Everything here was so bare, so ugly, so--a flash of gold in one of the empty lots caught his eye. As he got closer, he realized the gold was actually blonde hair. When he pushed the hair back, he was shocked to see Melissa's face.
He felt her wrist for a pulse, quickly becoming agitated when he felt nothing but cold, still skin. After a couple of seconds, he rolled her from her side onto her back and tried chest compressions the way he'd seen them done on TV. When he bent down to perform mouth-to-mouth, he saw the blood, and the large wound, and quickly realized there was no use in trying anything else. She was dead.
***
John blinked sleepily as he slid into a chair at the Command Center table. "Remind me again why we have to get up in the middle of the night for these things?"
Sam glanced at him with a combination of annoyance and amusement. "Because the sooner we go after the killer, the less likely he is to get another victim?"
"Oh yeah." He took a sip of coffee, either oblivious to her annoyance or not bothered by it. "So then why don't they call us after the first one?"
Before she could remind him that by definition, "serial crimes" meant more than one, Bailey walked into the room. "We have multiple homicides in Chicago," he began without preamble. He handed a disk to George, who put it in his computer and punched up the information. "Early this morning, Melissa Whirley was found by a bartender on his way home from work." A picture of Melissa's body at the crime scene appeared on the big screen at the end of the table. "Her neck had been slit from one side to the other. She's the third victim killed in this manner and left in a vacant lot."
Sam studied the picture. "Is that the position she was left in?"
"No, the bartender knew her. He said he didn't realize she was dead; he was trying to help her. George." George brought up the next picture. "According to him, she was lying something like this when he found her," Bailey continued.
"Who's the bartender?" Sam asked.
"His name is Trevor Hale. He works at a bar called Taggerty's, a few blocks from the murder scene."
She glanced through the file in front of her. "Does he have an alibi?"
"He says he was working all night; Chicago PD is still checking it out." Bailey picked up a file from the table. "The rest of the information is in the files. We leave for Chicago in half an hour."
***
"Hey, Trevor, have you seen the other shaker?"
Trevor handed the metal cup to Champ without a word and continued setting up the bar. The few left-over lunch customers weren't regulars, so they didn't notice anything off about Trevor's behavior. Champ gave him a worried look, however. He'd spoken maybe ten words since he'd come out of his room that morning. Trevor was a lot of things, but quiet was rarely one of them.
"So, how's business today?" Claire asked as she sat down at the end of the bar. Champ glanced at Trevor, who barely acknowledged the presence of his favorite target. He nodded and mumbled something that might have been a greeting, followed by something about scotch, then headed for the back room. Claire stared after him. "What happened?"
Champ leaned on the bar. "Did you hear about the murder near here last night?" Claire nodded, the wrinkle in her brow increasing as she realized Trevor had some connection to it. "Her name is...was Melissa Whirley. She came here a lot. Trevor fixed her up with some guy a couple of months ago. They had a fight last night and she left here in a hurry. Trevor couldn't stop her. He was on his way home last night and...he found her body."
"Oh, my God. Is he okay?"
He shrugged. "You saw how he was acting. Whatever he said when you came in was the most words he's put together all day." Trevor came back into the room, putting an end to the conversation.
Claire walked around the bar to where Trevor was stocking bottles. "Hey, Trevor."
"Hey, Claire," he replied without looking up.
"How are you today?"
"Oh, you know, I walked home from work, saw a friend dead on the side of the road, talked to the police, had a short nap and came back to work. I'm great."
"Trevor, maybe we should go somewhere and talk about this...."
He slammed a bottle under the counter. "I'm just fine, Claire."
She glanced over at Champ. "I'm sure Champ would cover for you."
"I said I'm fine. I'm not going to go berserk, or start trying to match up statues in the park or anything crazy. I'm just going to do my job and go home."
"Okay." She walked away, mouthing to Champ to call her if anything more happened.
After she was gone, Champ tried again. "You know, Trevor, I'm sure it would be okay if you took the day off."
"Can't take a day off. If I'm going to get back to Olympus and away from this place, I have to be out there." He slammed several more bottles into their spots. "I have to be mingling, I have to be talking to people, or I'll be stuck here forever."
"Okay, if you're sure." Champ moved to the other side of the bar, but kept one eye on Trevor, just in case.
***
"Hell of a place to die," John commented as he stepped under the police tape and surveyed the lot. The surrounding buildings were the same drab gray as the sky, making it almost difficult to tell where the buildings ended and the sky began. Only the voices of the few policemen and spectators milling around gave the scene any feeling of life.
"Is there a good place to die?" Sam asked as she studied the area with a little more intensity than her colleague.
John shrugged. "I guess not."
"Do you have the pictures with you?"
He blinked at the abrupt question, but pulled the crime scene photos out of a file and handed them to her. She considered the pictures for a moment, then looked around to find the exact spot the body had been the night before. After another minute of staring at the images, she turned her attention once again to her surroundings.
John watched the process in fascination. "What are you doing?" he asked as she turned in a full circle.
"There's no reason to it."
"Huh?"
"The bodies. He's not being picky as to where he puts them."
"They were all in vacant lots, Sam."
She shook her head. "But there were no similarities between the lots, other than the fact that they were empty, which made them convenient and made the bodies easy to find."
"So why vacant lots? Is he making some sort of comment about the intelligence of his victims?"
"It was the convenience that made them appealing," she answered, ignoring his attempt at humor. "It's as if he's telling us the women meant nothing. They weren't worth his time."
"It must have taken some time to plan the kills so he wouldn't get caught."
Sam lifted her shoulders in a half-shrug, still staring at the skyline. "The killing is important. The time spent planning that isn't a waste. But any time spent with these women beyond what it took to kill them quickly and efficiently is a waste. At least that's how he sees it."
"So one quick slash across the neck, drop her in the nearest lot and move on?" Sam nodded. "Why?"
"That's the question I still have to figure out."
"The bartender, Hale, is at work now," Bailey said as he joined them. "We can walk there from here."
Sam nodded, and the three of them left for Taggerty's.
***
Business was starting to pick up as people began dropping in to have a few drinks on their way home from work, but it wasn't so busy that Trevor didn't notice the three when they walked in. They looked about as out-of-place in Taggerty's as a tank on Olympus. Not that his uncle Mars wouldn't have liked a few tanks, but they weren't allowed.
The younger man headed for the bar, while the older one and the woman took a seat at a table. "What can I get for you?" Trevor asked as the man leaned on the bar.
"I'm looking for Trevor Hale."
"You are? And who might you be?"
The man held out a leather wallet, then opened it up to reveal a government ID. "Special Agent John Grant," he informed him in a self-important manner. "Who are you?"
"Cupid."
Grant blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Cupid. You know, God of Love, shoots you with a bow and arrow and *wham* you're too lovesick to think about tax evasion and aliens."
"Funny." He didn't look as if he really thought it was that amusing. "Who are you?"
Trevor sighed. "I told you. Cupid. The God of Love."
"Right. Where's your diapers?"
"I have *never* worn diapers," Trevor retorted in a threatening tone.
"Hey, Trevor," Claire said as she squeezed in between Grant and the customer next to him. "How are you?"
Grant's eyes narrowed. "I guess that makes you Trevor Hale, no bow, no diapers?"
"Thanks a lot, Claire."
Claire shot confused looks at the pair. "What's going on?"
"Dr. Claire Allen, meet Special Agent John Grant." He made the name sound much less impressive than Grant had when he'd announced himself. "G-man, meet the Head Shrinker."
Claire glared at Trevor before turning to the agent. "Is this about last night?"
"We just wanted to ask Mr. Hale some questions, but he was being rather secretive. It seems he didn't know his own name."
"That happens," Claire mumbled.
"Pardon me?"
"Never mind." She tried to gauge the expression on Trevor's face, but he was taking great pains to show no expression at all as he mixed a drink. "Agent Grant, maybe I could help a little until Trevor--"
"Thank you, *Dr.* Allen," Trevor broke in, "but I can handle this myself."
"Trevor, I don't know--"
"Claire, I do know." He handed her the drink he'd been fixing. "Now go find a table like a good little doctor and let me talk to the G-man so he can get back to the aliens."
Grant's face darkened. "I don't chase aliens. Do I have to explain the difference between reality and fantasy to you?"
Trevor laughed. "No, thanks. It's all been explained to me more times than I cared to hear." He wiped his hands and ducked out from behind the bar. "Let's go find your friends and get this over with."
***
They found Sam and Bailey studying menus at a table. John made the introductions as he sat down. "Mr. Hale," Sam began, "would you like to join us?"
Trevor crossed his arms and stubbornly refused to be seated. "I'm working."
She nodded. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with us."
"I wasn't aware I had a choice."
"Could you tell us about last night?" Sam asked, ignoring the jibe.
"We were busy. Wednesday is our jazz night, so we get a lot of customers."
John glared at him. "What about the girl?"
"She was dead. The FBI needs me to tell them that?"
Sam shot a glare at John before turning a kinder face on Trevor. "Did you see Melissa here last night?"
Trevor sighed. "She was here with Steve."
"Steve?" Sam queried. "Her boyfriend?"
"Yeah. Or at least he was. They had a huge fight, and she walked out."
"And that was the last time you saw her?"
He shook his head. "I went after her. I introduced them, so I had a vested interest in seeing their relationship work."
"Did she seem worried that she might be in danger after their fight?" Bailey asked.
"No. Steve's a moron, but he wouldn't hurt her. At least not physically."
"Did you see anyone follow her?" Trevor thought for a moment, then shook his head. "So she left, you returned to work, and you didn't see her again until you were on your way home?" Sam asked.
Trevor stared unseeingly at the door over Sam's shoulder. "Yeah," he answered softly. "I was walking along, minding my own business, when I saw the light reflecting off her hair. It didn't even occur to me she could be dead until I saw her neck...."
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Hale," Sam said after a moment of silence. "We'll be in touch if we have any more questions."
Trevor nodded again. "Should I send a waiter over?"
"Please," Sam answered. Trevor went back to the bar, pointing the waiter in their direction on the way.
***
Claire watched the entire scene closely, and by the time Trevor made it behind the bar, she was there to check on him. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," he replied as he kept one eye on the agents.
"Are you sure?" He nodded, still watching the FBI table, even as he served a drink to a customer. "If you're so sure, then why are you still staring at them like they're going to arrest you?"
"I'm not worried about that. I didn't do anything."
Claire studied the three agents for a minute, but still saw nothing of interest. "Then why are you watching them?" she asked finally.
"You don't want to know."
For a moment she was confused, then her face cleared an instant before a worried look settled in. "Please tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking."
"What am I thinking?"
"I think you're thinking of doing something that I don't think would be a good idea."
He spared her a quick smiling glance before returning his attention to the FBI table. "Look at those two, Claire," he said, ignoring her attempts to break into his diatribe before he really got going. "The way they avoid looking at each other. They hardly talk to each other, and when they do it's usually some kind of snippy comment."
Claire stopped trying to quiet him and blinked. "Snippy? I don't think I've ever heard you use the word 'snippy'."
"Short, curt, bitter--whatever you want to call it, all the signs are there."
She stared at the table again, but didn't see whatever seemed to be exciting him. "I assume you mean the younger one and the woman?"
"Can't you see it?"
"All I see is three colleagues having dinner."
Trevor sighed. "That's why I'm the god of love, and you're a tiny black and white head at the top of a small column in a large newspaper."
"Excuse me! I'm also a book."
"Whatever. Those two have the classic signs of unwilling lovers."
"What?"
He motioned in their direction. "Look at that. You can see the energy flying--I bet they've raised the temperature in the room at least five degrees since they came in."
Once again, Claire studied the table, this time focusing on just the two agents. "If anything, Trevor, I'd say the temperature around that table is colder than the rest of the room."
"They may look like they're being cold, but I think they're just using that coolness to try to put out the flame."
Claire blinked. "What?"
"You're the shrink, don't you understand the principle of love/hate?" She stared at him. "It starts on the playground at an early age. You like somebody, what do you do? Pass them a note that says 'Let's get together for coffee and see if our mutual interests mesh and we could make a loving and nurturing relationship for ourselves?' No. You go up to them and punch them in the stomach. If they like you, they'll punch back."
"Trevor, your logic never ceases to amaze me."
"Thank you."
She sighed. "I'll admit that sometimes people use coldness or rudeness to hide their feelings, but to take it to the level those two have, you'd have to either be in intense denial, or have feelings so strong that the slightest crack would cause a volcano."
"Exactly."
Claire stared up at the ceiling and prayed for patience. "Trevor. Even if by some miracle of a chance you're right, is it really wise to go messing around with the love lives of two FBI agents, especially those currently investigating a case you seem to have landed smack in the center of?"
"Something good might as well come out of this. Besides," he continued more seriously, "after what I saw last night, I don't even want to think about what those two see on a daily basis. Trust me, if anybody needs a love life to get away from that, they do."
Claire thought for a moment. She had a good idea that this was his way of giving himself something else to focus on during his involvement in the murder investigation. Fine. If it would help him deal with it, she'd drop it for the moment. She'd just have to keep a closer eye on him. She could handle that. She hoped.
Watching out for Trevor could be a full-time job.
***
"Excuse me, Agent Grant?"
John turned to see the dark-haired doctor from the bar approaching. He stopped, causing Bailey and Sam to wait as well. "Dr...Allen, right? The shrink?"
"Right, Claire Allen," she answered as she caught up with them. "I'm sorry to keep you, but I was just wondering...your conversation with Trevor, how was it?"
"Excuse me?"
She sighed. "I'm...I'm sort of responsible for him."
John frowned at her. "Are you saying he's nuts?"
Sam glared at him before turning to Claire. "Dr. Allen, I'm Dr. Samantha Waters. What my colleague *meant* to say was is Mr. Hale your patient?"
"I thought you were an FBI agent."
"I am. But I'm also a psychologist."
"I see. Trevor was released into my care by the state, yes. But he's completely harmless."
John raised an eyebrow. "Then why were you worried about my conversation with him?"
"Because he's been through enough trauma in the last twenty-four hours. I'm worried that any more could cause him harm."
Before John could comment, Sam stepped in. "It was a short conversation, Dr. Allen. I only asked him a few questions about last night, and barring any unforeseen problems we shouldn't need to talk to him again."
Claire nodded. "Thank you," she replied before turning toward the door to the bar.
Once Claire was inside, Sam turned to John. "You really need to work on your people skills," she said before she continued down the sidewalk with Bailey, leaving John to follow.
***
Trevor saw Claire follow the FBI agents out the door, but he wasn't in a position to do anything about it. So he waited until she returned to the bar, then gave her the evil eye. "What was that?"
"What? I went outside for some air."
"It's thirty degrees outside, Claire. Only Eskimos go outside for air when it's that cold. You went to talk to the FBI agents."
She sighed. "Fine. I went to see if they were going to have any more questions for you."
"Why?"
"What happened last night--"
"--happened to me and I don't need you to fix it for me."
"Trevor--"
"Claire, leave it alone."
She opened her mouth, then apparently realized it wouldn't do any good. "Fine. For now," she added as she picked up her purse. "But you haven't seen the last of me," she warned as she prepared to leave.
"Oh, like that's a surprise," he shot back as she walked off. He glared after her, but all that did was make his eye twitch, so he went back to work and took out his frustrations on glasses, thanking Zeus more than once that he didn't have to pay for each one he broke.
***
Bailey glanced through the file in front of him, then sighed and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes briefly to the green cement walls around him. "What did we get in the way of forensics from the latest scene?"
Sam shook her head. "Not much. There was a partial print on her shoe, but it doesn't match anything in the database. Probably isn't even the killer's."
"I still think the nut case bears more looking into," John said.
Sam rolled her eyes. "Could we please not refer to him as 'the nut case'?" she asked in a voice that sounded much calmer than she looked. "Besides, I don't think Hale is our guy."
"You heard his doctor. He's nuts--excuse me," he said when Sam started to protest, "mentally challenged, is that better?"
Bailey stepped in before their hostility could escalate further. "Chances are he's not the killer, but that doesn't mean we should rule him out just yet. John, take a closer look at him. Find out what the state had him in custody for, what he's like, the usual."
John nodded, shot one last glance at Sam and walked out. Sam closed her eyes after he was gone. "I'd like to take a look at the other dump sites."
"I figured you would. Chicago PD said they're not really intact, but you can check them out in the morning."
"I think I'd like to see them at night. See if maybe there's something about the sites in the darkness that we might be missing in daylight."
"Fine," Bailey agreed as he picked up his coat. "I'll take you."
"That's not necessary."
"You don't have a huge escort of agents here like you do in Atlanta. I'm going with you."
She shrugged. "You're the boss."
***
John slid onto a barstool as he surveyed Taggerty's, looking for Trevor Hale. A voice behind him almost made him jump. "You must be lost. Al Capone's hideout is three blocks from here."
"I'm not interested in Al Capone," John retorted as he turned around to face Hale. "He's dead; I'm pretty sure he didn't kill anyone this week."
"You never know. Those ghosts are supposed to be pretty tricky."
"Not nearly as tricky as the live people."
Hale moved to the other side of the bar, never letting John out of his sight. "What can I get for you while you grill me?"
"Who said I was going to grill you?" John put on his best innocent face, but it didn't seem to be working. "I came here for the food."
"Right. And you just graduated from the academy last week, so I'm your first assignment."
"That's funny, no one mentioned you were psychic."
"Not psychic, omniscient. Should I spell that for you?"
John took a deep breath. This was getting out of hand. "Look, Mr. Hale--"
"Cupid."
"Excuse me?"
"My name is Cupid. Only my friends call me Mr. Hale."
He was kidding. He had to be kidding. "You really think you're Cupid?"
"You think you're an FBI agent?"
"I *am* an FBI agent."
"And I *am* Cupid. Funny how that works."
John blinked at him. "So you're Cupid? Then where's your bow and arrow?"
"Again with the bow and arrow question? Why does everybody ask me that? I wasn't allowed to bring it with me, okay?"
John had made it past the shock, and was now having trouble keeping a straight face. "Right. So what, you fell off a cloud one day and forgot how to fly? Or did you have to leave the wings behind too?"
Hale turned all the way around. "You see any wings?"
"No." With great difficulty, John kept himself from grinning. "Look, Mr. Hale--"
"Cupid."
"I am *not* calling you Cupid."
"Then I am *not* answering any of your questions."
John lost the battle with his amusement as a chuckle escaped. Hale's frown increased into a sharp look of disapproval. "Sorry," John apologized as he composed his features. "Fine...*Cupid*, we're trying to find a link between Melissa Whirley and the other victims." John pulled two pictures out of an evidence bag. "Can you tell me if you've seen either of these women before?"
Hale studied each picture. "They don't look familiar," he answered as he handed them back. "But then I see a lot of faces in my line of work."
"Flying around making love matches?"
"No, bartending." Hale shook his head. "Are you sure you're really an FBI agent?"
"Would you like to see my badge?"
Hale grinned. "As much as I'm sure it disappoints you not to have another excuse to flash it, no thanks."
John put the pictures of the victims back in the bag, sealed it, and stood up. "I don't think I'll have anything to eat after all."
"Good, because it's only 10:30, and we don't actually open for another half an hour anyway."
He thought about asking why the doors were open, then decided it didn't matter. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Hale--I mean, *Cupid*," he said with a grin. "It's been...interesting."
"Hey, Grant, before you go, can I ask you a question?"
John took a moment before answering, "Maybe."
"That woman you work with, the doctor...is she seeing anyone?"
All traces of amusement disappeared from John's face. "You're not her type."
"Oh, not for me. It's just that my friend, Claire, knows this guy I think would be perfect for your doctor friend, and I figured as long as she was in town--"
"No," John interrupted curtly. "I don't think she'd be interested. She's seeing someone...sort of."
Trevor's smile turned into a grin. "I see."
"You see what?"
"Nothing. Have a nice day, officer."
"Agent."
"Right, sorry."
***
"I was right."
Sam looked up from the case file. "What?"
"I was right about Hale," John said as he took a seat on the opposite side of the table from her.
Bailey leaned forward with interest. "Hale killed these women?"
"No, Hale's a nut case." Sam frowned at him. "Okay, fine, he's mentally challenged. The guy thinks he's Cupid."
"That's in his file?"
"No, I'm having trouble getting his files because of his mental health record, so I talked to him, and he tried to tell me he's Cupid."
"Maybe he just said that to get to you," Sam suggested.
John shook his head. "He seemed to believe it. Which reminds me, he says he has someone you should meet. I told him I didn't think you'd be interested, what with your ambulance chaser--"
"State Attorney."
"--but if you are, I'm sure you could give him a call at work and he could set you up."
Sam took a deep breath, trying to ignore the jibes. "Did you get any *useful* information from him?"
"He didn't know anything. Said the women didn't look familiar."
Sam stood up. "I'm going to get some coffee. Let me know if you get anything useful."
"I did get his fingerprints," John said as he held up the pictures. "If you're interested, that is."
***
John watched as Hale and his friend entered Gommorah's. From the loud dance music bursting through the door and the few people stumbling out of the bar, he could tell what kind of place it was. Hale probably thought it was the perfect spot for Cupid to make a few quick, if short lived, couples.
He waited for a moment before following them into the building. The smoky interior didn't exactly lend itself to finding someone, but he managed to locate the pair eventually. Hale was talking to a tall blonde while his friend stood by looking extremely uncomfortable. After a short conversation, the woman bristled, then slapped Hale before storming off.
If that was Cupid's approach, the divorce rate suddenly made a lot more sense.
***
Champ shook his head as his eyes closed. "Trevor, man, one of these days...."
"Don't let her fool you. I saw her checking you out."
His eyes shot open. "She was probably wondering if I was going to attack her. Look at the company I keep--it's a wonder the world doesn't think *I'm* nuts too."
"Take heart. I see another one coming this way and this one definitely looks like the right one."
"No, Trevor. Trevor, no. Trevor--"
"Excuse me, miss, can I introduce you to--" Trevor turned around and stopped short. Champ had disappeared.
***
"I don't care what kind of feeling you had. The next time you get a feeling about me and a sure thing, you'd better be talking about the tables in Vegas, because I am through letting you meddle with my love life."
Trevor shook his head as he flagged down a cab. "That last one really dug you."
"That last one nearly called the cops."
"I can't believe you," Trevor said as they both climbed into the car. "You share a home with the god of love, yet you mock his powers."
"You don't have any powers."
"Well, I did. And I will again. But it's not all gone. Look how many matches I've made already."
Champ laughed. "Computers make more matches than you. Face it, you're just going to--"
"Stop the car," Trevor called to the driver. "Here--just stop!"
The cab was still rolling to a halt when Trevor jumped out and ran half a block back toward the bar. Champ followed in a hurry. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Trevor had stopped at a fence and was staring at the empty lot on the other side. "Not again."
"Okay, that's it, I'm calling Claire. She can--" Champ froze as he spotted the woman lying in the lot. "Oh. Is she...?"
"I hope not," Trevor said without much conviction before he ran for the gate.
***
Continued in Part 2