Author's Warning: Despite the PG-13 rating for the overall story, a few chapters may be boosted to an R for brief sexuality. This is one of them. You've been warned!
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"Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply..."
--Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, 1814
Chapter 5
Peter felt as if he should've been a juggler rather than a nurse. Standing on the F train with Elle pressed compactly against him and the paintings precariously balanced on the top of his foot while leaning against the side of the seat near the doors was a difficult task that only a true New Yorker could handle. The train wavered bumpily from side to side and the paintings slipped from his grasp; Elle managed to grab them before they hit the dirty floor. Had they not been touching his foot, some observant passenger would've momentarily spotted them and doubted their sanity.
It wasn't until they disembarked at their stop on Avenue X that Peter released Elle's wrist and slackened his muscles to an extent but nevertheless kept his large eyes wide with vigilance. Elle, who'd taken command of the paintings since their near tumble on the subway, trudged behind, struggling with the canvasses until he relieved her of the corpulent burden.
"I must say, Dave," she huffed, "that this in no way looks suspicious. We're supposed to be inconspicuous here and we are anything but inconspicuous. I feel like the Winchester brothers who, in spite of the fact that they are running from the authorities, continue to drive in the most obvious of vehicles."
"You feel like who?" was all Peter could muster as he continued his diverted surveillance of their environment.
Elle shook her head, mumbling, "Never mind. Where are we going?"
"I don't know. Someplace where we can look at these paintings in peace. Have one in mind?"
"Not right off hand. This is Brooklyn. It's not exactly a location known for its privacy."
"I don't want to go back to your brother's. I've already brought you into my mess and I think we should try to keep him out of it as much as possible. The fewer who get involved the better for us."
"I think we should go back. He offered to be our home base, and if we don't show up he'll worry like crazy. Given the circumstances, I don't want to do that to him. We fight a lot but I still love him."
Peter sighed, resigned in his understanding. "You're right. I wish I could return the courtesy to my brother."
His words brimmed with an essence of familial yearning. He couldn't help but wonder if Nathan was troubled by his disappearance or if he was wise to his younger sibling's capabilities, ergo merely waiting for his return home. Worse was the likelihood that he didn't want him back at all.
"Should we finish walking there?" inquired Elle. "It isn't too much farther."
Preoccupied by his brotherly musings, he nodded then muttered his agreement.
Then it was Elle's turn to guide him through the active streets which he easily obliged to. Just for one moment it was nice to relinquish control which afforded him stolen time to reflect. Too much was happening all at once and battling amnesia complicated keeping everything straight. A complex life awaited him, or so it seemed: an affluent family, a powerful brother, and a few superpowers under his belt. Not to mention he was a hospice nurse which must've caused enough stress in its own right. If his family had great wealth and authority then how many people were scouring the city for him? It was feasible that the police were trying to return him to his family safe and sound and Elle was wrong in her untrustworthy stance against them. However, the true crux of the situation haunted him:
Then why am I willing to believe her so quickly? Why am I allowing her to keep me away from them?
His rampant thoughts turned to his niece Claire and the touching way she beseeched the public for his safe and expedited return. She was only an underage teen, what harm could she pose to him? It wasn't possible for someone who rendered such a warming speech to end up having sinister undertones. Someone definitely cared about him. Claire cared. Claire wanted him home. Claire wanted him safe. And that was enough for him.
He imagined Claire running toward him, arms outstretched in welcome, a brilliant smile across what he inferred to be a beautiful face. He would embrace her back, squeeze her tight against him and chastely kiss her cheek. He would swear an oath to never leave her again, even though he didn't yet know the circumstances that brought about his disappearance from her life. Claire could have the answers he was desperate for. If only he was able to contact her without anyone else knowing it!
He noticed that they at last arrived at Alex's building and his exhausted mind blurred. His vertiginous mind just couldn't think any more. This must've been what he felt like during finals in nursing school, or when he interned at the hospital, or when he was pulling double shifts…or how it felt after losing his first patient. Fatigue and weakness dropped upon him as swiftly as Wile E. Coyote's anvil fell off the desert precipice in a Roadrunner cartoon. He wasn't even aware that he was inside the apartment until Elle took the paintings from his loosening grasp.
"Sit down, Dave," Elle instructed soothingly as she helped him onto the sofa. "You need rest. You look like you're gonna die."
He babbled an incoherent response that even he didn't understand. His tongue was sluggish, inebriated from too much action in too short a time. The stress overwhelmed him and he slouched over on his side, eyes already closed. Feeling terribly achy and overheated, he was scarcely able to raise his head when Elle crammed a lumpy pillow beneath it. Muttering a sigh of thanks, he wasn't certain if she said anything in return. Coolness struck his feet when he felt her remove his shoes and socks - the ones he borrowed from Alex - and swing his legs upon the couch, straightening him out properly.
Her footsteps faded as she walked away but seconds later returned before he felt a heavy warmth cover his quiescent form. A blanket. He groaned and settled with his arm tucked beneath the pillow, too tired and feeble to produce a sufficient thank you a second time. Something fervent and wet pressed against his sweaty brow that he knew to be Elle's lips rendering him a solemn kiss.
"Get your rest, Dave," she whispered. "Don't worry. I'll watch over you."
It was all he heard before succumbing to the unconquerable Sandman.
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Claire was relentless in her investigative pursuit for her lost uncle. Noah watched with pride as she independently handled the matter, wondering when his little girl had become so grown. As they gradually made their way from one end of the Brighton Beach boardwalk to the other she aggressively questioned shop keepers and random pedestrians, insisting that he not interfere because it was something she needed to do alone. She beseeched of everyone she stopped to take a look at the photograph of Peter, stolen from a picture frame in the sitting room of the Petrelli mansion.
Noah kept his promise and stood idly, surveying her progress. Witnessing how people reacted to Claire's pleas was an interesting study of human behavior. Certain groups tended to respond in similar if not identical ways. Most of the older women paid her no attention and rewarded her efforts with dirty glares but the ones who did were sympathetic and wished her the best in her hunt. The older men leered at her discreetly when her back was turned or obviously when it wasn't and Noah observed them with meticulous vigilance. The younger individuals who were close to either her age or Peter's took noteworthy interest in what she was doing rather than in her physical assets; most of the teen males paying attention but goofing off in an effort to impress while a majority of the females commented on how handsome Peter was.
Her solicitous fear for Peter was harrowing to witness. Never before had he seen his daughter in a more distraught state. He lacked the heart to tell her that should anyone manage to find Peter nobody knew the condition he would be in and it might be too unbearable for her to see. The magnitude of the nuclear explosion would've been incredibly destructive to his body. The regenerative ability that he'd absorbed from Claire would no doubt eventually heal his ravaged flesh but he was not inviolable to the taste of death nor to the suffering of the extensive wounds he would've received. More than likely nobody would be able to even recognize him for a long time until those extensive wounds healed.
The truth was nobody knew for certain what the precise consequences to a post-explosion Peter would be. Would he completely yet provisionally die then later resurrect in a similar way to how Claire was brought back from the autopsy she was unaware that her father clandestinely knew of? Would he be alive but so drastically impaired that he would be an untenable invalid, either mentally or physically? A vegetative Peter would not fare Claire well in the least. Noah did not want to think of how she would react to that tragic probability.
Angela Petrelli insisted that Peter would survive the explosion which was why she was more than willing to allow it to come to fruition. Noah felt pure disgust for any parent who would let a preventable disaster occur to her own son; that much he agreed with Claire about. It took him and Sandra so long to conceive Lyle and accepted Claire as a gift that he could not fathom of harming someone who was of his own flesh and blood. Despite the fact that his daughter was adopted, she still qualified for blood status; he was the one who raised her, not the MIA Nathan Petrelli who paid off Meredith Gordon to hide their morganatic tryst which produced Claire.
Still. Who was he to judge the Petrelli matriarch? Peter was probably endeared to her in her own demented way. All he knew was that he could never do such a deplorable thing to Claire, regardless of how invincible she was. He pitied that an outstanding, gentle soul like Peter had been born into a family that was a contemptible pit of vipers. How the young man ever managed to keep his kind hearted nature without reducing himself to their level was a miracle onto itself. Being a freak in the eyes of the world was bad enough but being freakish to your own family was unforgivable.
The apple may not fall far from the tree but sometimes it manages to roll away.
He checked with the western horizon for the telltale red sun dipping below the buildings and the rides and decided to call an end to Claire's quest for the day.
"Claire!" he summoned, drawing her attention from a few yards away. "It's time to go."
She excused herself from the company of the young couple she had been talking to and rejoined him.
"Just another hour," she implored. "Please."
"Sweetheart. We've been out here all day and haven't found a single soul who has seen him."
"But I can't give up…"
"I'm not asking you to give up on him. But there is only so much you can do in one day. If you don't take a break from all of this madness then you will be more of a detriment than a help."
"But…"
"You don't think Peter would agree with you pushing yourself beyond the limits, do you? What good would it do him if you're the one who needs to recuperate?"
The reasoning worked as Claire's shoulders slumped and the anxious expression she wore on her face all day finally relaxed.
"I am tired," she caved.
"Of course you are. You haven't even eaten anything yet today."
"I had a bag of zeppoles."
"Real food, Claire-Bear."
She sighed, "Fine. Let's go find some real food."
They began their walk back towards their rental car, parked near the subway station, each with an arm slung around the other, she slightly leaning against him.
"Do you have a preference?" he asked.
"I think I'm in the mood for a big fat cheeseburger."
"Cheeseburger it is, then."
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"When you put everyone first, you end up last. You always put Nathan first, he took advantage."
"It wasn't you that was just pushing him right out in front of me?"
"He takes up more space than you. Demanded more attention. And besides, it's not my fault you allowed it."
"He's my brother. I love him."
"Love is overrated."
"He loves me too. I know it. We've always been close."
"Rose colored glasses."
"That's cruel, mom. Since dad died, I know you've been feeling free to speak your mind but it wouldn't hurt to edit yourself every once in a while."
"I'm sorry if the truth hurts. I'm just saying you hero worshipped him and those feelings were never returned."
"You're wrong. It's biological. I can't help it, we're connected."
Peter burrowed peacefully beneath his blanket, trapped between the dream of a memory and the wakefulness of reality. For just one fleeting moment disillusionment brought him to think he was home in the Petrelli mansion or in his own apartment wherever that was. He didn't care where he was, honestly. All he did care about was that it was in a warm, safe place, untouchable from injury.
He liked to believe, if for but that moment, that he was cosseted by a doting mother and an affectionate brother. If he opened his eyes all of that would vanish and he didn't want it to. There was an upsetting feeling inside him that the discussion he dreamt about was in fact a recollection struggling to return to the surface of his mind. He'd been conversing with a woman old enough to be his mother and Nathan was their topic. Two snippets troubled him most:
"He's my brother. I love him."
"I'm just saying you hero worshipped him and those feelings were never returned."
He groaned and stirred again, this time less peacefully.
The interaction impressed upon him that Nathan, the brother he adored even though he couldn't remember his face or past affairs with him was remiss in their relationship. He pictured himself immediately as a six-year-old clinging onto his big brother's coattails and mimicking everything, much to the elder child's disgruntlement.
"Stop copying me!" Fantasy Nathan would growl through gritted teeth.
"Stop copying me!" Fantasy Peter would imitate.
"No! You're not the boss of me!"
"No! You're not the boss of me!"
"Mom!"
His love for Nathan couldn't be mutually exclusive. It wouldn't be right if he was unloved by his big brother. Just as he insisted in his dream, he knew he shared a biological connection to Nathan that hardwired within them both an affectionate bond which dictated they protect each other. Neither Nathan nor their mother could refute that. It was impossible. The same blood pumped through their veins. Despite the consequences they would always be there for each other if for no other purpose than they were of the same flesh. That physical connection deepened to scores of other unseen, uncontested ties; of this Peter was sure.
Even if he doesn't know I'm missing he knows something's wrong! I know he does! He can feel it!
Before Peter learned he had a brother, he sensed that there'd been something missing but he could not place what until he first laid eyes on the picture in the newspaper. Nathan was his right arm that was currently severed off. In his place was a nagging phantom limb that he needed to rid himself of by reattaching the real arm. Nathan was irreplaceable and he wouldn't let anyone tell him that the concept wasn't reciprocated.
He cursed and opened his sore eyes, his head instantly feeling as if it would split in two. Both the fantasy and the dream were over. Reality needed to seep back in.
"Hi, Dave!" a chipper voice directed toward him.
Struggling to sit up, he saw the pretty face he recognized as Elle. She resembled an angel in the soft light of the room and the comparison made him smile.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah, but I don't feel too much better. My body aches a little. I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. I was exhausted. What time is it?"
"After six. Do you want an aspirin to stop your achiness?"
"No thanks, I think I'll be OK for now. Where's Alex? At work?"
"Out getting food. He took the night off to play the host with the most. He has nothing edible around here and not having anything to offer a couple of guests is unacceptable."
"I'll remember that, Miss Etiquette, if I ever manage to find my way back home and I invite you over for a thank-you feast."
Laughing, Elle took the liberty to plop herself down beside him and tenderly placed her head on his shoulder. That was when he noticed her blistered, raw hands which dissolved his own troubles and kick-started his salubrious habits.
"What happened to your hands?"
"Those damned paintings skinned them. I told you they were too much to handle while walking. That's probably why your body aches too."
"Let me see."
Without waiting for consent he took her hands into his and inspected the excoriated palms. They appeared incredibly painful and guilt presided in his conscious.
"It's my fault," he muttered but she didn't catch what he said.
"Huh?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry, Elle."
She shrugged and persevered, "I'll live."
"Wash them with warm water. There's paint chips and dirt in them that you need to remove so they won't infect."
"Wow. You are such a nurse."
They looked at each other and affectionately smiled.
"While you were asleep I took a peek at those paintings we stole from Isaac's loft," she updated.
"Did you figure out anything?" He became self conscious, afraid that because he was perspiring then she could probably smell his sickly stink. He wanted a shower despite the fact that Elle didn't seem to notice or at least mind his odor.
"I realized that in the Kirby Plaza one the guy you're with is the villain from 9th Wonders!. I told you that those paintings were of his characters."
"But why would he paint me in one?"
"I told you that one wasn't a Mendez. You painted something back at the loft. Maybe you were the one who painted the Kirby Plaza picture."
"Why would I put myself in a painting like that?"
She shrugged.
"Then again, when I compared the painting you did when you went Evil Dead on me to the one the mystery artist did it doesn't really look like your style. The one you painted smeared a lot since it was still wet when you put the cloth over it, unfortunately."
"Maybe the answers I'm looking for is in Isaac Mendez's work."
Elle chuckled and returned with more insinuation, "Maybe you were his lover and adding you to the comic was his version of a love letter."
"Isaac Mendez was not my lover, Elle."
"Are you sure?"
The longing sentiments that had overwhelmed him at the mention of Simone Deveaux earlier returned to him. Behind his eyes there was a glimpse of a splash of red, the feel of warm soft flesh, the scent of rain, of making love…
This is why you sent them after me? Jealousy? With me out of the way, you'd have Simone all to yourself.
You stole her away from me!
"Positive."
At that moment Alex entered the apartment with three plastic bags impeding his gait. Elle watched her brother struggle like the consummate brat but Peter rushed to assist, receiving a thank you while Elle was the recipient of a dirty look. She shrugged it off and went back to reading her ill-gotten comic.
"Nice to see that you're back from the dead, Pete," Alex chided. "Unmolested by Elle, hopefully."
Elle glanced up from the comic to stick her tongue out at her big brother then simply went back to reading.
"I think she was a good girl," Peter played along, helping to unpack the supplies onto the kitchen table.
"You look like death warmed over. Are you OK?"
"I'm fine," he lied. "It's just a little hot in here."
"Sorry. There's no air conditioning in this old building. The windows are open though. I'm going to make dinner while you and Elle figure out whatever you need to figure out from the paintings you stole."
Peter cringed from the blame in Alex's voice. "Yeah, about that…"
Alex raised his hands in a defensive gesture.
"Not passing judgement," he insisted, "just stating the obvious. Elle explained everything."
"Even about what happened to Isaac Mendez?"
Alex nodded solemnly.
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
"For what?"
Alex shrugged similar to the way Elle shrugged.
"Mendez must've meant something to you. He painted you often."
"I'm not sure if Isaac meant anything positive to me though."
"What do you mean?"
"I dunno. Before, when we were walking to the loft Elle said 'Simone Deveaux better not be there.' Do you have any clue who this Simone is?"
Before Alex could reply there was a horrid shriek from the other room that came from Elle who sat up bolt right, looking back at the men.
"Simone Deveaux!" she exclaimed. "That bitch! She's dating my Isaac Mendez! Or she was dating my Isaac Mendez. She vanished without a trace a few weeks ago." Then she glared at Peter with abrasive interrogation. "Tell me you didn't have anything to do with her, Dave. I mean it. It's bad enough that she stole Isaac from me but now she's gonna steal you?"
Peter returned to her a look of apology, his large hazel puppy eyes speaking for him.
"I'm sorry, Elle. It came back to me only a few minutes ago."
"The bitch!"
"Hey! It isn't her fault, Elle."
"What fucking ever, Dave!"
With all the indignant attitude of a crushed fangirl, she huffed off into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
"I guess we won't be going over the paintings now," Peter mumbled.
"She'll get over it."
"I didn't mean to hurt her feelings."
"I know. She's just passionate about her interests. Nobody else really understands that about her."
"Except for you."
Alex gave a wry smile.
"I'm her brother."
Those words uttered by his friend's sibling brought back another echo of memory. This time it wasn't with Simone Deveaux or Isaac Mendez but someone who was far more precious.
Something is happening to me and I have this feeling that you're the only one who's gonna understand it.
Why the hell would I understand that you think you can fly?
Because you're my brother.
The daze he fell into was broken when Alex called him for the fourth time and gave him a gentle nudge.
"Are you OK, man?" he asked.
"Yeah. Just another memory."
"It keeps coming back?"
"Looks that way."
"Good. Maybe you won't need to be bugged by Elle for much longer after all."
Peter half smiled.
"I like being bugged by Elle. I regret disappointing her but I don't share her feelings."
"She'll get over it, Peter."
"Still…it hurts. I know it does. I don't like to hurt anybody."
"Yeah, nurse suits you."
Peter smiled again, the faint rosiness of a blush settling in his cheeks.
Distracted by a shuffle in the doorway, they found Elle standing there swinging a small blue cloth bag by its bright yellow drawstrings. Whatever was inside made the sound of small pebbles as she shook the satchel.
"Hey, Dave," she called in an indifferent tone. "Play a game with me."
Enlightened by this quick change of heart and enthusiastic to appease her after unintentionally hurting her, Peter readily agreed.
"What game?" he asked naively.
Holding up the bag, she shook it, creating the pebbled sound again.
"Reach in, pull out a jellybean and eat it. If you spit it out without swallowing, you lose."
Peter's eye brows scrunched low in confusion.
"What kind of a game is that?" he questioned.
With a sly, vindictive grin, Elle answered with the fierce scorn of unrequited love: "It's called Bertie Bott's."
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At 7p.m. Archer arrived at the Millennium at the United Nation's bar a half hour sooner than he was scheduled to, feeling he needed the extra time alone to think about the corner he was painting himself into by being there. He had no right, no real reason to meet Grace in a setting that would further provoke any wrongful intentions. She was an exquisite woman with her long dark hair, crystal blue eyes, luscious full lips.
Forget the face, the starlet's body was every man's erotic dream. A slender hour-glass figure, large breasted, and mile long legs that continually wrapped around his waist in his fantasies throughout the day since the time they'd met. A quick search for pictures of her on the Internet earlier revealed to him that her stomach was concave and cut, her navel pierced. The navel ring was incredibly appealing to him, a blaring sign that Grace was a free spirit, and he guiltily felt his loins stir at thinking of kissing that marvellous stomach until he shifted uneasily in the bar chair. God, he wanted her!
"Would you like another?"
The words disrupted his iniquitous musings and Grace's face faded, replaced by the bar tender's. He was holding up Archer's empty glass. The detective nodded and his whiskey was replenished. Archer's eyes roamed to the plasma screen over the bar that was tuned in to the ballgame live from Yankee Stadium. An avid fan, this was a rare occasion that he didn't even notice the score, establishing just how interested he was in Grace Gray.
His heart sank when his mind travelled to his wife Rebecca. He loved Rebecca and he knew she loved him. Yet as twenty-three years together passed he learned that they were no longer in love with each other. College freshman sweethearts, they at first could not keep their hands off of each other and married immediately after graduation. With him entering the police force and her becoming a lawyer they chose to not have children although he wanted them. But he agreed to the terms, knowing how difficult it would be to balance children with their chosen careers; he loved Rebecca and considered it a sacrifice to keep her in his life. The demand of their jobs forced them to spend less time together with each promotion they received, promotions rapidly attained because they were both risk-taking overachievers. Their relationship took a downturn as they grew apart and their once happy marriage converted into a marriage of convenience. They never argued, they never did anything drastic to each other. They just simply were. Perhaps that was what bugged Archer most. They converted from passionate lovers to respectful friends, never touching save for pecks on the cheeks in greetings or good-byes. Ruggedly handsome with a husky physique, he was masculine in the truest sense of the word and was aware that he could get another woman if he wanted to. If he and Rebecca separated he would have no trouble securing dates or at the very least one-night-stands. But loyalty to his marriage vows dissuaded him, and thus he felt trapped by a strangle hold of obligation and was at a loss for what to do.
I don't want to hurt Becky but I need to remember what it's like to be wanted!
Not a single day passed where he escaped within himself, wondering what life would've been like had he put his foot down and demanded either a family or a divorce. Of course this also meant he needed to make career sacrifices just as well as Rebecca would have in order to accommodate children. Things could've been better. It could've worked. It could've. But now he would never have the chance to know because the one thing he never took a risk in obtaining was the one thing he wanted most of all. Worse, Rebecca seemed to have lost all romantic interest in him and he hadn't been touched intimately in so long.
Now he found himself lonely and desperately needing to be touched, wanting to feel needed again. He was well aware that those were his reasons for setting up this meeting with Grace. Proper protocol meant that he would've brought her to his office, or any room at the precinct or, for that matter, anywhere else rather than this very social, very personal setting. Maybe, just maybe, the gorgeous star would take an interest in him. He knew it was unrealistic for her to love him, marry him and give him a family but that wasn't what he wanted from her anyhow. Starved for any type of contact, he would've taken an undemanding brush of fingertips while reaching for something and left it at that.
Earlier when she was in the morgue she seemed vulnerable and needy, as anyone would've been while saying their final good-byes to a loved one. He wanted to embrace her in his strong arms, offering to comfort her and when she fled the room he was compelled to race after her. Why shouldn't he have been? Warm male blood still pulsed through his veins.
What am I doing here? I have no right, I'm married! I can make all the excuses I want but this is wrong!
Yet a man could dream, couldn't he? Couldn't take those away. Heaven knew that dreams were all Archer had left.
Slipping a hand into the pocket of his suit jacket, he toyed thoughtfully with the wedding ring he dared to remove before entering the hotel, debating right and wrong with himself. His phone vibrated loudly over the lacquered wood of the bar, drawing his relieved-to-be-distracted attention. Checking the screen, he saw the word Coroner emblazoned across it. With a deep sinking feeling, he answered.
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Thank god for celebrity, Grace thought as she entered the bar in the Millennium. If she hadn't been one of Hollywood's brightest stars she would've never secured a last minute room minus a reservation. Then where would she have been expected to sleep? The Hilton? She absolutely refused to hand her hard-earned money over to a rotten undeserving heiress.
It did not take long for her to find Archer who already sat at the bar sipping from a drink in one hand, cell phone held up to his ear with the other. She paused to leer at the man unabashedly as he conversed with his caller. Her eyes trailed up the large arm, flexed from holding the phone up, and she could see his bicep through the sleeve of his shirt. Lewd thoughts coursing through her dirty mind, raw animal attraction made her shiver. There was no doubt she wanted him and intended on having him, one way or another. His suggestion to have this summit was all the permission she needed.
Gabriel first, Grace! Gabriel first!
Heeding the words that had become her mantra since her introduction to the striking detective, she shook her head to cleanse her thoughts. Archer had important business to discuss, business relating to Gabriel, and she had to stay focused on his words rather than his muscular arms or broad chest or anything below the belt. He closed his phone ending the call then finished the remainder of his drink, clearing her for the grand reception she wanted to give. Anxious to hear what he had to say, she rushed toward him with a dignified and aggrandized saunter then seated herself in the chair beside him.
"Miss Gray!" he addressed, looking slightly startled. "Good to see you again."
She gave a sarcastic smile then replied, "I'll bet it is."
She ordered her usual vodka on the rocks, leaning over enough to grant her companion a sneak preview of what was beneath her low cut blouse. As she reached into her purse for cash Archer performed the suitable gentlemanly duty of paying for it. Thanking him, she sipped from the glass then began her questioning.
"So what's happening? Who is this Peter Petrelli character you asked me if Gabriel knew? Lately I've been hearing his name more often than I've heard my own, like he's some Manhattan VIP or something."
"You're not far off with that, Miss Gray. He's the brother of newly elected Congressman Nathan Petrelli. His mother Angela Petrelli reported him missing and put an all points bulletin out on him."
"Excuse my bluntness but what the hell does he have to do with Gabriel?"
This was a poker game of sorts and she wasn't about to unveil her good hand until she knew she was a winner. Grace decided before she arrived that she was going to withhold the information that Gabriel owned a list containing Nathan and Peter Petrelli's names. She would ask baiting questions then listen closely to get inside news on Gabriel's case.
"First off, Miss Gray, I must stipulate that you to keep it quiet that I'm releasing this information to you. We aren't supposed to tell anyone everything, not even family members, as a process to weed out the guilty."
"How come you're doing it for me, then? How do you know for certain I didn't kill my brother?"
"You were in L.A. filming a new movie. Both your assistant Anna and Connor Fleming collaborated that alibi for you. It checked out."
She smiled at the astute game he was playing in return.
"Very crafty of you," she complimented.
"It's my job. It's a standard routine check."
"Why do you think you can trust me?"
"Gut instinct."
"Then by all means, proceed."
Nodding gratitude to the bar tender for the unrequested refill he swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey before continuing.
"As I mentioned during our earlier phone conversation, we believe that your brother is linked to another homicide investigation. Today we got an anonymous tip that an artist by the name of Isaac Mendez was murdered."
"I've heard something about that today."
Not to mention the name was on a list in my brother's apartment!
"When forensics dusted the place for prints they lifted a set that didn't belong to Mendez. This same person was linked to a similar slaying of a Union Wells High School cheerleader by the name of Jackie Wilcox out in Odessa, Texas. Someone cut off the top of her head and removed her brain. The exact same thing happened to Mendez."
"Gabriel didn't have the top of his head removed. His body was intact."
"True, but since this person is the suspect in two uniquely related killings already…"
"It's plausible that he may be responsible for Gabriel's death."
They were suddenly distracted by a pretty teenager entering the lounge with an older man who sat at a table on the floor. A waiter approached them with menus almost immediately as they were the only other additional customers there. Grace haughtily thought that the girl was alluring enough to be a movie star herself then wondered if the man with her really was her father.
Probably her lover, the disgusting thing!
The teen made eye contact with her and Grace knew from her expression that she identified her. As the girl nudged her companion and spoke in an excited whisper, the star turned her back to the couple again.
"That's what we believe, Miss Gray," Archer sustained. "There were two sets of prints found on two separate paintbrushes in the loft. One set belonged to our suspect, the other to your brother."
Grace's gorgeous face contorted with consternation.
"Gabriel was friends with an artist? Huh."
"You find that unusual?"
"My brother habitually kept to himself, detective. To my knowledge, his only company had been our mother and the employees at the family watch shop that he ran. He had no friends."
"He obviously had one in Mendez. Even though we've determined that he was the one who killed your mother, we do not believe that he is liable for Mendez's death. Your mother died from a stab wound and, to our knowledge, your brother was not in Odessa at the time of the cheerleader's death. Based on our own evidence and evidence from the Wilcox investigation, our other suspect is linked to both Mendez and Odessa. We believe this other individual killed your brother in a rage, perhaps a crime of passion."
Grace sputtered on her drink, nearly choking.
"A crime of passion? So your suspect is a woman?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Are you telling me that my brother was involved in a homosexual love triangle?"
"It seems likely."
"Gabriel wasn't gay. I would've known if he was gay."
"Then do you have a female lead we can check out? A girlfriend? Lover? Maybe an unrequited love interest who may have been involved with Mendez?"
"No, I told you. He kept to himself. There were no girlfriends and there were certainly no boyfriends. Gabe was almost a virgin."
Almost, she remembered, except for the night she walked into his room and unwittingly discovered activities of which she had no business interfering with. She cringed at the implications of what other corrosive affairs Gabriel could've secretly been involved with. She didn't believe he would be into other men but she had to confess that her brother's sexuality tended to lean on the ambiguous side. There was no telling what desperate acts loneliness could drive one to.
"I hate to spring this on you," Archer interrupted her thoughts, "but you may be apt to change your mind with these findings."
"Another man?"
"I'm afraid so, Miss Gray."
Grace laughed and by natural default it was a throaty, sensual one.
"Gabriel did not have a sordid tryst with an artist and a murderer, detective!" she stoutly averred. "Come on! Be truthful."
"I'm stating fact and professional speculation based on those facts. It's your choice to ultimately believe what I tell you or not."
"Well, excuse me if I don't believe just this one particular thing. But we've digressed from my original question. I'm confused a little. You've mentioned Peter Petrelli to me twice already. What does Petrelli have to do with my Gabriel?"
She already knew the answer without inquiring but she continued playing her game like a lion stalking prey. Both Peter and Nathan Petrelli along with Isaac Mendez the murdered artist were incriminated by the list found in Gabe's panic room. It was obvious who her opponent's missing jigsaw piece was before he confirmed it.
"He's our suspect, Miss Gray."
Grace remembered vividly every minute detail about the picture of Peter Petrelli on the missing poster back at the precinct. The large doe-like eyes, the high cheek bones, the full heart-shaped lips, the boyish face. It was easy to see how an abject Gabriel would fall for such a beauty. But Petrelli had a baby face, not the face of a killer.
"He killed my brother? With a sword? He doesn't even look like he could lift a sword. No offense but I don't see how a puny thing like Peter Petrelli could manage…"
"It takes all kinds and New York has them all. We're still sketchy on the details so we don't know if Gabriel was sleeping with Petrelli or with Mendez…or with both. We think that it's why Petrelli is on the run. His mother reported him missing this morning."
"This is going to take time to soak in. What exactly happened in Odessa?"
"Petrelli was found at the crime scene covered in blood so he was apprehended by the FBI for questioning. During his interrogation tests were done on the blood but it was his own. Not a drop belonged to Jackie Wilcox so he was released. A girl, another cheerleader, was a witness to the entire incident. She said that another man attacked her and Wilcox when Petrelli rushed in to protect them. It was too late for the victim but the witness said Petrelli distracted the real killer while she ran away. The girl turned out to be Petrelli's own niece, even though neither of them knew it at the time." He paused to finish off his drink then rose from his stool. "Could you excuse me? I need to use the men's room."
"Of course."
She watched him leave with obsequious interest, thinking he wasn't at all uneasy on the eyes. Her thoughts transitioned smoothly from Archer's rear end to the fine features of her brother's alleged lover Peter Petrelli. If Gabriel was gay then at least he had impeccable taste. She hoped that he was equally discriminating with Mendez. An overwhelming desire to get her hands on a picture of the painter structured an abundance of possibilities, each depicting a tormented, paint splattered scruffy ruffian lithe in stature and rugged yet pretty of face. His harsh attractiveness would contrast nicely with the fragile features of the other man.
Then she placed her invented Mendez in a bedroom scenario with Petrelli where a wealth of assorted debaucheries which may have actually transpired took place in her fantasy. The couple sat on an unmade bed, kissing with feral passion, their hands roaming each others' taut bodies in hungry exploration. Because she did not wish to imagine her brother in a sexual manner, Gabriel played voyeur to the pair while sitting in a dark corner, joining them only to replenish their glasses with more red wine to urge them further with their surfeit of carnal desires. In a spur of creativity, the artist positioned his lover on his back. Dipping his index finger into his glass of Merlot, he then proceeded to implement the wine as paint, staining ruddy geometric patterns across the other man's chest before licking it off with a greedy tracing of his tongue. Petrelli arched his back, twisted and moaned with unbridled yearning, clutching at the painter's unruly dark hair while his wine-drenched nipple was nursed from.
Gabriel inched to the edge of his chair, deeply engrossed on the pretty boys writhing on the bed before him. Outside a storm raged with dramatic lightning flashes to set the mood as one of them brought out the baby oil. The couple divested each other of the remainder of their clothing and the oil was applied to heated groins. Aggressively grinding against each other, the friction proved too much for Petrelli who came between them with a whimper. Tenderly kissing his spent lover, Mendez thrust and smoothly entered him, thrusting with mounting lust that expired with a deep shove and a growl that rivalled the thunder.
"Excuse me," a mellifluous voice penetrated her fantasy. "Miss Moriarty?"
The internecine three-way disintegrated from her mind. Usage of her stage name forewarned her that it was a fan who dared interrupt her thoughts. Snapping back to her senses, she found the stunning face of the blonde girl who'd abandoned her table to make an impeded approach while she was alone. Rankled that the teen desecrated her pervy daydream, she invoked her acting ability and offered her most affable smile when she only wanted to electrocute the teen.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," the girl persevered timidly, a smile as radiant as her golden hair. "I'm a huge fan. I've seen everything you've been in. I was wondering, if it isn't too much trouble, if I could please have your autograph?"
Grace's false smile widened. It was a necessary evil for A-listers to shrewdly market their personalities with benignant interactions with the common people as it kept box office returns high. Looking over the girl's shoulder, she noticed that the man presumed to be her father was outside in the lobby engaged in a cell phone conversation. Not wanting to prolong this encounter much further and intending to rid herself of the girl before Archer returned, she agreed with an inviting, "Of course, sweetheart."
She took the pen and napkin that the girl provided but waited with internal impatience while the girl slipped into a eupeptic ramble.
"I can't believe my luck," the teenager babbled, her voice a breathy sigh in her excitement. "I've been having such a bad day then I came in here and saw you. My heart stopped beating. This means so much to me right now. You have no idea, Miss Moriarty."
"Grace. Please. Call me Grace. Who am I making this out to?"
"I'm sorry! I'd forget my head right now if it wasn't attached!"
"That's perfectly alright, hun."
"My name's Claire. Claire Bennet."
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Author's Note: Yay! Somehow I pulled off an amazing feat and I actually managed to edit this chapter despite Real Life obstacles! I will continue to try my damnedest to get the continuing chapter to you next Monday but I cannot guarantee it. Fortunately I am a woman of many surprises so keep your fingers crossed. Hope you've enjoyed this installment and that you will join me for the next one.
With Love,
Lupinus