Hera, Love & Revenge

Prologue

"Agent Rivera! … Hey, Rivera!"

He turned around, glaring at the figure in the doorway. The woman chuckled.

"Oh, someone had a bad night."

"Thirty hours awake in a bloody car with f*****g Wright for nothing," he grunted.

"Oh, that explains it." The woman walked over to pat his shoulder. "What can I get you? Coffee?"

"I'm on my second already," he sighed. "That and the cold shower helped… but thanks, Dolores. I just need to finish filing that damn report before noon or the chief's going to give me hell."

"I wouldn't sweat it," she scoffed. "Chief's been talking to journalists all morning, he won't remember your report until next week, love."

"What happened?" he asked with a sigh, stretching his neck. "Gunfight?"

"No, some poor chick committed suicide. Found dead in her hotel room. The case is pretty clear, but she was some B-list celebrity so we've got all the media covering it."

He frowned, making the woman chuckle.

"You've really been out of the loop, eh, hun? It's all over the radio and TV. Look."

She walked over to grab the abandoned remote on one of the desks and switched channels from a soap opera to the news channel. The headline was large, and the journalists' faces were a bit more stern than usual. The images showed the front of the Four Seasons Hotel, that fancy place between Park Avenue and Madison Avenue, with a crowd gathered and the dramatic lights of police cars. He frowned. There were dozens of people there and in the middle was indeed their boss, in his uniform, clearly holding an impromptu press conference.

"Look at him," scoffed Dolores. "They dragged him out of bed at 1:00 a.m. to handle the journalists. Poor Rodney..."

He scoffed too, grabbing his half-empty cup to chug down the rest of that coffee. If he remembered correctly, their Chief of Department was supposed to be off today... Bad luck some famous chick had decided otherwise.

Suddenly, the image on the screen changed to a picture with a face on it. A face he had seen before. He didn't even hear his cup fall on the desk, bounce, and crash down onto the floor. He stared at that face and the name that was sprawled across the bottom of the screen. He slowly stood, in shock.

"Hey! … You alright, Flaco?"

He didn't answer. No, he hadn't even heard the question. He felt light-headed, his thoughts spinning. No, not her. He hadn't even made the connection. He took the remote out of Dolores' hand and turned the sound up. The death had occurred right before midnight, the coroner had said. Found in her bathtub by her fiancé half an hour later. No witnesses. They showed the images of some young people, crying as the body bag was taken out of the hotel. A fan in tears was interviewed, still in a complete state of shock. So was he.

"... You alright?" Dolores asked gently. "... Were you a fan of hers or something?"

"... Or something," he muttered.

He suddenly came back to his senses and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. He was breathing loudly as if he had just run a race. His heart had, but it was a… dead end. He was feeling sick to his stomach. He had to be dreaming, right? He hadn't slept in hours, there was no way this nightmare was real.

"Poor girl," sighed Dolores. "What pushed her to do such a thing? Bless her soul, the poor darling. I'm never fond of these celebrities, but she was super young. Who knows what happens to them when they get so famous so young. Makes some go more than crazy..."

"This was… last night?" he muttered.

He had been parked just streets away all night, waiting for some narco to show up. All this time wasted, while she... He took a deep breath, trying to keep himself from passing out.

"Who's on the case?" he asked.

"There won't be much of a case." Dolores sighed. "It's a suicide, love. They'll scrape the carpet just to make her fans and the media happy, but there isn't anything to find."

"No."

Suddenly, he saw from across the window pane the tired face of his boss walking in. He ran, almost bumping into two colleagues, to get to him first.

"Boss! I want the case!"

Their Chief of Department blinked a couple of times, confused.

"Rivera? What case? What are you doing here, shouldn't you be catching a break–"

"The case at the Four Season Hotel. I want it," he insisted, out of breath.

His boss hesitated, confused.

"The Starr suicide? … Rivera, I don't know what's gotten into you, but there's no case. Forensics is on it and we already watched three hours' worth of tapes from the hotel. This is just a suicide."

"It's not," he said. "I'm sure it isn't, boss. Please. Give me that case."

The Chief of Department frowned and looked down at the coffee stain on his pants. He sighed and walked past him, heading for his office.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, Rivera. Shouldn't you have your hands full with the narcos' case?"

"The trail's gone freaking cold, Wright and I have gotten nowhere in two weeks. I want this case."

His superior frowned and sat behind his desk.

"Rick, what is it? I've never seen you like this. You're an excellent detective, you wouldn't take a lost cause like this... There's no one to save. So what is it?"

He couldn't tell him. He remained like stone and silent.

"... I want this case."

The chief sighed.

"... Her fiancé confirmed she was extremely depressed. Whatever your reason is... I can't give you a case that does not exist, Rivera. Her family doesn't even seem to care much either. The journalists are my main issue at the moment, and those bastards will bite at the smallest hint we give them that there's more to it. My answer is no."

"It wasn't a suicide," he muttered between his teeth.

"How the hell would you know that!"

Once again, he remained silent. The chief massaged his heavy eyelids, then looked behind his stubborn subordinate. Luckily, at 6:00 in the morning, nobody was listening. Only Dolores was standing a bit farther away, visibly concerned about her colleague. When their eyes met, she shrugged. He looked back to the man standing in front of his desk.

"You're so f*****g stubborn, Rivera... Let's wait for forensics. If there's a case... I'll consider it. Alright? Now get the hell out of my office before I really need to yell at someone."

He nodded. Not satisfied, but it didn't matter much what his boss said. He wouldn't leave things at that no matter what forensics said. He stepped out, giving Dolores a vague wave of his hand. He walked out to the coffee machine just so he could have something else to do. This New York City Police Precinct was always busy, no matter what time of the day. An old lady in front of him was shouting at the coffee machine for only giving her milk.

He stood next to it, the anger building. Her yelling wasn't helping. She kept shouting and shouting. He was the one who wanted to shout!

He suddenly punched the machine. Everyone in the station froze, turning their eyes to the frustrated cop. The coffee machine made a beep, and the coffee poured out.

"Thank you, young man."

He didn't answer and leaned his back against the wall. He slid down until his butt hit the ground. He felt like crying, screaming, and shouting. Nothing came. Instead, he took out his wallet, searching between all the crumpled receipts until he found it. A small, old photo. His throat got tight.

She was smiling in it. She always had that smile that went up to her eyes and revealed only her front teeth. A new tear came to his eye. He took a deep breath and took out his phone. He found a number he hadn't used in years. He called it and waited a few seconds. Her voice came on after the tone. He listened to it, over and over, without leaving a message. Her voice was much younger; this number was not in use anymore, but somehow, she had never deleted it. After some long minutes of listening to it, again and again, he wiped his tears away and looked up another number.

"Hi, Lisa speaking," answered an out-of-breath voice. "Who's this?"

"Liz, it's Rick."

A couple of seconds of silence followed.

"... Rick?"

"It's about June."

"Oh, you’ve got to be joking," she scoffed bitterly. “I don't want to hear it. Whatever she wants now, you can tell her to go f–"

"She's dead, Liz."

"... What?"

"June's dead."

He heard the woman gasp. Another silence followed, and he heard her chuckle nervously.

"... No f*****g way… P-Please, tell me you're joking."

"It happened last night. You'll see it in the news soon," he muttered. "I didn't want you to learn it from watching TV."

"Wha–What happened!” she cried. “How–!"

"I don't know… But I will."

He took a deep breath.

"I promise," he muttered, "I'll find out what the f**k happened."