Immortal Eyes (PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mystery Book 2)

by Lotta Smith

  “Okay.” Henderson nodded.

  “Add drooling and fire-breathing to the no-no list,” Archangel said, putting on rubber gloves.

  “I’m not that crooked.”

  “Oh yeah?” Giving a little shrug to my reply, Archangel asked Henderson, “What do we know about the victim?”

  “The name’s Julia Stewart. She’s thirty-one years old, currently a housewife married to Jonathan Stewart, an accountant. The ME puts the time of death around ten this morning.”

  Then turning to me, he added, “She was the ME we met at the morgue previously, and she was seven months pregnant.”

  I lost the ability to speak and gasped.

  “Are you still sure you want to see her body?”

  “Yes.” I made a clear reply before giving it any more thoughts. Henderson’s frown deepened, but he nodded.

  He led us to the room downstairs where the body was discovered.

  It was a dining room with a table that sat four. In the center of the table was a vase with fresh tulips in assorted colors. The room was mostly decorated in baby pink and ivory, sort of like a country-style dollhouse. It would have felt nice, relaxing even, if you didn’t see the blood spattered all over the place.

  On the table, was a barely-eaten breakfast for one; a piece of rye bread, ham and eggs, and a green salad with sliced tomato sat on a white plate. Everything had completely dried up. The whole place smelled like caked blood, vomit, and God-knows-what-else. Besides that, there was not only one, but two corpses dumped like rag dolls in the corner of the room. Plus…

  “No…” I gasped, not believing what I saw, or rather, not wanting to believe what I saw.

  Bloodbath was an understatement.

  “Dr. Julia Stewart was a pathologist who worked as a medical examiner,” the ME in a white lab coat informed us.

  Archangel acknowledged by nodding and muttering, “I know. We met just a couple of days ago.”

  “Just like the previous cases, the killer poked out the eyeballs from the victim,” Henderson said and corrected himself, “I mean, the victims.”

  “Looks like the killer got more violent this time,” Archangel commented.

  I was at a total loss of words.

  As a personal assistant to a detective, I have seen my fair share of horrific deaths and dead bodies, but believe me, this was the worst case I’d ever witnessed.

  I couldn’t believe Dr. Stewart, with whom I’d quickly bonded just a few days ago, had fallen victim to this atrocious violence. She was one of the people trying to ID and catch this eyeball-snatching killer. She was on our side.

  The severity of damage to her body was so horrible. Just like previous cases, all that remaining in the empty eye sockets was caked blood and nothing more. In addition, the face was slashed beyond recognition. Her lower abdomen was ripped open. Blood was everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, on the furniture, even on the white ceilings. Who could have thought so much blood was stored in a human body? It was an astounding sight. Various innards were jumbled on the floor like scattered toys.

  As if to maximize the shock, a very little baby’s body was abandoned on the floor. It was a girl. Obviously, she was supposed to spend some more quality time in mommy’s uterus. The umbilical cord was dangling from her and still attached to Dr. Stewart’s cadaver. On top of all that, both of the baby’s eyes were ripped out, as if taking the mother’s was not enough.

  “You may want to inspect and analyze Dr. Stewart’s hands and arms very carefully,” Archangel said to the ME. “The killer took her wedding band. The damage to her upper limbs show she tried her best to protect her child.”

  Her hands and arms were bloody with numerous cuts.

  “Will do,” she agreed. “She was a fighter. I’m proud of her.” His voice was slightly trembling.

  Chapter 9

  After Archangel finished observing the corpses and the scene and spoke with Henderson and the forensic techs, we came out of the house. The sun had disappeared underneath the horizon, but with street lamps and lights from media vehicles, it wasn’t dark.

  Reporters threw questions at Archangel, but he ignored all of them and bustled to the Camaro.

  The British tabloid reporters, still mean and pretty much pissed off, were also there, carrying another camera. They threw questions at me about my personal life and my feelings toward my ex-hubby now serving a total of one hundred and five years in a maximum security prison in the UK. When they asked me about my relationship with “this rude giant bloke in women’s clothes,” I gave them a scathing look. Archangel simply gave them the finger.

  “Give me the key; I’ll drive,” Archangel declared.

  “Why? Is anything wrong?” I asked. He usually let me drive the Machomobile without complaining.

  “You’re upset,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “No, I’m not,” I retorted, a little too defiantly.

  “Oh yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, casting an inquisitive look at my right hand.

  The keys dangling from the key fob were rattling and clattering. I was visibly shaking.

  With a slight nod, he took the keys from my outstretched hand.

  While I sat in the passenger’s seat, I thought about Dr. Stewart. I remembered how sheepishly she spoke when she confided in me about feeling out of place at the morgue. I recalled how excitedly she rubbed her belly when she told me the great news, and how happy and radiant she looked.

  It occurred to me that I didn’t cry. Whether I was proud of myself or not, I didn’t know.

  “Are you cold?” Archangel questioned, driving the scarcely lit road at a steady pace. “You’re still shaking.”

  “Am I?” My voice quivered.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m cold, I guess.” Then I added, “And I’m shocked, disgusted, and scared, but I suppose I’m just overreacting. I thought I’d gotten past being easily shocked by crime scenes because I’ve seen so many. Now I’m quite embarrassed, shaking like this. Someday I hope I can be cool at any murder scenes. You know, just like a seasoned professional.”

  “You’re not the type to be ‘cool’ with murder scenes,” Archangel said matter-of-factly.

  “Because I’m unskilled, untrained, unofficial, unprofessional—long story cut short, an amateur?” Bitchtricia Warshawsky’s face was completely dry, I added in my head, not knowing why I was competing with the former-fed-turned-congresswoman.

  Is it because Archangel mentored her? Or because she was engaged to him? I was confused and clueless.

  “Yes and no. But your reaction wasn’t all that bad, considering you didn’t puke or cry like a drunken idiot, shedding bodily fluids all over the place. Or collapsing on the spot, potentially ruining forensic evidence. It just indicates you’re normal, at least marginally,” he said. “As far as I know, I’ve never met anyone who’s completely cool at murder scenes, except for some murderers.”

  “But you can look at corpses without a twitch of a facial muscle,” I pointed out. “And Agent Henderson’s always well-composed. Even baby-faced officers who look as if they just came out of the police academy were better composed than me.”

  Archangel gave a low chuckle. “Detaching yourself from the crime and the victims and keeping the emotions inside is the first thing they teach at any law enforcement academy. So the officers were only following protocol. They may be pokerfaced, but inside, they’re freaking out as much as you are, maybe, more than you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. In addition, even though Henderson keeps the same scowl, he cries at night.”

  “You are making that up, right?”

  “Not really. I mean, I haven’t yet checked, but you never know, it might turn out I’m right.” He shrugged. “Patricia, when she joined the FBI, before she became a congresswoman, she had to be literally resuscitated by paramedics at the first crime scene she attended. She puked as she passed out, got choked, and almost died. It was not a pretty sight. Besides that
, did I mention you’re the first person I’ve met who, with no military or police procedural training, has managed to eat dinner just after discovering their first corpse?”

  “No, that’s a total news flash. I am?” I asked, recalling the first time I encountered Archangel. It was before becoming his personal assistant and after touring the globe as a fire-breather with Iron Dragon. Back then, I was a live-in maid at a manse on a private island in the Caribbean. My last employer was a nice, if a little bit temperamental, elderly lady. The island offered great privacy, and I was used to strolling on the white sand and skinny dipping in the sea in the evening. When a large number of outsiders came to the island, so did trouble. Plenty of trouble, including murders.

  “Yes, you’re the first person who had no problem eating roast beef after witnessing a murdered corpse. That made it pretty difficult to ditch the theory you might be the killer.”

  That fiasco on the island was promptly solved by Archangel, just like usual. In addition, he saved my behind by loaning his pink summer jacket to me—my clothes were stolen while I was skinny dipping—and nailing the killer who was planning to murder me as well. He didn’t seem all that eager with the part of saving me, though, but he liked my pancakes and Japanese-style sweet omelet with a hint of soy sauce.

  “Thank you,” I said. I meant for everything.

  “For what?”

  “For your assurance that I’m normal. I was beginning to hate myself for being a terrible person.”

  “You hate yourself for getting frightened by horrible deaths? Then you must be coming up with lots of reasons to loathe yourself every day.”

  “No, I mean, I hated myself because I was being a jealous bitch,” I confessed. “When I met Dr. Stewart back in the morgue, she was so happy, radiant, and… and…so mother-to-be. I said congratulations for her coming motherhood, and I meant it. I was happy for her, and happy for her baby, too. But at the same time, a jealous, vicious, and obnoxious bitch was crawling in the bottom of my heart, wondering why I wasn’t the one to be a happy mother-to-be.” I took a deep breath to help prevent my voice from cracking. “Maybe those mean Brits were right; I’m a poisonous bitch deep inside.”

  Archangel drove without saying a word.

  “First of all, I fancied the idea of shooting the tabloid guys from the UK with an automatic weapon just to quiet them. And as much as I was happy for her, I was envious of Dr. Stewart. I knew she had chosen to marry someone who doesn’t lie, jilt, or conduct a Ponzi scheme, while I chose to marry someone who did anything to get what he wanted without hesitation or remorse. Plus, my ex was capable of withholding vital information, such as he’d undergone vasectomy to keep his wives from getting pregnant. That bastard. I know the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence and it was my decision and stupidity for not seeing his dark, lying, criminal, pathological side. I’m fully aware of that. But I couldn’t… just couldn’t stop imagining what ifs—like if I had a child with Warren and so on. I know it’s ridiculous and useless to daydream such a thing. It was only after the divorce settlement that he finally came clean that he loathed the concept of having children and building a family. He had the audacity to tell me he regarded children as nothing but rivals to compete for his wife’s attention.”

  I felt warmth on my shoulder.

  “Don’t get all tensed up,” Archangel whispered, patting my shoulder. “The last thing you want right now is a stroke.” His face was unreadable.

  “Sorry. I’m sure I’m boring you to tears.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Your story wasn’t boring, and as a matter of fact, shooting the shit out of those media cretins was somewhat tempting, except that’s illegal. In addition, you’ve finally confirmed my speculation was right.”

  “What speculation?”

  “You’re an idiot who still has feelings for that pathological liar after everything.” His words were harsh, but his tone was soft. “But you’re normal for the most part.”

  “I might be an idiot, but I’m normal. Lovely, just lovely.” As I chuckled, I realized my cheeks were wet with tears. Oh yeah, I was an idiot. What kind of person still kept their ancient flip phone from their past marriage? How pathetic was I to cling to the same old cell phone number, awaiting the ex in prison to call? I was one step away from wailing and sobbing.

  “Besides that, just being a teensy bit envious of someone is a whole lot different from wishing that special someone to death.” Archangel tossed a tiny box of tissues on my lap. “It was nothing more than a passing emotion. Your envy didn’t kill her or her baby, regardless of your point of view toward the universe, karma, kabala, feng-shui, or whatever psychobabble you’re into, understand?”

  “Mr. Archangel, sometimes you are really sweet,” I said, before blowing my nose in an unladylike manner.

  “I’m sweet, gentle, sensible, and considerate 24/7. Didn’t you know that? Another red flag for your silliness. What we can do now is help catch the killer ASAP. It doesn’t bring the victims back to life, but at least securing the killer behind the bars can relieve the pain and sufferings of the victims’ families and loved ones, if only a little. On top of all that, by capturing the killer, we can stop anyone else from dying. So, personally, I believe it’s more constructive to think about who done it than crying over imaginary spilt milk.”

  “I agree with you, especially the being more constructive part,” I said between sobs.

  “Hey, look on the bright side. Unlike your ex-hubby who’s got three-hundred-plus-years prison time left to serve, you’re a free person. This fact alone tells that you’re a lot better than him. If there’s a loser, it’s him, not you. Maybe you can find a new romance, even a new hubby or two.”

  “New romance? I don’t think so. New relationships, much less a new husband, are not part of the things I’m anticipating for my life.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Is it because of the British paparazzi?”

  A five o’clock shadow had started to appear on his jaw line, but somehow it looked rather nice, even though he was wearing heavy makeup and women’s clothes. So he was eccentric, but it wasn’t bad. It was nice eccentricity, just like a glam rocker.

  “No, they’re annoying, but they have nothing to do with my life in general. I know they’ll call me Kelly the Bitch forever, but I can’t do anything about that.”

  I tried to smile, but I wasn’t sure it worked very well.

  I continued. “I’ve promised myself to change and spend my life doing something meaningful. And living my life as a man-hopper isn’t a part of my plan, you know. I don’t want to live like my mother.”

  “Kelly, what’s wrong with you? Your mom’s great. Throwing parties to save dying museums from closing is meaningful, if I may say.” Archangel shook his head as if I had mentioned something outrageously foolish. He had once met Mom years before we became acquainted, and he remained a big fan of hers.

  “I know. Mom’s great as a huge supporter of art and as a mother. Her taste in men has been mostly good, except she has this tendency to pick up husbands with short attention spans, such as my biological father. Not to mention she has this short attention span issue herself as well. But at least none of her former husbands were convicted of anything criminal. That’s fabulous. It’s not like I don’t appreciate her lifestyle, but following her path is not in my best interest.”

  If you define smartness as an ability to stay rich, my Mom, Lady Yoko, the Countess of a village in Scotland—she officially became a lady by her ninth marriage—is a pure genius. Basically, she’s a poster-woman for a rich-husband magnet and she has managed to live comfortably without working at all.

  I added. “I tried to follow her path once, and look where that got me—a marriage to a cheater-slash-swindler, the following fiasco, and a social suicide. So unlike her, who usually has multiple prospects for husbands-to-be lined up before the end of each nuptial, I ended up as a socialite dropout. A jinx. I guess that’s significant evidence to rate my taste in men as po
or, unlike Mom’s super-duper-excellent taste.”

  Archangel burst out laughing.

  “Excuse me, but that’s not the part where you’re supposed to laugh! I was…I was totally devastated, you know, feeling like a failure.”

  “You’re not a failure. On the contrary, I think you’re being kind of intelligent for the first time. At least you’re capable of making an unbiased self-assessment.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. I can understand your criticism of me not being over my previous life with Warren. I know he’s a dirtbag. But my feelings toward him are still sort of mixed and confused. As bitter as I am, I feel sorry for him. Maybe I’m crazy.”

  “Of course you’re crazy. One moment you’re happy for being normal, and the next, you’re fessing up about your oddity. But in overall, you’re somewhat sane. After all, love is a form of lunacy.”

  “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?” I managed to say.

  Without saying a word, Archangel patted my head like a big brother—or a big sister, considering that he was wearing a skirt. For a while, we drove in a companionable silence.

  “Mr. Archangel? What brought you into the field of crime solving?”

  “It’s Henderson’s fault. When there was a murder at the college I was enrolled, he was the one who handled the case.”

  A murder case at the college? That sounds like a YA mystery.”

  “Yeah. The perpetrator was obvious, but he was sooo slow. I could have just walked off, but I was a good citizen and, unfortunately, had moral standards. Though he wasn’t happy about accepting my help, perhaps because I was fifteen back then. Anyway, that was my first criminal investigation.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know they let teenagers involved in murder cases. By the way, fifteen is a young age to be in college, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe, but I wasn’t the youngest in the class. So, they did drag me into a murder case. Later, when I was a PhD student in New York, Henderson reappeared from out of nowhere, and guess what? He dared to make me help solve another murder, which actually rooted in an art-theft case. It was a well-organized crime that was intended to stay unnoticed for years, but I spotted a forgery, discovered who done it, and cooperated with the feds. It was a rather boring case, but it turned out the professor who stole the real Henri Matisse oil painting by replacing it with a counterfeit was my mentor.”