Immortal Eyes (PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mystery Book 2)

by Lotta Smith

  Before KimK had even started cameo roles on Paris Hilton’s Simple Life across the Pond, our K.K. was already rocking the world—at least, she shocked the whole of Great Britain—with her rapid-fire f-bombs and signature dragon breath.

  Just recently, Kelly has re-emerged from a long hiatus, and finally, she’s back in action! This time, she is armed with hand sanitizer and is extremely dangerous. So beware. Don’t even think about crossing her path. As we already know, she can be pretty fierce.

  For the past several weeks, Washington D.C. metro and its neighboring areas were terrified by the serial killer, Eyeball Snatcher, who had allegedly murdered at least three women and a fetus by poking the eyeballs out of the victims while they were still alive. It is assumed that there were more casualties.

  The FBI had initially concluded Frederick Reynolds—an American musician who was previously found dead in his own studio with a suicide note and the murder weapon—to be the culprit. But on Wednesday night, the FBI suddenly released a statement that Alan Hamilton, a 37-year-old antique shop owner of Lake Ridge, Virginia, was arrested for the eyeball-snatching murders, killing Reynolds, and kidnapping two women, including our Kelly.

  In the statement, Hamilton had allegedly murdered three women; including a dancer, a travel & lifestyle writer, a pregnant local coroner, and her fetus. He then went on poisoning Yves to death and slipped a prearranged suicide note to frame the musician for all his crimes, attempting to manipulate the investigation process. He had almost succeeded, except for one mistake: capturing our Dragon Lady to poke her eyeballs out. A big mistake.

  Meanwhile, being a captive in Hamilton’s basement, Kelly breathed fire a la Godzilla manner to avoid losing her eyeballs and getting killed. She used hand sanitizer liquid and candles to do the trick, and torched the notorious Eyeball Snatcher like a petroleum-soaked toilet paper.

  Hamilton, who was wearing fleece at the time of Kelly’s Godzilla moment, had sustained second-to-third-degree burns over 40 percent of his body surface area. He is currently hospitalized in ICU at an undisclosed hospital. In plain English, he is placed under maximum security, and we honestly hope so, for the sake of the Americans.

  Five pairs of eyeballs were recovered from Hamilton’s place. Forensic tests confirmed that four pairs of them were taken from the murdered women and the fetus, and another came from Hamilton’s own estranged mother who died in London. Hamilton is also under investigation for the “accidental” death of his adoptive parents in Florida fifteen years ago and several missing children cases and “accidents” that occurred in Virginia twenty years ago.

  Karen Andrews, a local student and another abductee was found safe and unharmed at Hamilton’s place. She was admitted to Georgetown University Hospital for a checkup, but is expected to be released soon with a full health clearance.

  Yesterday, Michael Archangel—a Virginia private investigator and Kelly’s employer, who had earlier kicked and caused a huge damage to our camera—was photographed hobbling out of his McLean home on crutches sporting a cast on his leg.

  Detailed information regarding his injury has not been yet disclosed, but according to Emily Farrel, an FBI spokesperson, the PI sustained an injury while helping the FBI raid the place as a consultant. Farrel denied the alleged cancellation of their consulting contract with Archangel as “false and ungrounded.”

  Neither Kelly nor Archangel returned our emails for more details regarding the case, incident, and the current situation.

  Here is life lesson de jour: 1. What goes around comes around, 2. Never, ever make Kelly angry, and 3. Wearing fleece while cooking may be hazardous for your health.

  *

  It was a lovely afternoon. The weather was sunny without even a hint of a cloud. The temperature was just right, and in the garden, azaleas were blooming.

  One week had passed and so had the post ‘burning Eyeball Snatcher to near death’ frenzy. Except for the same old ugly photo of yours truly—imported from England—that kept popping up on the corner of every internet page, tabloid, twelve o’clock news, and late night talk show to be handled as the current butt of jokes, my life had pretty much returned to normal, and I was mostly happy about it.

  Still, there were times when I had to play it hard, especially when a certain gutless, cojoneless, shameless FBI Advisory Special Agent appeared at my workplace—and temporary residence—doorstep without notice.

  “How may I help you?” I asked Richard Henderson in an icy tone as he stood in the foyer, looking uncomfortable.

  “Hello, Ms. K. Well, I thought I’d just drop by, meet Archangel, and…” He trailed off, his tone half-confused, half-scared.

  “And?” I pressed without the slightest hint of a smile. I wasn’t going to let him in so easily.

  “And meet you, of course!” He chuckled awkwardly, but I gave him a blank stare.

  “Do you have an appointment? If you don’t have an appointment, I have to check with his schedule,” I continued in the same icy tone until Archangel interjected.

  “Hey, cut him some slack, Kelly. He’s worked hard to revoke the cancellation of our contract with the feds so from the outside it appears like the cancellation never happened in the first place. That requires a helluva lot of paperwork. Let him in.”

  I sighed.

  “Kelly, you are very subtle,” Archangel commented when I led Henderson into the office.

  “It’s a Japanese thing. I’m half Japanese, and subtlety happens to be my specialty. Anyway, I was just trying to make a point,” I replied.

  “I believe I’ve got your point, and I’m glad you’re doing great, Ms. K,” Henderson muttered.

  “Of course, I’m good. No thanks to you,” I informed him in a singsong tone.

  “Don’t forget he’s worked hard to pay you a generous cash bonus,” Archangel mentioned.

  “In exchange for my signed nondisclosure agreement, buying my silence. I didn’t like their attitude, and you know what? I could have made much more myself if I had accepted John Oliver’s invitation to appear on his show.” I fumed, flipping my hands for emphasis.

  As soon as the FBI got a hold of Alan Hamilton, the real Eyeball Snatcher, they boldly offered Archangel a deal to pretend that previously sidelining him was all for show. They wanted to mislead the general public into believing the FBI had deliberately released the statement that the investigation of the Eyeball Snatching Murders was over, so that the real culprit would come out from hiding and commit a critical mistake. In feds’ speaking, it was just another cutthroat strategy. But in my opinion, that was just another pathetic excuse to save their as… I mean, face.

  “I might have gotten a book deal, probably a reality TV show, and scored millions. Mr. Archangel, you could have been the costar of Keeping up with Kelly Kinki.”

  Of course, I was half-joking. That said, I was half-serious. I was especially upset about Henderson since didn’t back up Archangel when he needed it most. In addition, I felt that he was partly responsible for my employer’s injury.

  Frowning and lips tightly shut, Henderson rolled his eyes. Presumably, he was trying his best not to blurt out whatever was on his mind. I understood the reason his wife left him for a deli cook.

  Archangel shrugged. “Kelly, you declined John’s offer to join his TV show, saying I had a doctor’s appointment on that day and you couldn’t make it to New York City. That was so sweet of you. Made me almost weep with gratitude.”

  Ignoring him, I added, “On top of all that, my car is still missing in action, and the feds say they can’t pay for that damage on the account that the Eyeball Snatcher didn’t steal the car. That’s outrageous. The car was stolen while I was being snatched for Pete’s sake.”

  Even though the Lake Ridge neighborhood where Rhapsody in Pink was located was relatively safe, my purple pimp car had just disappeared, probably now sold to some rich pimp, drug dealer, or gangsta in some third world country.

  “That was a freebie, and I heard you saying you didn’t want t
o get caught dead in that hideous purple Caddy,” Archangel chimed in.

  “Still, that pimp car definitely had sentimental value, not to mention it came in handy when I’m in heavy traffic or hitting the mall on Black Friday.” I pouted. “People didn’t want to mess with me in that car; they thought the driver might be a gangsta or something. Also, it stood out like a sore thumb, and I could always locate my car without breaking a sweat in the parking lot.”

  But the truth was, I didn’t miss that gangsta car so badly. Actually, a part of me appreciated the car thief. Whoever had stolen my car had sort of helped me out with getting rid of the hideous vehicle. In addition, it turned out that my car insurance policy came with a brilliant auto-theft coverage. I was still having a hard time imagining someone, anyone with an iota of sanity, had bothered to steal that purple Caddy. Anyway, I was planning to buy a new car or lease something fabulous as soon as the car insurance policy paid off.

  Archangel waved at Henderson. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Henderson acknowledged. “You look different.”

  “Oh yeah? Maybe it’s the boot. Gives me extra mojo.”

  Sitting at the desk, Archangel pointed at his left leg propped up on an ottoman with fluffy pillows. A bulky black boot with lots of Velcros was sticking out of his basketball shorts. Colorful balloons saying things like ‘Get Well Soon!’ and ‘I Told Ya to Watch Your Step!’ were strapped to one of the armrests of his chair. With a knowing grin, Karen brought those balloons yesterday.

  “Look at the balloons. Nice, huh?” Touching the one that said ‘My Favorite PI,’ Archangel beamed. “They’re custom designed, courtesy of Karen.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Henderson replied.

  Recently, Archangel had undergone a makeover, which was actually a makeunder. Today, he was wearing loose-fitting knit basketball shorts from Under Armour, a Washington Wizards sweatshirt, and a snakeskin high top sneaker on his good leg. His hair had been cut short in a conservatively messy ‘do and barely covered the nape of his neck. When he ditched the high heels due to his leg injury, he ditched the heavy makeup as well.

  “Kelly, can you fix a cup of matcha green tea for Ritchie? I’ll have coffee.”

  “I’m on it.” I couldn’t help chuckling. Henderson positively loathed matcha green tea.

  When I returned with three cups of coffee—I’m not that evil as to actually bring matcha to Henderson—and cookies lined up on a dish, Archangel had relocated himself to the lounge chair by the coffee table. As I saw Henderson carrying the ottoman for him, my feelings toward the FBI Advisory Special Agent softened a little.

  “How’s your leg?” Henderson asked, carefully balancing the crutches on the side of the sofa.

  “Not too bad. The good news is I don’t need surgery. And the bad news is I have to keep it elevated all the time to hold off swelling. When swelling kicks in, it looks like some kind of rotten tomato,” Archangel replied. “But at least, now I can predict when it rains. That’s awesome, right?”

  Placing his booted leg on the ottoman, he grinned ear to ear. “Hey, wanna see the bruises? It’s kinda cool. Totally like Fifty Shades of Purple meets Jackson Pollock. My leg could star in a C-class zombie movie without makeup.”

  Henderson cringed. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”

  As for the condition of Archangel’s leg, both of our assumptions turned out to be accurate. He had sprained and broken his left ankle. With a fractured fibula and overstretched ligaments, the injury was nothing minor. Then again, according to Dr. Donahue, the hotshot orthopedic surgeon my ex-faux-dad had kindly arranged for Archangel, he was lucky the soft tissue damage was limited and no surgery was required. I didn’t know which was more surprising—the damage to an ankle the size of a grapefruit was described as limited, or that we had a bone with such a weird name as fibula.

  While recuperating from his injury, Archangel managed to solve three cases in the past two days, which was amazing especially because he did it from the bed.

  “Sorry about your injury,” Henderson said.

  “Don’t be. It’s just a temporary thing,” Archangel patted the top of the boot. “The biggest damage is I feel like a total idiot. In retrospect, I should have spared the Taser and zapped him instead of smashing the device prematurely. My mistake. Maybe I could have used the gun when that SOB jumped from the top of the stairs, but I wasn’t all that confident I could shoot without killing him. Maybe he might have been better off having a gunshot wound, rather than third-degree burns.”

  “So I breathed fire, but he was wearing fleece,” I pointed out. “It’s the fleece that did more damages.”

  “Of course, he is 100 percent to blame. But the result was impressive. Oh, cookies, yum,” Henderson exclaimed, grabbing a few.

  “Are they?” I tilted my head, keeping my best straight face. “They were a gift from Patricia Warshawski, and I was wondering if it’s safe to eat those cookies.”

  Henderson choked and drained his coffee. “Thank you for the coffee instead of matcha green tea; I appreciate it,” he managed to say, still coughing.

  “You’re welcome. And don’t worry, Karen delivered the cookies.” I snorted out laughing. “Patricia sent us the Four Seasons gift certificate. So I went there and purchased a chocolate cake, but we ate it already.”

  I intended to send her a thank you note, but whenever I tried to work on it, I always end up writing: “Thank you so much for the gift certificate. It was nice of you. Feel free to visit us whenever you like. We have a good selection of coffee, tea, soft drink, wine, and beer, but if you ask, I can mix a nice drink, such as a Molotov cocktail.” Seriously, I was having anger-management issues.

  “So…” Henderson cleared his throat.

  “So what?” Archangel prompted.

  “We appreciate your acceptance of our offer. It was very generous of you, I mean both of you.”

  “And? You have a question. It’s all in the air.”

  “Do I need a reason to pay a visit to my injured friend? Ouch. That really hurts.”

  Archangel and I gave Henderson blank stares at his mock defense.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, as you’ve predicted, all DNA samples discovered from the victims’ eye sockets have matched Kelly Deuchars’s, née Dowson’s DNA; biological mother of Alan Hamilton’s. Michael, you were right.”

  “I told you,” Archangel said matter-of-factly.

  “Actually, I was wondering how you came up with the theory that the killer was not just stealing the eyeballs out of the victims but he was poking the eyeballs out of victims in order to put other eyeballs into the victim’s empty eye sockets.”

  “Well, Henderson.” Archangel placed his coffee cup on the low table. “Basically, it was like a first grade math drill, one plus one equals two, and two minus one equals one—just like that. As much as the eyeless bodies were missing the snatched eyeballs, the plucked eyeballs were missing the bodies to be encased… The eyeless dead woman in London was the missing piece of the puzzle, which explained the reason for poking the eyeballs out of the victims while they were still alive. She was different from the victims in the U.S., in the part that she was already dead when her eyeballs got poked out. Albeit planting a dead person’s eyeballs into another person’s eyeless body never works to resuscitate the dead, sometimes a little slice of insanity does the job to make someone believe the impossible—such as the case with Alan Hamilton. Perhaps he was a big believer of the saying that goes ‘the eyes are window of the soul.” When I learned about the identity of the eyeless woman found in London, Karen was already abducted and Frederick Reynolds had committed ‘suicide.’ That made everything a little bit tricky.”

  Henderson rolled his eyes. “Speaking of Karen and her ‘suicide,’ I’ve never seen an eight-year-old who staged her own death using tennis balls and a scarf. And I hope it’s the last, seriously.”

  “Karen’s special, but she’s got eight-year-old traits as well,” I commented. “She was so
happy her mom canceled the snobby camp her soon-to-be ex-husband was about to send Karen. Instead, she’ll be hitting Disney World for the whole summer.”

  “I see.” Henderson wasn’t all that convinced that Karen had accidentally stumbled upon the killer, but he didn’t delve into that matter any deeper.

  Karen was also happy that her mom was going to tag around during the whole vacation, and that her mother had filed for divorce—with some of the best divorce attorneys on her side—as soon as Karen came back unscathed. Karen’s soon-to-be ex-faux-dad paid for the Disney vacation as a goodbye gift. So far, it was going to be a happily ever after for the girl-genius slash girl-psychic.

  “By the way, Michael, how did you reach Alan Hamilton?” Henderson asked.

  “Are you sure you want to know that?” Archangel arched an eyebrow.

  “Positive.”

  “Actually, I didn’t reach Hamilton on my own. Kelly led me to him.”

  “I’m not quite following.” Henderson’s frown deepened.

  “Me neither,” I said.

  “I’d asked the forensics to test blood samples taken from the victims’ eye sockets prior to getting sidelined. One of the forensics had kindly sent me the results, and it turned out that each sample contained identical female DNA that did not match the victims’. That was the moment my theory was confirmed. In the meantime, the Scotland Yard had finally identified the eyeless dead woman, and they attached an old photo of Kelly Dowson.”

  “They had different family names and everything. I can’t believe you managed to track him so fast,” Henderson said.

  “Well…” Archangel hesitated. “Actually, I didn’t track him down. Figuring out the killer’s purpose was one thing, but unearthing the killer’s ID was another. At that time, I didn’t even know his name, much less his whereabouts. All I knew was that the killer embedded late Kelly Dowson’s eyeballs into each victim’s empty eye sockets. Seeing the photo made me realize Kelly’s risk of being targeted for his next prey. So I tried to warn Kelly, but it was too late.”