The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1)

by Lotta Smith

  “By the way…”

  Karen’s voice took me back to the present. She was squinting, as if to see something far away. She was silent for a moment. “Mr. Archangel, you want to be extra careful with your footings, okay?” she was looking at Archangel’s feet with a concerned frown. “You don’t wanna end up with a broken leg. So watch your step.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? One moment you’re talking about the ways to get away from the camping then the next thing you’re talking about my leg.”

  “Never mind, it’s nothing,” Karen shrugged. “Sometimes my mind wonders off topic.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been injury-free for years, not to mention I’ve never broken a bone in my life.” Archangel’s mouth quirked up into a half smile.

  “Anyway, Karen, don’t wonder yourself into the investigation. Leave it to the feds. Is that clear?”

  “Of course.” She flashed a cocky smile.

  I had seen a smile like that.

  Diva—one of my stepsisters in my early teenage days—had a smile like that when she promised her dad (the head of orthopedics department at a prestigious medical school) that she wouldn’t have a sex until she gets sixty. Later, she confessed that she was three-months pregnant after two-and-a-half-months following the conversation.

  Chapter 14

  “Darling, you need a new man!”

  Mom exclaimed on the other end of the phone. A little castle in the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland, to be specific. She said that I needed a new man mainly because it was the mantra she had been telling me since the moment I had had my first divorce. I think she has the longest—approximately 6669.1miles—umbilical cord in the world.

  That night following the encounter with Karen, I made a phone call to her, just in case Karen changed her mind and actually decided to visit Scotland in summer. As a former kid who totally loathed going to a summer camp, I wanted to do something to help her avoid going to this dreaded camp.

  She was more than happy about the prospect of having a brilliant little girl visit her, and she had assured me that she and Count Geoffrey Featheringhead (a.k.a. husband #9 and my faux-dad #8) were so looking forward to having a young and bright company from the new world. Yes, she actually said the word “new world.”

  I thanked her for their generosity, and that was the exact timing she had blurted out the above comment about yours truly needed a new man.

  So far, I’ve had a mother, a biological father, and eight faux-dads. I have no lucid memory of the biological father except for the long blonde hair beautifully blowing in the wind. Presumably, the owner of the blonde hair was the woman with whom he had bolted to Las Vegas. According to Mom, my biological father, a struggling actor whom she had met in Hollywood, had run away with a show girl. I would describe her attitude towards the husband#1 as pretty much laidback. Despite having been left with a baby, she still called my biological father as “the Winning Ticket,” mainly because she had won this trip to California at a local gas station lottery in Japan. I grew up in the U.S. suburbs until graduating from high school. Thanks to having an exotic and tricky surname, I got picked on a lot while in school.

  “You truly, absolutely need a new man,” she emphasized.

  “Excuse me Mom, but rescuing a young girl from a summer camp she hates to go has nothing to do with my love life, you know.” And I added, “I don’t need a new man. Thank you very much.” Just like every time.

  “Yes, you do, Kelly. What if your child wants to go camping? You can’t possibly ruin your kid’s summer just because of your lifetime banning from camping. That’s exactly where a new surname with a new man comes very handy. Not to mention a surname like Kinki is hard to forget.”

  “Remember? I didn’t want to go to that camp in the first place?” I pointed out. “I’ve never been an athlete-type. So that stupid tennis camp was totally out of question.”

  It was the second faux-dad’s fault. He was a former pro-athlete turned an executive of a sports related company and the worst faux-dad for me. That SOB had tried to remake me into a mini-athlete. Good thing Mom divorced that man as soon as I came back from the broken summer camp. Anyway, he’d paid the price by paying for the damage to the dormitory of the camp.

  “I know,” she agreed. “Then again, you’d never know if your offspring turns out to be sporty-kind.”

  “Did you know I’ve never produced an offspring?”

  “Of course, but it’s a free country and everyone’s entitled to express a fantasy or two.”

  One of my eyelids started to twitch but I tried to smile by thinking about fried chickens. Sometimes mothers can get very nosy, but I could live with that. In fact, if it was not for her support during hate-Kelly campaign back in the UK, I wasn’t sure if I was able to carry on living. She had once crashed a live TV show in which they were running a skit about Kelly the Vicious Bitch. In that episode, she graciously walked into the studio, saying “Good afternoon,” and punched that very rude talk show host in the nose. She shouted “Don’t call my baby bitch!” and left. The next day, every front page of morning papers were featuring photos of Mom, me, and the potty-mouthed talk show host now sporting a big, bruised, bloody nose which resembled a rotten, purple zucchini about to explode. The captions went like “Watch out! She’s a Countess, a Mum, and a Boxer ready to hit your big nose!”

  I said. “You know, Mom. Right now, I’m completely focused on my career and I don’t need a new man anytime soon, okay?”

  “A career? Excuse me?” she uttered the word “career” like some kind of a profanity or something. “So you make your employer’s breakfast each morning, chauffer him around, hang around him like an orbit, and you’re even living in his property. You call that a career? It sounds more like a part-time wife minus the divorce settlement and death benefits.”

  “At least that pays the bills.” I pointed out.

  “So, how’s Michael?” Ignoring my point, she said nonchalantly. My mother, of all people, called my employer by his first name. The problem was, Archangel was talking her very well. One of my current worst fear was my boss becoming my ninth faux-dad. That wouldn’t sound right, would it?

  “Other than being unkind to kids, he’s well.” I told her about his attitude toward Karen, emphasizing the part he doesn’t make a good faux-dad for me.

  “I suppose it shows that he cares very much about the girl on his own way.”

  Sometimes she talks like a Pollyanna.

  “How can you tell that?”

  “You know what? I was born and raised in Japan, which makes me an expert at interpreting other people’s thought processes through subtle things. I have a knack for that.”

  “Oh really?” I rolled my eyes. I didn’t tell her Grandma Kinki was often complaining that her daughter was totally lacking the skills to reasonably interpret other people’s feelings.

  “As for my boss, having a low tolerance to the idea of the possibility that there’s someone practically smarter than him seems more like the case.”

  “Rubbish.” Mom dismissed my opinion. “Michael is not such a petty person. On the very contrary, he’s a good natured alpha male and that’s one reason I like him so much.”

  “An alpha male? Excuse me? He wears skirts for God’s sake!”

  “So does Count Geoffrey.” Her voice was full of pride. “Did I mention he really rocks in kilts? What’s wrong with men in skirts?”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” I replied, silently uttering eew… I love her and I hoped they’d embrace their happy marriage for a long while but I wasn’t all that keen on looking at Count Geoffrey’s bare legs. If I recall right, he’s about to hit his eighties. “Speaking of Count Geoffrey, are you aware that you’re still officially and happily married to him? So maybe you don’t want to fancy over another guy who happens to wear skirts, you know?”

  “Oh, Kelly!” She gave out her signature throaty laughter that had captured numerous hearts belonging to rich men. “Don’t ge
t me wrong! I like Michael but not in a romantic way.”

  “That’s good.” I nodded. Quietly releasing a sigh of relief for the fact at least for a while, he’s not likely to be my ninth faux-dad. Actually, Michael Archangel seemed to like my mother a lot, but she didn’t need to know that. Aside from my first faux-dad Dr. Huey Harrison, her marriage to Count Geoffrey seemed like the happiest marriage. Mom’s man-hopping habit often seemed like a journey to find someone like Dr. Harrison—a renowned ophthalmologist, beloved educator and a humanitarian. If it was not for his premature death due to a plane wreck, I supposed Mom would have stayed Mrs. Harrison up to now.

  “Besides that, I’m not his type, you know.” She said as if she knew what kind of a women were Archangel’s type.

  “By the way, Mom, please don’t be disappointed in case Karen does not visit Scotland. When she’s able to work on her own to avoid that dreadful camping, she may not need to visit Europe.” I said. Partly to change the subject from Archangel to something, anything else.

  “Don’t worry honey,” she shook off my warning. “In that case, I can always invite Karen over a trip in Europe with an excursion to Euro Disney.”

  “I’m not real sure if her mother likes your plan.”

  “Of course, she loves my plan.” She said. “Most American will kill to let her daughter travel with a British count and countess.”

  I thought about reminding that she was an American herself, but thought better of it. In fact, the status being naturalized from Japanese to the U.S. citizenship sort of ruled her out of ‘most American’ section. Anyway, I often feel that my mother is more American than an average American.

  “So, darling, why don’t you introduce me to Karen? Perhaps this Saturday? I’ll be flying to New York City. Geoffrey and I have to attend the gala on Friday but I suppose I can sneak out on Saturday.”

  “Sorry Mom, but I’m afraid I cannot make it to see you on that particular day.” I shook my head. “Actually, I’m flying to England on the exact day when you come to NYC.”

  “You’re kidding.” She said in the form of a statement.

  After all, I was still scared of visiting any part of the United Kingdom and she knew it.

  “I wish I was. But I’m accompanying Archangel to London where he gives a lecture at some kind of conference.”

  “Oh my goodness,” she sucked in air. “You are returning to London? What a funny twist of life!”

  “More like an extreme sarcasm provided by universe.” I gave out a sigh. “Can you believe it? I’ve been avoiding London for all those years, never visiting there once. And all of a sudden, I’m required to go there. No way out, no questions. Just like that.”

  “You went back there with the band Iron Dragon as Lady Dragon less than a year after leaving the Britain as Dragon Lady.” Mom pointed out.

  “But that wasn’t really me!” I said defensively. “I was channeling into this alter ego Lady Dragon invented by the band. It was the mascot performing in London, not me. No, that was so not me. It doesn’t count as visiting London when your alter ego’s visiting there, does it?”

  “Unlike in New York and L.A., you don’t channel into an imaginary creature in London.” She told me. “Anyway, if you’d let me know earlier, I could have arranged my itinerary to adjust to your plan.”

  “No, I couldn’t. The trip to England sort of jumped in this very afternoon. Who do you think called us to arrange this travel?”

  “Well, that you’re asking me this question should make it someone we know. Oh my God, Detective Superintendent Mickelson! Did he call?”

  “Yes, now he’s a professor of criminal justice at King’s College after retiring from Scotland Yard.” I flinched, recalling the moment I heard his London accent over the phone. Former Detective Superintendent Evan Mickelson was in charge of investigating Warren’s massive frauds case. He was one of the toughest detectives to deal with, who didn’t take “I have no idea” very kindly as an answer. In the end, I was almost convinced that I would be prosecuted and end up with a long imprisonment. So it came as a true surprise when it later turned out that no charges were filed against me.

  “Talk about a surprise.” She chuckled. “And the next thing, you tried to convince Mr. Mickelson that he has called a wrong number, right?”

  “Oh no, Mom. I was so freaked out and I started apologizing to Mickelson for being such a bad person as to spend millions of Great Britain Pounds defrauded by Warren from greedy yet innocent people, never giving much thought about where the money came from.”

  It was not a smart move. But somehow, apologizing like a fool felt good, just like I’d accomplished something I had been missing to do for a long while.

  Archangel literally had to rip the receiver off my hands. Mickelson said that I’d done what I should and could have done. He even promised me of no prosecution while visiting London (on one condition I abide to the local law.)

  After the conversation with Mickelson, I begged Archangel for a vacation so that I don’t need to visit England, but he insisted that I follow him to England as an assistant to… say, carry his suitcases. So I had no choice but to return to London for the first time in almost three years.

  “Darling, I’m impressed.” She burst out laughing. “So, Michael and Mr. Mickelson had known each other for a long time, right?”

  “Yes, so they say.” I shrugged. “Couldn’t he, I mean Archangel mention it earlier? I had made a total idiot of myself and I cannot quite wipe out the feeling of being betrayed.”

  “On the contrary—” With a throaty chuckle, Mom continued in Japanese, leaving me clueless.

  “Pardon me? What did you say?” I asked in a louder voice.

  “Nothing,” she grinned. Okay, I couldn’t see her expressions but I could hear her grinning from ear to ear. Sometimes I believe she taught me very little Japanese just to drive me crazy. “Anyway, have a lovely trip and send my love to Karen, and of course, to Michael.”

  Then she said ciao and hang up.

  Chapter 15

  Here I was. Completely stuck with the same old situation.

  Just like caught in one of those potholes scattered in my not-so-clear cognition.

  As always, someone’s mischief was airing on TV. Which reminded me of Eyeball Snatcher cases.

  Here was the big question: Did I kill those women?—It was the stupidest question I’ve ever asked myself. I should know if I killed people.

  Then again, the thoughts of brutally killed women were haunting me. Keeping me awake all day and all night.

  With what courage and conscience left in me—if any—I had searched throughout my house and music studio for any traces of killing those women. There was nothing. No eyeball, no blood, not even stray hairs that I was not familiar with.

  It was the fifth time in a row that I ransacked my own place.

  —What the hell is going on?

  I asked myself, to the reflection in the mirror, who blankly looked me back without giving out an answer.

  The next thing I knew, the bastard in the mirror had multiplied into a thousand. Each one smirking like an idiot in fragmented pieces of metal and glass.

  My fist felt numb and warm. Blood trickled down my fingers to the floor.

  Where am I headed for?—I had no idea.

  Who am I?—Has anyone truly figured out who they are?

  I chuckled at myself.

  I was having a midlife crisis.

  I licked my damaged fist.

  It tasted like salt, iron, and desperation.

  One thing was sure: I had to find Dragon Lady.

  Whatever it takes.

  Chapter 16

  The trip to London went deceptively smooth and trouble-free. Archangel’s lecture went very well. No reporter was tagging along us, no ridiculously long queuing (including the queuing at immigration checkpoint at Heathrow; Archangel chose to wear a men’s suit in charcoal gray to fly across the pond, sans makeup) not even outrageously exotic food containing things like i
nsects, human breast milk, and sheep’s testicles was served at restaurants. Actually, it even seemed like Archangel practically belonged to the city. Partly because he had opted to wear men’s fashion. As if he was in disguise or some occult alter ego had suddenly surfaced.

  It was our fourth day in London. So far, I had found out that I could take a stroll in the town on my own without having eggs thrown at. No one seemed to remember me. Kelly the Bitch-slash-Dragon Lady, was long gone. Ditching Blahnik shoes and Chloé dresses, then jumping into a Zara dress and shoes from SALE shelves at Neiman Marcus (their SALE shelves are the best places to buy nice things for price ranges of Macy’s) seemed to help me blend into the crowd. Anyway, after all those years, I was officially nobody and I liked it. Very much.

  When I got an unexpected call from Mickelson asking for Archangel to assist with a new case, I was having the best food in London (a.k.a. breakfast) at the café of the hotel we were staying. It was supposed to be a vacation day for me, but it seemed like murderers didn’t care about that even in Britain.

  I paid for the unfinished breakfast, left the café, and hit the elevator up to the swimming pool on the top floor. I knew Archangel was there on the account that he had earlier texted me about his whereabouts.

  When I walked in to the poolside, he was in the lap pool, swimming in free style. He noticed me and came out of the water, and I had a seriously hard time ripping my eyes off him.

  I’d never regarded Michael Archangel to be an eligible male but believe me, with broad shoulders, Herculean chest, six-pack abs, and full of toned muscles, his body was purrrrfect. I needed a helluva lot of restraint to keep myself from drooling. In front of me stood Michael Archangel, wearing nothing other than black swim trunks. Mom was right. My employer is an alpha male, at least in physical features department. Except that I had no idea as to how she had figured out the presence of his … equipment. And frankly, I didn’t want to know.