The Collector

by Cameron

  “I just bet you would,” Seven said. “Dr. Murphy, you knew before you came that you couldn’t authenticate the bead, didn’t you?”

  “That would be correct, Detective.” Murphy pressed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Of course, if I had said as much before, I would have risked never seeing the bead…something I found completely untenable. What can I say, Detective? I took my shot.”

  Before Seven could take his shot, Erika stepped between the two men. “Come on, Professor. The last hour wasn’t just for show. You found something.”

  “I can’t categorize the sample, Detective.”

  “For someone who just came up with a blank,” Seven said, “you look incredibly pleased.”

  “The fact is, I am, Detective. This stone, its unique ability to change color—the cat’s-eye slash of light down the center—Fegaris described it perfectly.”

  “And?” This time, Seven didn’t even try to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “There is a family of crystals here on earth called chrysoberyl that exhibit similar traits to this stone. Alexandrite, named for the Russian tsar, Alexander II, can change from red to green, the colors of Imperial Russia. A cat’s-eye variety also exists. Microscopic inclusions occur in an orientation parallel to the c-axis, producing the effect. This, however, is nothing like that.”

  “So what is it?” Erika asked.

  “I’m not sure, but after a cursory examination, I am convinced more than ever that this bead is part of the Eye of Athena. Which means Estelle Fegaris was right. The Eye exists,” he said, indicating the bead was proof of just that. “And if she was right about the existence of the Eye, then I tend to think Fegaris was right about its origins. This bead, Detectives,” he said, turning to look at both Seven and Erika, “is not of this earth.”

  24

  Seven found himself back at the Coffee Factory, this time with Erika across the bistro table sipping iced coffee through a straw. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon. Other than a table of Vietnamese men in business attire, they were the only people in the place.

  Seven watched a middle-aged woman power-walk through the parking lot wearing a conical hat made from braided palm leaves. The hat, a non la, was typical here. He looked around the pastel minimall. The clapboard storefronts all carried Vietnamese names; billboards pitched their slogan in the same language. Everything looked clean, upscale—a glimpse, perhaps, at what might have been if the Americans had won the war decades ago.

  It still surprised him, this small enclave of the exotic. If you were Vietnamese, you might live as far away as Irvine, but come the weekend, the diaspora descended here. And why not? Little Saigon provided Pho noodle shops and banh mi eateries, block-long supermarkets and jewelry stores, not to mention the latest that Vietnamese pop stars had to offer—all in a shiny new home away from home.

  He thought of his own background, French-Canadian. Erika was right, he’d been whitewashed long ago, assimilated into the SoCal culture of burgers and surfing. His father barely spoke French, Seven spoke none at all. Traditional meals at home had long ago given way to Kentucky Fried Chicken and Hamburger Helper.

  “I noticed you passed on the avocado smoothie again,” Erika said.

  “Big mistake there,” he said, choosing to tank up on hot coffee sweetened with condensed milk.

  He glanced down at the spiral notebook on the patio table, a mishmash of dashed-off notes and underlined names connected by arrows, the mind map they’d been working from. He and Erika had spent the last half hour piecing the story together.

  Estelle Fegaris, renowned classical archaeologist from Harvard University, believes in the existence of the Eye of Athena, a crystal that supposedly allows its wearer to amplify psychic abilities. Fegaris postulates that the Eye, a crystal from outer space, was worn by the oracle at Delphi in the form of a necklace. Only, she can’t reveal how she found out about the Eye or why she even believes it exists. Despite this, Professor Murphy recognizes one of the beads from the oracle’s necklace.

  Fegaris, according to the professor, asks for the archaeological community to take a leap of faith. When that doesn’t happen, she sets out to find the damn stone to prove she’s right.

  She claims the Eye is part of the Treasury of Atreus, looted from the Beehive Tomb during ancient times. Fegaris discovers a connection between the looted Treasury of Atreus and artifacts stolen from the museum at Corinth during the 1990s.

  Eventually, Fegaris reveals her dark side, giving in to the psychic within. She becomes very active in psychic archaeology. She takes part in a series of experiments conducted by Morgan Tyrell on the human brain. The connection ends up costing Fegaris her job. Harvard gives her the heave-ho.

  But Fegaris doesn’t seem to care. For the next decade, she is a woman on a mission, tracking down the Eye. She ends up in Greece, presumably dealing with the shadier side of archaeology, the black market in antiquities, desperate to locate the object.

  “But she can’t prove a thing,” Erika says, tapping her finger on the mind map where the words The Eye appeared underlined. “She has no methodology, no proof. Nothing. Only a bunch of ragtag amateurs ready to believe what she’s selling.”

  “Not just amateurs,” Seven said, pointing out the obvious. “I think we’re talking acolytes. And Fegaris has enough credentials to sell her vision to the likes of our man Murphy…and others in the field.”

  “So what does she want with this Eye of Athena? And why isn’t she telling what she knows?”

  “Maybe she wants to use it. You know, dangle it from her neck and become Super Psychic. I-will-use-my-power-only-for-good sort of thing.” He cocked his head, staring down at the mind map on the notebook page. “Or maybe she just wants to get her ducks up in a row before she reveals what she knows and gives her colleagues a chance to pooh-pooh her ideas.”

  “I don’t know, cowboy. After reading that Web site, I think this is more about some cult figure than any serious work.”

  “Maybe.”

  When Estelle Fegaris is killed, purportedly by the very antiquities dealers she sought out in tracking the Eye, the whole thing takes on new life. Fegaris becomes a martyr for her cause. Her acolytes go to ground, spawning Web sites and a legend worthy of Camelot. They call themselves Lunites. Others in the field call them Lunatics.

  “Fegaris left clues about her killer’s identity,” he said. “Presumably a student. But the charges don’t stick, so twelve years later, we’re left with a cold case somehow connected to Mimi Tran’s murder.”

  “And now, Murphy claims the Eye does exist. That someone has it—‘something not of this earth,’” Erika murmured, quoting Professor Murphy.

  “And darned if it doesn’t end up stuck in the mouth of our victim.”

  Erika shook her head. “It’s all too Erich Von Daniken for me.”

  “Erich Von who?” Seven asked, wondering if he would ever get to sleep tonight after downing his second ca phé sua nong.

  “Von Daniken? You know, the Chariots of the Gods?” And when he still drew a blank, she muttered, “Jesus, Seven. Don’t you ever watch the Discovery Channel?”

  “Hey, I have seen every Freddy Krueger movie ever made, at least twice, so don’t you even try to say I lack culture. But look, I’m actually impressed. I think I should start calling you the Amazing Supernatural Sleuth.”

  She pursed her lips. “You’re going to call me ASS.”

  “Would I do that?”

  She gave a long, loud slurp on the straw. “I was thinking maybe your psychic is right, after all.”

  Your psychic.

  Seven hadn’t mentioned anything about his conversation with Gia after Erika left the interview room—especially the part about him having a vision of the two of them in bed together. But here was Erika with her sixth sense, pushing him.

  Your psychic.

  “What exactly is my psychic right about?” he asked.

  Erika slid the empty cup away. “She said whoev
er had the necklace wouldn’t want us to know they had it…because it was part of some stolen collection. That’s starting to sound a lot like what the professor said when he mentioned Fegaris and the stolen goods from the museum in Corinth. Think about it, Seven. It’s the perfect crime.”

  “Who’s going to report that the damn thing is missing if it’s stolen in the first place?”

  “What about Murphy’s claim that the bead we found comes from outer space?”

  Seven made a rude noise. “The guy would say anything to get his hands on that artifact, so he drops some theory on alien visitation. We’re supposed to freak out and hand him the bead so he can fly it up to some lab? You saw how he played us today. I don’t care what Guru Lois said about the guy’s impeccable credentials. Any more testing gets done by our people alone.”

  Erika shut the notebook. “So we focus on the bead and its connection to the Tran murder—like the possibility that the damn thing was bait. The killer leaves a single bead at the murder site.”

  “It’s like advertising.”

  She nodded. “A sensational killing, guaranteed to get lots of press. Whoever wants the necklace knows the killer has the rest.”

  Seven thought it made sense. Only, there was this other theory bumping around his head.

  The killer will keep giving you bits and pieces of it, like bread crumbs.

  That’s what Gia had told them. That this was just the beginning…there would be other killings, each with its own piece of the necklace.

  Erika tossed her plastic cup into the garbage can. “Me? I still like the psychic as a suspect.”

  “Yeah.” He looked away. “So you said.”

  “But not you?”

  He sighed. “I’m stuck on the fact that she came to us. I mean, come on.”

  “You’re really going with the no-one-could-be-that-stupid defense?”

  “It’s just a gut feeling. You saw that crime scene. You really think she’s the perp?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time some sweet little thing done someone wrong,” she countered.

  Seven stood and threw his own cup into the trash, making the bank shot. Despite the hot coffee he felt chilled by the direction the case was taking.

  “All righty then,” he told Erika. “In the meantime, what do you say we actually find the asshole who did this—before anyone else dies.”

  David stared down at the velvet-lined drawer. He felt himself hyperventilating.

  The necklace had been decimated, its precious beads tossed around like dice inside the drawer. The central crystal, the Eye, was missing.

  No, not missing. Stolen.

  The Eye of Athena, a crystal worn by Apollo’s Oracle, had been stolen from right under his nose.

  After the first break-in, he’d had his security team go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. Jack had juiced up the safe room to just a notch below Fort Knox. No way anyone was getting into his vault again. Guaranteed. Not without triggering multiple alarms and safety devices.

  David had just got off the phone with Jack to hear that, according to the motion sensors and video cameras, there hadn’t been a break-in. Every damn piece of equipment showed that the only person to enter the safe room had been David himself. Jack would messenger over the DVDs for him to look at.

  And still the necklace lay in pieces, completely disassembled, the central crystal, the object of power, gone.

  He sat down on the couch, trying to catch his breath. He remembered his last meeting with Mimi, their lunch at Le Jardin.

  That which is invisible is always the most dangerous.

  Shit. Shit!

  Twelve years ago, he’d been on top of the world. He’d acquired the thirteenth tablet of the Gilgamesh saga, the Odyssey of the Ancient Near East, that had been discovered in the ruins of Niveveh, the capital of ancient Assyria. Only David knew of the existence of the thirteenth clay tablet.

  He had been captivated by the story, a tale that gave voice to man’s grief and fear of death as Gilgamesh, the king, searched for immortality. David saw himself as a Gilgamesh figure, a king who was part god, part human.

  All twelve original tablets were hidden away in the British Museum in London. Many scholars didn’t even include the twelfth one as part of the original story. Inconsistencies within that tablet made it an independent tale in the eyes of many—particularly because Enkidu, one of the main characters, who dies in the original eleven tablets, is alive and well in the twelfth, traveling to the underworld to retrieve objects of power for his friend Gilgamesh.

  The tablet David possessed continued the story written in that last tablet. In the thirteenth tablet, Enkidu takes to Gilgamesh precious objects that “rained down from the heavens.” The first tablet in the original story hinted of the existence of these objects, referring to a dream Gilgamesh had in which a magnificent meteorite falls to earth. The fourth tablet referred to dreams of the sky lighting up in a storm, lightning smashing to the ground and setting it ablaze. Death flooded from the sky. David’s translation of the thirteenth tablet mentioned both dreams and continued to describe the Eye in detail.

  That’s how he knew Fegaris was doing righteous work. The thirteenth tablet described the Eye exquisitely.

  So he’d contacted Fegaris, became a silent partner in her quest. He’d told her then and there he was willing to do whatever it took—whatever. He’d said everything she wanted to hear, giving her some bullshit about the Eye’s importance to the field of psychic archaeology.

  And now it was gone, the necklace destroyed.

  He shut the vault, using the remote control. He dropped the device and headed out the door. Rounding the corner, he almost slammed into his wife, who was looming at the top of the stairs.

  For a minute, he had to fight back the urge to just grab her and shake her. He could see it like a movie in his head: he’d shove her down the stairs, watching as Meredith toppled head over feet. He could see her lifeless body at the foot of the stairwell, her limbs in disarray.

  It was an accident, Officer….

  He gulped down another breath, squashing the urge. Fuck. The last thing he needed was to have another dead body pointing the finger at him.

  “What is it, Meredith?”

  “You’ve done something,” she said in that fragile voice, her eyes darting up and down the hall. “The police, they’re going to come after Owen, aren’t they?”

  When he ignored her, stepping around her, she curled her fingers into his biceps, hanging on. She looked up at him in a wild-eyed stare. “Don’t send him away again, David. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Don’t you have some church meeting to go to?”

  “He’s your son. Our only child. Don’t you think he’s been punished enough for your suspicions?”

  He yanked his arm free. “It was more than a suspicion, Meredith. Don’t try to make me out to be the villain here. I saved his ass. And I’ll do it again, if I have to.”

  She seemed to collapse with relief. “Thank you,” she said, getting the answer she wanted.

  She slipped away down the hall like a wraith. It was all she’d needed to know, that he’d keep her little boy safe. And damn if he wouldn’t.

  No one was getting their hands on Owen.

  That pleasure would be entirely his.

  25

  Erika stared up at the column of reflective black glass. She’d read on the Internet that the building had been designed by some famous Dutch architect to resemble an Egyptian obelisk. Here in Newport Beach there were no skyscrapers to speak of. Only the offices of Gospel Enterprises at Fashion Island even came close.

  “I bet it’s a hell of a view from the top,” she said.

  Seven headed for the entrance. “Haven’t you heard? The view’s always better from on top.”

  She shook her head, following her partner.

  Scant decades ago, Fashion Island was just a nice little outdoor shopping mall with a sweeping view of the ocean. Today, the indoor-outdoor center included
the OC’s only Blooming-dale’s and Nieman Marcus, along with an upscale farmer’s market, restaurants for every pallet and a Venetian carousel. The mall was surrounded by posh hotels and had its own summer concert series. Come November, it would be home to the tallest decorated Christmas tree outside of the Rockefeller Center. Erika brought her nephew and niece here every year to take their photo with Santa Claus.

  Stepping into the marbled entry of the Gospel Building, Erika tried not to act intimidated as they checked in with security. She glanced at her partner. Seven looked loose, his body language saying it all. As far as he was concerned, he could have been walking into Wal-Mart.

  Erika grimaced. She figured Ricky, the plastic surgeon, had given Seven a taste of this kind of opulence. But that’s not where Erika was coming from.

  In preparation for their meeting, she’d read up on David Gospel. Rumor had it that “The David” was at this moment negotiating with “The Donald” to build a posh new golf resort for Trump down south. Gospel Enterprises was over a hundred years old and privately owned. Its holdings included office buildings, residential villages, retail centers, marinas and golf clubs.

  You name it, Gospel owned it.

  On the Web site, Gospel’s mission statement talked about “a land of riches,” something not to be “misused” for short-term gain. Landlord, builder and investor, Gospel Enterprises planned communities. They were ecologically sensitive—whatever that meant to someone who made money mowing down wetlands and building malls and homes in cities that already didn’t have the infrastructure to support their bulging populations.

  For the last thirty-five years, David Gospel, Chairman of the Board, had been the company’s master planner. Like many of the OC’s elite, Gospel was USC-educated. After he’d done a stint in the marines, he’d returned to USC for his MBA. The last ten years, he’d made the list of top philanthropists in the country for his commitment to education and the environment.

  He was also an avid skier…and a collector.