The Collector

by Cameron

  “We’re dealing with a crime scene that has been compromised, of course,” Agent Barnes continued. “Mr. Gospel has already given me his statement. Apparently he had an appointment with Ms. Tien. He claims to have no idea who the other woman is, and did not expect her to be here.”

  “You think he’s lying?”

  “About so many things, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  Erika couldn’t help her smile. Barnes’s expression of insouciance…She liked it. And agreed. The bastard was lying, all right.

  “He found the door open,” Barnes said. “He immediately sensed something was wrong.”

  Erika thought of the two bodies gutted like fish on the floor behind her. “Nailed that one, didn’t he?”

  “He came in and, upon recognizing Ms. Tien, vomited on the carpet,” she said, indicating a stain just a few feet away. “He then washed his face in the kitchen and called the police, which explains his footprints on the carpet leading back and forth from the kitchen.”

  “But?”

  Barnes glanced back at the bodies. “It’s the back and forth part that has me curious, Detective. As well as these.”

  She pointed to partial prints that disappeared in the direction of the front door.

  Erika nodded. “He left the condo after seeing the bodies. Did you ask him why?”

  “Not yet.” She gave a small smile. “But I’m sure he has a good story.”

  Erika studied the agent. She hated to admit it, but the woman was starting to grow on her.

  “There’s evidence that something was removed from Ms. Tien’s mouth. Not the killer’s doing—he would be responsible for putting it there in the first place.”

  “Maybe he changed his mind?” Erika suggested.

  “Or someone else removed it. Someone who knew—possibly because of what was found in Mimi Tran’s mouth—that it might be important. The previous bead was inside the beak of a bird. Whoever took the object—pastry, I’d say from the crumbs—might have believed there was yet another bead to be found.”

  “No one knew about the bead in the bird’s beak.”

  But even as she said it, Erika was thinking about Gia Moon.

  “No one?” Barnes repeated almost to herself. “I beg to differ.”

  The agent pointed out another section of the carpet. It looked like someone had rolled a stack of quarters over the blood, creating a strange pattern on the cream Berber.

  “And then there’s this.”

  Suddenly, Barnes’s eyes widened. The smile that followed was brief but blinding. For a second, Erika thought maybe she should invest in those Crest White Strips.

  Barnes jumped to her feet. She made for the kitchen, where Gospel waited, with a cop babysitting. Erika followed close behind.

  “Mr. Gospel?”

  Gospel looked up at Barnes. Erika tried to connect that tired face with the man she’d seen just a few days before in his office. She couldn’t. With his thousand-dollar suit crumpled and stained with blood and vomit, his face dead-white, Gospel looked like shit.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have a handkerchief, by any chance?” Barnes asked.

  Gospel didn’t even flinch at the strange question. “Not with me, no.”

  Barnes nodded, as if that made sense. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for your coat.”

  Suddenly, Gospel bristled, sitting up in the kitchen chair. “Am I a suspect here?” he asked, sounding a little too irritated.

  And then this idea struck Erika. If Gia Moon knew about the bead, then anybody could be privy to the information, through Gia or even another source. Gospel was a collector. Even if he didn’t originally have the necklace, he’d be interested in possessing any part of such a valuable artifact.

  The missing object. The footprints leading back and forth to the door. And now, Agent Barnes asking for his handkerchief, something a gentleman like Gospel would most certainly carry—a handy container for a crumbly pastry pulled from the victim’s mouth.

  Erika flipped open her phone. “Mr. Gospel, we can have a search warrant issued over the phone if necessary.”

  He seemed to think about it. Strange how the question energized him. A second ago, he was a man defeated. But now he stood, straightening his jacket, ready to make it a good fight.

  “Well, then. I’m afraid it’s time for me to seek counsel.”

  Barnes nodded, as if she expected as much. “Make the warrant for his car as well, Detective.”

  Erika walked into the main entry as she punched in the number. “Fucking great Sherlock Holmes,” she said under her breath with a smile.

  34

  Seven didn’t bother with turn signals or speed limits, just using the siren, the light built into the rear window of the Crown Vic flashing. One of the perks of the job, he figured. After a quick call to the precinct, he had her address in hand. Now he was speeding to Garden Grove, not really sure how he’d handle the situation once he got there.

  He told himself he’d heard about this sort of thing before. He’d even seen a couple of shows on cable TV. Psychic Detectives or something.

  He remembered this one case. A cop brought mug shots and placed the photos facedown in front of the psychic working on the case. She picked out one photo, saying something about how it made her feel strange, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Turns out, she’d singled out their number one suspect. The police pressed him on his alibi. Next thing you know, the guy confesses.

  Seven parked the car in front of Gia’s place. It was one of those little houses that looked like it was made out of gingerbread, complete with white picket fence and lots of flowers. There was even an arched trellis dripping with wisteria. Swear to God, she was growing a freaking English garden.

  Seven had a black thumb. He’d even killed one of those indestructible philodendrons. He remembered his mom commenting on it, giving him this look. Maybe he was being sensitive, but from the expression on her face, he’d had the idea that she was thinking about Laurin. How he couldn’t keep anything alive, even his marriage.

  He’d been thinking about that a lot lately. How maybe, because of his job, death could seep into his bones and slip out his fingertips.

  “Screw it,” he said, getting out of the car. Now wasn’t the time for personal ruminations.

  He was about to push the doorbell when the door opened. Gia stood there looking at him with those vibrant blue eyes.

  The idea came to him: her “psychic” self already knew he was on his way. She’d seen it all in one of her “visions.” Wasn’t that how it happened in the world of the paranormal? She would always be one step ahead.

  “The victim’s name was Velvet Tien,” he said, this time trying to beat her to the punch. “She had a book opened on her chest,” he said. “The Story of Kieu.”

  He told himself to take a breath. He was acting crazy, driving here like a maniac, making outbursts to a potential witness-suspect. A very silent witness-suspect.

  He couldn’t read the expression on her face. Standing there in her T-shirt and jeans, she was the proverbial blank slate. Apparently, life kept on going for Gia Moon. Have a vision of two women eviscerated? Not a problem.

  Her hair was wet; obviously, she’d just stepped out of the shower. It made the color even darker, a pitch-black.

  He remembered reading the term Black Irish in a book once. He’d been just a kid and thought it meant someone part African, part Irish. He’d come to learn the term referred to Irish people with pale skin, black hair and blue, blue eyes. That was Gia Moon to a T.

  She opened the door wider. She leaned against the doorjamb, motioning for him to enter. “You’ll want to see the painting.”

  He followed her through the living room into the kitchen. The place looked like an artist lived here, all right. Nothing was your normal interior decor. The top of the coffee table was made of broken pieces of china pieced together. The sofa had green papier-mâché leaves sprouting from the back and the arms, as if it were alive a
nd growing.

  There were children’s paintings on the walls, the kind of thing that normally would be held up by magnets on the refrigerator. But here the drawings were set in ornate wooden frames, displayed like valuable works of art.

  Every corner had something of significance. A lot of it religious. There were skulls made out of tissue paper to celebrate the Day of the Dead. A crucifix with the bleeding image of Christ on the cross. A set of icons hinged together. Lots of candles in all shapes and sizes.

  And photographs. Everywhere there were pictures of a girl in different stages of life, from birth to her early teens. She looked a lot like Gia, except her hair was a tangle of wild curls.

  The kitchen was bright and sunny, the walls painted in vibrant yellow. The counter tiles were a kaleidoscope of red and orange.

  He wondered if that’s how she got through the day: painting her surroundings in bright, shiny colors.

  “Do you want some coffee?” she asked. “Or would you prefer to go straight to my studio?”

  “Coffee? Sure, why not,” he said, finding his voice. Drink a little caffeine and freaking wake up!

  She had one of those French presses. He watched her pour, looking at those delicate hands—artist’s hands. She never wore makeup, and still she was stunning.

  He thought about Beth. How hard she worked at everything, always looking “just so.” Even when she was drunk off her ass, she had her perfect nails, her sweater sets and immaculate hair.

  The kitchen was small. There was only room for a tiny, round table and two chairs. Gia gestured to one and handed him a mug.

  “I’m sorry I called you in such a panic,” she said, sitting across from him. “I’m not sure what I expected you to do.”

  “I believe your words were something like, ‘you have to find her, Detective,’” he said, having an excellent memory for such things. “‘You have to find her now.’”

  Gia looked down at her cup, as if reading tea leaves. “I’m sorry. I really don’t expect miracles. I didn’t give you enough. There was no way you could find her in time.”

  He flipped open his notebook, refusing her invitation for a pity party. Pulling out his pen to take notes, he noticed his coffee cup for the first time. The mug showed a cartoon image of two women. One looked like a gypsy, with a scarf around her hair and wearing a long, flowing skirt. The other woman was seated across the table, waiting anxiously. The gypsy stared into a crystal ball. The bubble over her head read, I got nothing.

  “A gift from a client,” Gia said, catching his gaze.

  He wondered if that was her real “gift,” just being observant.

  He said, “You said your visions come to you in dreams.”

  “Usually, but not always. Like today. I was painting in my studio. I thought I was in the middle of making something truly amazing. I didn’t even know how long I’d been at it, but my arms and back hurt from the effort. When I stopped, I expected to see this beautiful piece. Only, that’s not what was on the canvas.”

  “Are you saying you went into some sort of trance?”

  She seemed to think about it. “Yes. I suppose I did. Or the spirit somehow possessed me. I told you before, powerful spirits are drawn to me. Just like my mother.”

  “So it runs in the family?”

  “Like cancer.”

  “You see your gifts as a disease?”

  She leaned across the table toward him. “Do you ever have a case go bad, Detective?”

  He paused, seeing the feelings so clearly on her face. “None of us is perfect.”

  “Then you know about the guilt,” she said. “I’m in their heads, the minds of the bad guys. It feels weighty and tough. I’m supposed to stop them. If I get it wrong, someone dies….”

  He could see what she was getting at. What happened today, she saw as a personal failure.

  She smiled. “Is there any other way to see it?”

  He nodded, but said, “That mind-reading thing of yours…not my favorite.”

  She took his coffee cup and stood. She put both cups in the sink. She turned and stood there, looking back at him.

  Finally, she said, “The painting. I’m ready to show it to you now.”

  He stood, as well. “Lead the way.”

  They found the moon cake wrapped in Gospel’s handkerchief, hidden in the trunk of his Mercedes, right alongside a bloody flashlight.

  The pattern on the handle of the flashlight was a perfect match to the blood splotched along the carpet.

  Erika shook her head as the techs bagged and tagged the evidence. “How did you know?” she asked Barnes.

  The Viking queen watched the crime scene techs do their job. “There were two sets of prints going back into the kitchen. That meant Gospel didn’t just go in there once to clean up, as he claimed. And then there were the prints leading to the door. You noticed he had on his suit jacket?”

  The lightbulb flashed on for Erika. “Still elegantly dressed at the grisly murder of his lover…which, no doubt, would include a handkerchief?”

  Barnes cocked her head. “Monogrammed, I would think. Men like Gospel like to keep their hands clean.”

  Erika nodded. Once Gospel refused to hand over his handkerchief, Barnes guessed he’d used it to grab whatever had been in the victim’s mouth. The prints leading to the front door showed he had some business outside, perhaps at his Mercedes.

  “Not bad,” Erika said, giving the devil her due.

  Barnes turned to her. “Detective, let me be perfectly clear. I am not here to usurp your authority. NISA is not a typical branch of the FBI.”

  Glad to hear it. “Meaning?”

  “We work behind the scenes, taking a back seat to local law enforcement. The unfortunate murder of these women is not the focus of my investigation.”

  “You want the Eye,” Erika said.

  “I believe Mr. Gospel, with his financial wherewithal, could very well have purchased the Eye from unauthorized sources. The very fact that he took the moon cake out of the victim’s mouth—given the information that part of the necklace had been found inside Ms. Tran’s mouth—leads me to believe Gospel was after another bead.”

  “Okay, call me thick, but I don’t get it. Does he have the necklace or not? Why is he searching for pieces of it inside the mouth of a dead woman?”

  For the first time, Agent Barnes gave Erika a very wide smile. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

  And with that, she walked away, leaving Erika to make sense of it all.

  35

  Stolen artifacts, dead fortune-tellers, millionaires and their private—and possibly illegal—collections. Erika sat bellied up to the bar at the House of Brews, trying to figure out what connected the dots.

  She punched the speed-dial number—her third time. She pushed End before his voice mail could pick up.

  And now Seven wasn’t answering his phone.

  It probably had something to do with his sister-in-law, Beth, Erika mused, sipping on the cosmopolitan. Now there was a black hole of need if Erika had ever seen one.

  Not my problem, she reminded herself. But still, she worried. Seven wasn’t thinking straight, still carrying the cross of his brother’s sins. Only now, they had this fat case. A career maker—or breaker. If Seven wasn’t careful, it would be the latter.

  As she picked up her cosmo for another sip, wondering if maybe she should order the sashimi salad, a man sat down on the stool next to hers. It was early, the place was almost empty, with just a couple playing pool behind her. Erika frowned. She wasn’t in the mood for a pickup. She didn’t take it as a good sign that the guy had chosen the seat next to hers.

  The mere fact that he was under six feet tall scratched him off the list of possibles. Not to mention the glasses and the less than Gold’s-gym physique. She ignored him, hoping he’d get the message.

  “I come here almost every night,” he said, wrapping his hands around the beer bottle in front of him. He had curly brown hair he tried to tame with a shor
t haircut. She thought she detected hazel eyes hidden behind thick glasses. He was also hairy. His five o’clock shadow looked more like next-day stubble.

  “I figured you’d show up sooner or later,” he said. “By the way, what’s your real name?”

  Caught off guard, Erika turned on her stool. “What?”

  “Your name? I’ve heard quite a few variations. Some nights you’re Suzy. Then there’s Sophia. And Sonia.” He took another drink from the bottle. She noticed it was one of those low-carb beers. “You seem to stick with the Ss.”

  She didn’t say anything. It sort of pissed her off that she was actually embarrassed. It wasn’t as if she was hiding her lifestyle—not that it was anybody’s business. But she’d never had anyone call her on it.

  She took a swift drink from the cosmo. “As it so happens, my name is Sophia.”

  “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

  “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  He held out his hand. “Frank.”

  She gave the outstretched paw a withering look. “Lovely to meet you. Now, why don’t you just go away…Frank?”

  He put the hand back on the beer and gave her a big smile, as if she hadn’t just blown him off, big time.

  “Are you kidding?” he asked. “Do you know how long it’s taken me to get the courage to get this far?” He took another swig from the bottle. “Let me savor the moment…Sophia.”

  When she went to stand up, taking her drink with her, he grabbed her hand so that she would be forced to spill the cosmopolitan if she wanted to leave.

  “Is it my breath?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I got to tell you—that’s not much of a line.”

  “But is it working?”

  She didn’t like it. She never slept with guys like Frank, the kind that had lovesick written all over them. The nesters. Sure, they hovered at bars, thinking they were players and might get lucky. But in reality, they were always looking for Mrs. Right, someone to bear their babies. You get drunk, they drive you home and tuck you into bed with two aspirins and a bottle of water. You give them your number, and they call and call.