The Collector

by Cameron

  God forbid you have sex. That was practically a ring on the finger to Frank’s type.

  Erika preferred the jerks who knew the score. It was one night; it was sex. He wouldn’t need her real name.

  Or maybe it was the fact that she was feeling a little too vulnerable. A lot was going on right now. Her father was back in town, her partner was MIA. And some asshole was ripping out women’s guts. Tonight, it might be to easy to make a mistake with the Franks of the world.

  He made a show of looking at the watch on his wrist. “Give me fifteen minutes? I could buy the next round…make it worth your while? You look like you could use it.”

  “Ah, that’s so sweet, Frank. Telling me I look like crap? I bet you say stuff like that to all the girls.”

  “Hey, ‘Bad Day’ is written in neon across your forehead.”

  She thought about it a minute. Agent Barnes had made it clear they were done for the night, and Seven wasn’t answering his phone. Just about now, her partner was probably cooking dinner, trying to hide from his nephew the fact that Beth was drunk.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, sitting back down. If the guy wanted his heart broken, that was his problem. “By the way? I’m not sleeping with you.”

  He nodded with mock solemnity. “If you’re sure.”

  “Yeah.” Suddenly, she felt a little better. “I’m sure.”

  “Phew.” He acted out wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “So, now that we have that settled, what are we doing for the rest of the night?”

  “What happened to fifteen minutes?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I got my foot in the door. It’s human nature to want to crack it open a bit wider.”

  She’d come to the House of Brews to get good and plastered, maybe even power down some real food, like ribs—screw the salad—with her booze, then take a taxi home.

  But suddenly, she was actually tempted by a night of talking over taxes or airplanes, pegging Frank here for an accountant or an engineer. Maybe after a day like today, she could give herself a break. Maybe she could just sit with a nice guy she’d met at a bar and pretend she had a normal life.

  “Have you had any dinner?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Nope.”

  “The ribs here are great.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  She gave him a look.

  “Just kidding.” He said it like that was the most brilliant thing he’d ever heard.

  She grabbed her drink and headed for one of the tables. “You know what, Frank? We’re going to have to work on that sense of humor.”

  Seven stared up at the painting, transfixed. The canvas stretched across its five-by-five-foot wooden frame, the colors all shades of black and red.

  The image of Velvet Tien was life-size and amazingly accurate, the details of the face so precise that he could have recognized her on the street.

  The painting showed only her head and torso. At the same time, it looked as if she’d been torn to bits and pieced together like a macabre puzzle. Her arms stretched off the edge of the canvas, disappearing at her wrists. With its black-and-red palette, the painting was a surreal rendition of the murder scene he’d just left.

  There were a few differences. Gia had painted a black crescent moon almost like chocolate candy on the victim’s red tongue. It reminded Seven of communion. And in the middle of her stomach cavity was an enormous human eye.

  There was no sign of Xuan Du, the second woman.

  “Her eyes,” he said, pointing to the dark, empty holes. “The killer left her eyes intact.”

  He didn’t mention the other woman, the psychic. The fact that the killer had taken her eyes instead.

  “As I said, Detective, it’s not an exact science.”

  Gia had converted her one-car garage into a studio. There wasn’t much in terms of furniture in the room. Mostly, it was space for her paintings. They were lined up against all four walls. Her talent was spectacular and engrossing.

  He thought about those shows he’d seen on cable, the psychics who helped law enforcement. This wasn’t anything like that. It felt like a magic trick when you stop and think, How’d she do that?

  She came to stand in front of the butchery on the canvas. The contrast between the woman and the painting struck him as an odd juxtaposition. She looked small and feminine, incapable of producing such a chilling scene.

  She looked up at Velvet Tien. “In my mind, I was painting something completely different. A beautiful image of a young woman playing a lute. There was a full moon in the background.” Gia shook her head, almost as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “There was so much color.”

  He was used to seeing dead bodies; it was part of his job. He could pore over photographs of the dead and testify about the details in court. Here are the ligature marks…notice the cigarette burns. He’d dutifully woven this kind of violence into his life.

  But there was an element here that unsettled him. The possibility that someone had a gift to see this kind of horror.

  Again, he thought of Erika’s explanation. She did it, or she’s somehow involved.

  “The victim’s hands,” he said, “they’re not on the canvas. You told me she was reaching out, asking for help.”

  Gia frowned at the painting. “He cut them off, didn’t he?”

  She hadn’t even hesitated.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She nodded. “Again. It’s a matter of interpretation.”

  “Right.” He told himself not to make any judgments. He was here to gather information. “What about the moon on her tongue? What does that symbolize?”

  “It tasted sweet,” she said. “That’s why I put it on her tongue.”

  Like a cake, he thought to himself, remembering the crumbs found on the victim’s lips.

  “And the eye inside her stomach? Why there?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure.” She pushed her hair back, looking suddenly tired. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be more helpful.”

  He wanted to press her. She could very well be hiding something. He was here to make sense of her story—and if the facts didn’t jibe, that, too, could be significant.

  Suddenly, she sat down cross-legged on the floor. In that moment, she looked incredibly vulnerable. A woman carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “His lover was pressing your brother to leave his wife,” she said. “But your brother needed to be perfect. The perfect husband, the perfect father, the perfect surgeon. The affair was his only vice. He didn’t want anyone to know he was a homosexual. Especially his son.”

  Everything she said was like a blow to…Like she’d dipped her hand inside his chest and squeezed. Seven couldn’t catch his breath.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up at him. “You were…projecting. Sometimes, it’s hard to hold back.”

  He forced himself to take deep breaths, tried not to be conspicuous about it. He thought about what Erika had told him. Next, she’ll be saying your brother murdered somebody.

  It wouldn’t be hard to piece it together. Even Nightline had contacted Ricky’s attorney. Between the newspaper articles and what was available on the Internet, there wasn’t much left to the imagination.

  Gia gave him a tired smile. “You really should go see him.”

  Seven took a step back. He hadn’t visited his brother in months.

  “Mom? You okay?”

  He looked toward the door. There stood a young girl, the one in the photos—almost a carbon copy of her mother, except for the curls. Gia rose as her daughter came to stand next to her.

  The girl looked at Seven with such a fierce expression, he almost burst out laughing.

  “You a cop?” she asked.

  That brash expression, as if she wasn’t under five feet and wearing Keds…He had to smile at her tone, all bluster and suspicion. She made him think about his nephew, Nick, and his dull ex
pression. How different this young woman was from Ricky’s boy.

  Seven held out his hand. “Detective Seven Bushard, at your service.”

  The girl gave a firm shake while looking him over. “Seven. That’s a weird name.”

  “It’s a nickname. Just sort of stuck over the years. My real name is Stephen.”

  She nodded. “Stephen—Bushard. Seven letters. You’re into numerology.”

  He looked at Gia. He couldn’t imagine a kid coming up with that explanation so quickly.

  “Not really,” he said. “It was a friend of mine. He was into that stuff and gave me the name.”

  “But you kept it,” she insisted.

  He gave his most charming smile. “I thought it sounded cool.”

  She nodded. “It does. Sure as hell beats Stephen, anyway.”

  “Language,” Gia said, taking her daughter’s hand and giving it a squeeze. To Seven, she said, “I’ll walk you to the door, Detective.”

  Seven found himself outmaneuvered. He wasn’t done with his interview, and still he was following her out.

  At the door, he was about to tell her as much, that he wasn’t finished with her. Only she beat him to the punch, saying, “Your partner has a private investigator following me. He’ll report your presence here. I thought you might want to know.”

  She shut the door before he could respond.

  Gia collapsed to the entry floor. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  Once again, her daughter watched from the doorway. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and held one hip jutting out. She didn’t look at all pleased by the prospect.

  “Yes,” Gia told her. “I like him.”

  She hid enough from her daughter. She didn’t need to keep such a trivial secret. Nor would it do her any good to even try. Once Stella had a bead on a particular emotion, holding out only made her dig in.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Gia said, referring to Stella’s interruption in the studio.

  Her daughter turned toward the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she said, “I was trying to do my homework, but you were giving me a headache. By the way, I’m making us spaghetti for dinner.”

  And there was the problem. Stella was too in tune with her mother. Emotions like the ones Gia was fighting with Seven being the worst kind to try and hide.

  Gia followed her into the kitchen. She had been hoping to give herself more time with her daughter, but now she understood she’d waited too long already.

  The spirit was closer. Stalking her. And despite any hedging on her part to Seven, Gia knew the killer. She wasn’t waiting for him to arrive on her doorstep.

  Time to find Stella a safe place.

  36

  Seven had taken Nick to Steve’s Burgers on Warner, one of those burger joints, inevitably run by a Greek, where the food was piled high and served with a smile. They’d both indulged in pastrami sandwiches and chocolate shakes. He’d asked Nick about school and basketball, anything but the obvious—how his mother was doing. How Nick felt about his father.

  Seven told himself Nick needed time to just be a kid, to forget all the darkness that was going on in his life. But he wondered if maybe it wasn’t only his nephew who needed the break.

  And it worked—at least for the span of a dinner. They tried to outdo each other on knock-knock jokes, and had a fry-eating contest. They even played thumb wars. Seven was pretty ruthless, never “letting” Nick win. Because it didn’t matter. It was the good old days. Just he and Nick having a good time.

  But driving back to the house, he could see Nick sinking into the passenger seat. They both knew what was waiting for them at home.

  The minute they stepped inside Ricky’s minimansion, with its perfect view of the main channel, they heard Beth crying upstairs.

  Without batting an eye, Seven asked, “How’s the homework situation?”

  “I’m on it.”

  On his way to his room, Nick stopped to stare up the steps toward his mother’s bedroom. The look on his nephew’s face…suddenly, that kid seemed a hundred years old.

  Seven knew what lay ahead—a night of hand-holding. But now he wondered how many nights it was Nick who had held his mother’s hand when Seven wasn’t here to take on the load.

  After he’d set Nick up with his math, frankly amazed the kid was doing pre-algebra—algebra, for cripe’s sake—Seven walked up the stairs.

  Beth had been drinking heavily, an empty bottle of some pricey chardonnay stood on the nightstand next to a Waterford goblet. He remembered shopping for his brother’s wedding. Beth had registered at Nieman Marcus. A set of her china cost almost a week’s salary.

  He sat down on the bed next to her. He picked up the bottle of Xanax, the tranquilizer her doctor had prescribed.

  “Hey,” he said, brushing her hair from her face. “I don’t think the pills mix with the booze. You want to end up in the hospital? You think Nick can handle that?”

  She bit her lip, the tears still coming. “I know, I know.” She looked up at him, shaking her head. “Don’t make me feel worse. I try, Seven. It’s just…shit. I had a really bad day.”

  “Beth, you need to call me when you’re like this.”

  “You’re here now.” She snuggled up to him, putting her arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest. “That’s all that matters.”

  He rubbed her arm, feeling the weight of that burden. “Help me here, Beth. I have Ricky and Nick to think about. I can’t worry about you, too.”

  She nodded, brushing away her tears. “I see a therapist. I’m trying. What more can I do, Seven?”

  He remembered being jealous once, of Ricky and his perfect wife and family. The pride he’d brought to Seven’s parents. They loved to talk about Ricky’s newest accomplishments, the practice he’d opened in Newport Beach, his stock portfolio, the fifty-five-foot yacht. The private schools and sailing lessons for Nick.

  But now, Seven couldn’t help but make the comparison. Gia and that painting—her daughter and her fierce expression. The two of them stood against the world, propping each other up. No way Gia would let her kid down like this.

  But he told himself he didn’t know their story. Maybe it was just harder, falling from Beth’s great heights.

  He looked back at the bottle of wine next to the prescription medicine. “You’re going to have to stop, Beth. If you need help, I can take care of Nick. Maybe you could go somewhere. A clinic, you know?”

  She shook her head. “He’s all I have, Seven. I can’t. I just can’t.” She looked up at him, biting her lip. “I won’t let him down. I swear to God I won’t. Not after everything that’s happened.” She nodded, as if she was making a pact with herself. “Tomorrow, I start getting sober. No more trying to stay numb.” She looked up again, her pale blue eyes weepy and needy. “But tonight, can you just hold me? Until I fall asleep?”

  “Sure.”

  And why not? He’d done it before. Many times.

  “He was never around,” she said, her voice heavy with the meds and alcohol. “I thought it was the job. He was such a gifted surgeon. I didn’t know he didn’t love me anymore…if he ever did. I was so stupid.”

  “How could loving anyone be stupid?” he asked.

  For a while, they didn’t speak. He just held her, stroking her hair, waiting for her breathing to grow deep and rhythmic with sleep.

  “Do you ever miss it?” she asked after a while. “Being married?”

  He sighed, thinking about Laurin. They’d had a tumultuous relationship. She’d thought she was pregnant and they’d jumped the gun. It hadn’t lasted. Big surprise.

  “I got married too young and for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t ever going to work out.”

  “I miss it,” she said, nuzzling closer. “A lot. I didn’t know how much I loved being married. I was someone’s wife and mother. Did you know I was running for PTA president when he killed Scott?”

  �
��Hey. This wasn’t your fault. Ricky made some bad choices, not you, okay?”

  “I wonder sometimes,” she whispered. “Maybe if I’d been prettier…smarter. Better.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap.”

  “Really?” She looked up at him. “My husband left me for a man.”

  “What Ricky did was a huge betrayal,” Seven told her, suddenly finding himself having the conversation he’d planned for Nick. “He betrayed you and his family. How is that your fault?”

  The tears spilled. “Why didn’t I know, Seven? How could I have missed the signs?”

  “Come on, Beth. I’m a homicide detective and I didn’t know there was anything wrong.”

  “I lived with him. I slept with him.” She reached up and touched Seven’s face. “You hate it, that I’m weak.”

  “That’s the booze talking.”

  She bit her lip again, looking entirely too vulnerable. “Maybe it wasn’t just Ricky who made some bad choices.”

  She was delivering the message loud and clear: Did I pick the wrong brother?

  “I’m not such a prince,” Seven told her.

  “From where I’m sitting, you’re looking pretty good.”

  Shit, he thought, remembering everything Erika had told him.

  He pulled away gently. “Promise me something? You get sober, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

  She saw the rejection in his eyes. She rolled into a little ball on the bed. “Oh, God.”

  Again, that image of Gia flooded his mind. He couldn’t imagine her falling apart like this. And that kid of hers, the two of them were like a mother lion and cub.

  “Come on, Beth. What’s Nick going to think if you and I can’t keep it together? I’m his uncle—all he has besides his grandparents to make up for that image of his dad in an orange suit with his hands cuffed. He needs me…he needs you. What he doesn’t need is us screwing that up, okay?”

  She rubbed the tears from her eyes, sitting up. He could see she liked the idea that his rejection was something practical rather than personal.

  “You’re right, of course. I don’t want to be that kind of mother—I don’t want to be this kind of a mother,” she added angrily. She shook her head, looking more sober. “I’ll talk to my counselor.” She brushed away her tears. “Maybe I do need to get away.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “Your parents already offered. But you’ll check in on him, won’t you?”