The Collector

by Cameron

  Meredith stood in the doorway. He must have forgotten to close his office door, something he would normally do.

  Talk about losing it….

  She was holding a tray with a coffee carafe, cup and saucer, and all the trimmings. “Maria just made some biscotti,” she said, in that breathy voice he hated. “I brought you some.”

  He picked up a notebook and placed it on top of the crumpled paper. “Fine.”

  She was wearing a flowing gown. Swear to God, it looked like a freaking muumuu on her. He wondered if she thought she could make up for her own lack with the yards of fabric.

  He tried to recall those early years when her blond hair had been long and lustrous, her figure full. But he couldn’t connect this bag of skin and bones to those memories.

  She placed the tray on his desk. There was a china bowl with sugar cubes and a tiny silver creamer. She poured him a cup of coffee, added one sugar and lots of cream, just the way he liked it. She followed up with the plate of biscotti. Only, when she finished, she didn’t leave. She stood there, hovering.

  “What is it?” he asked. Shit. He didn’t have time to deal with his neurotic wife.

  “I spoke to Rocket last night,” she said, surprising him. “He explained how you’re helping Owen.” She paused, the words almost too much for her. “I appreciate it, David. I most certainly do.”

  He stared up at his wife, trying again to remember the woman he’d married. Jesus, how many times had he seen her do a line of coke? How often had he heard her scream in orgasm? But these days, his wife spoke like a Puritan. I most certainly do.…

  “Rocket called you?”

  She nodded. “He wanted to make sure I understood. We’re all in this together.”

  David stared up at his wife, nonplussed. Someone had stolen the Eye. They were trying to frame him for the death of three women. And Rocket, dear Rocket, was trying to save his marriage?

  “Meredith,” he said. “Let me be very clear. At this point, I don’t give a shit what happens to Owen.”

  She looked as if he’d hit her. “Then why call Rose Fletcher—”

  “It’s me, Meredith. They think I killed those women.”

  She cocked her head like a bird, the very idea that he could be any sort of threat completely foreign to her.

  After a while, she spoke. “I know you don’t love me, David.”

  Oh, shit. Here we go again.

  “But we must stand united as a family, just like Rocket said.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “Whatever you need, David. As long as Owen is safe, you’ll have my support.” Those dull blue eyes met his. “Do you understand, David? Anything.”

  She reached out with an ice-cold hand and gripped his on the desk, as if the statement needed emphasis. “I’ll come back for the tray later.”

  In shock, he watched her turn and walk out of the room. Had she really said what he thought?

  Anything….

  But there was no mistaking her intentions. That tone, the look in her eyes.

  “Fuck me,” he said under his breath.

  Who knew the bitch could still be of use to him?

  He picked up the phone and called Rose. Her secretary put him through immediately.

  He said into the phone to his attorney, “I have an alibi.”

  It took only one sip of Gina’s coffee to let Carin know she was dealing with a caffeine aficionado.

  She put down her cup. “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  Gina didn’t even pretend to care.

  With a sigh of regret, Carin reached for the file she’d been given. She turned to the first highlighted passage.

  “‘There were eyes everywhere,’” Carin read from the transcript of Gina’s interview with homicide. “‘And there was something in her mouth. Something very old—very powerful. And small. Blue. No red. Perhaps made of glass.’”

  When Gina didn’t respond, she said, “At that point, they began video taping you. You articulated a perfect description of one of the beads from the Eye.” When Gina still didn’t respond, Carin added, “There’s also a sketch.” She placed the pencil drawing on the table, the one Gia Moon had delivered to the police.

  “It’s very accurate,” Carin said.

  Estelle had confided in only a few people the intimate details of the Eye, what it looked like and how it worked. Certainly, her daughter was one of those people, but the drawing was almost too real, as if Gina had actually seen it, held it—something Carin had never had the opportunity to do.

  The minute Carin had seen the sketch she’d begun to wonder. When and where had Gia seen the Eye? But her question was met with only silence and an almost obstinate glare.

  “Of course,” Carin said, “you would have to pretend you knew nothing about the artifact. Obviously, you’ve gone to great lengths to hide here.” She indicated the kitchen, the house. “In plain sight, as they say. I just want to know what else you’re hiding.”

  Gina turned her coffee cup in her hands. Carin could almost see the wheels turning. Do I trust her?

  “Have you heard from Thomas?” Carin asked, pushing a little.

  Gina glanced up at the clock in the kitchen above Carin’s head. “I think it took you all of fifteen minutes to bring out the heavy artillery. That’s got to be some kind of record for you.”

  Carin could see immediately she’d made a mistake. “Have I ever held back?”

  “I don’t know where the Eye is, Carin. If that’s why you’re here, you’re wasting your time. So don’t bother with the veiled threats.”

  Carin didn’t know how she’d expected Gina to react when she mentioned Thomas. But she wasn’t here to threaten anyone. “Your mother was the only person in this world who gave me hope. If Thomas finds you, it won’t be through me.”

  “You have what you came for, then,” Gina said, referring, no doubt, to the painting. “You can show yourself out.”

  Carin nodded, seeing that her olive branch had done no good. She packed up the sketch and transcript. “We’ll keep in touch.”

  Terrence had warned Carin. Don’t go in like a bull in a china shop.

  Outside, she took out her cell phone as she walked toward the rental car she’d parked outside Gina’s house. She punched in the number for the coroner’s office. She knew how to cut through the red tape.

  In less time than it took for Carin Barnes to get inside her rental and start the engine, she was talking to the coroner.

  “Check everything in the stomach cavity of Velvet Tien,” she said into the cell phone. “Call me as soon as you find it.”

  41

  Thomas Crane was reading through The Lunites Web site. The board had lit up like the Fourth of July with the breaking news: there’d been another killing in the case of the fortune-teller.

  Two murders, actually, from the accounts picked up by the wire services. This time, it was the fortune-teller and her lawyer client who’d been slaughtered…in the middle of a reading, judging from the I Ching yarrow sticks found on the floor.

  The murders were incredibly brutal, including what looked like a ritual evisceration. But what captivated Thomas the most was the fact that the police were working with a psychic by the name of Gia Moon.

  “Aren’t you a clever girl, Gina.”

  After all these years, he’d fucking found her.

  Even the thought of seeing her again, the anticipation, was laced with rage, No one could make him angrier than Gina.

  They’d met that summer at Estelle’s dig site. Gina didn’t advertise that she was Estelle’s daughter. It was Estelle herself who had given him the news.

  He remembered as if it was yesterday, instead of twelve years ago. Don’t you break my baby’s heart, Estelle had said with a wink.

  At first, he thought the relationship could be advantageous. No way would Estelle play ball with the likes of David Gospel, selling the Eye to a private collector if she should ever get her hands on it. Thomas had thought that if he had Gina on his side…r />
  As things turned out, Gina’s love was worth shit. Pure shit. She’d crapped all over him.

  Ever since he’d met that bitch it was like someone had dropped the fucking A-bomb on him. Wasn’t it her fault Estelle was dead? She’d filled her mother’s head with these great aspirations. Estelle wanted to find a place for psychics in society, trying to make a “better world” for her little girl. Once she found the Eye, Estelle planned to use it to give normal people “the psychic experience,” as she called it. Forget faith; once and for all people could see it up close and personal. Psychics would no longer be those bizarre beings nobody believed. With the Eye, the paranormal would practically be a science.

  But thanks to Gina, Thomas ended up losing both Gospel’s money and the Eye. He hadn’t counted on Estelle leaving her “psychic” clues for her daughter. Here she was carrying his child, but did that stop Gina from turning him in? To get his ass out of jail and back home in one piece, it had cost him almost every penny Gospel gave him.

  As his anger grew, Thomas noticed the creeping scent of sulfur filling the air. He closed his eyes and lifted his hands off the keyboard, knowing what was coming. The last thing he saw was that photograph of Gina on his screen saver.

  He woke up on the floor. As he slowly rose to his feet, the memory of what had triggered the attack came over him.

  He groggily climbed back into his chair. He checked the postings again, making sure he had it right. That the name Gia Moon on the screen wasn’t some sort of delusion.

  Thomas smiled. Sometimes, if a man was patient, life might just hand him a gift. And this was a gift.

  He’d been forced into this low, hidden life by Gina. She’d stripped him of everything. Even his dreams. He could close his eyes this very minute and she’d be there, taunting him, always whispering with a beguiling smile, One day I will be the end of you, Thomas.

  “Not if I get to you first.”

  In Greece, he’d found out she’d been the one to tip off the police before she’d disappeared. If she’d stuck around—if he’d killed her in the heat of passion—that mistake could have earned him a life sentence. Now, he had time to plan.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  He smiled. Someone was killing psychics?

  He picked up the phone. “Imagine that.”

  Stella was crying. That in itself made Gia’s job more difficult. Stella never cried.

  “I don’t want to go. Something horrible is going to happen. That’s why you’re sending me away. You’re trying to protect me. And you can’t.”

  Stella had refused to pack, but her mother had been way ahead of her, doing the packing for her. She’d contacted Stella’s school, completed the necessary forms for her daughter to attend school where she’d be staying.

  The hardest part: calling Morgan and setting the rules. She doesn’t even accept her gifts—don’t push her. Gia didn’t know how much she could trust her ambitious father and his band of psychics-with-doctoral-degrees.

  “You won’t even tell me what’s going on!”

  Gia pulled her daughter into her arms, hugging her. “Because it’s nothing.”

  “Nothing” that came in the form of a newspaper article, exposing Gia Moon to the world.

  “I can handle this,” she whispered. “Okay?”

  But when she looked into her daughter’s eyes, she only saw Stella’s fears.

  “What if I could help?” Stella whispered.

  Gia smiled. “A mark of true desperation—you admitting you actually have psychic abilities.”

  The girl knuckled the tears from her eyes, impatient with her own emotions. She was the little warrior, ready to take on anyone. “If you need me, yeah. Okay.”

  Gia kissed the top of her head. “Of course I need you, sweetheart. But not like that. I’ll be fine. I swear.”

  A necessary lie, she told herself. What good would it do to worry Stella?

  But Gia knew she was on shaky moral ground…not exactly new territory for her. Not since her first vision with Mimi Tran through the eyes of her demon killer. She hadn’t been able to help those women. Her gift—knowledge of the future without the power to change it—made her that much more culpable.

  Now Carin was on the scene, threatening her. Because Carin was dead right; there were things Gia couldn’t tell Stella or Seven or anyone else, for that matter. Not if she wanted to keep her daughter safe.

  Still holding her, she made a silent vow that she would be ready…and she had little enough time to prepare. She’d read the article in the paper this morning, just like everyone else.

  Cops Use Psychic in Fortune-teller Murders.

  By now, the information would have spread through blogs and Web sites, delivered with the ease of a high-speed connection.

  The truth was, ready or not, he would come.

  42

  Seven stood next to Erika before the chief’s desk. They’d been called in—one of those special invitations every cop learned to dread.

  Apparently, Gospel had been filing motions all morning—cease-and-desist; unlawful imprisonment—threatening to sue anything that moved.

  The mayor’s rage over headlines and lawsuits still lingered in the room with her designer perfume.

  I told you to handle things—Roy—and trust me when I tell you that flagging down Gospel’s son and harassing him in a public place in front of witnesses does not help the situation!

  The chief was rubbing his temples, looking to fight off a migraine. “I told you to let the FBI handle this.”

  “Excuse me for saying so, Chief, but Special Agent Barnes made it very clear that she has a hard-on for some artifact we promised the Greek government,” Seven said, failing miserably to keep his own anger in check. “Finding the bastard who did this wasn’t exactly her focus.”

  “Gee, Seven. And here I thought it was justice for all?” Erika said.

  “That’s enough,” the chief snapped, banging his hand on his desk.

  But Seven didn’t think so. “The kid looked awfully good for the murder of MimiTran. For God’s sake, we’re cops, not politicians.”

  “Good for the Tran murder?” the chief asked, now seeming to pack it in with the mayor. Despite a shock of white hair and ten pounds he didn’t need, he could be pretty intimidating. Now he rose slowly to his full six feet two inches from behind his desk. “Where’s your evidence, Detective?”

  “I think that’s why it’s called an investigation, Chief,” Erika said, moving in like a bulldog.

  “I expect anyone on my force to act professionally. Harassing Owen and David Gospel is not professional.”

  “That’s right,” Seven said, turning to Erika. “We only shake down gangbangers and the homeless—”

  “And not law-abiding citizens,” the chief finished, starting to look a little purple in the face. “Jesus. All we have is some asinine psychic and now she’s front-page news? Do you have any idea how much damage control I’ve been doing this morning? If you ever think you’ve seen the shit hit the fan before, Detective Bushard, think again, because that time is now! It’s all our necks on the chopping block. So stop dicking around with Gospel and go get me some righteous evidence!”

  Seven recognized the last word when he heard it. He didn’t like it, but he and Erika headed out.

  Once they hit the hall, he flipped open his cell phone.

  He’d been calling steadily all morning. He’d left messages, but Gia wasn’t picking up or returning his calls…and he could well imagine why. Like the chief, she’d be getting calls from the press to the crazies. There was probably just a little puff of smoke on her counter where her answering machine had sat.

  Around the fifth time he punched in her number, Erika grabbed the phone from his hand and shut it.

  “Jesus,” she said, handing it back to him, “will you give it a rest?”

  Only he couldn’t. He hadn’t spoken to Gia since waking to find her unable to breathe in the bed beside him. Bringing her back from the brink
like that—her assertions that she would have been fine even if he hadn’t been there…that it was all part of the process. Her visions.

  What was it Nietzsche had said? Something about the irrationality of a thing being no argument against its existence, rather a condition of it?

  Well, Gia’s condition was blowing his mind. What he’d seen that night, that couldn’t be an act. Yesterday, he’d spent hours online, reading up on psychic phenomena. Then Erika shows up throwing information in his face that Gia Moon can’t exist? What the hell was Gia hiding from? His head was spinning.

  When Erika started honing in with her Latina sensitivity, he’d taken off. Most of the morning he’d spent just driving around. When Nick got out of school, he’d taken him fishing down at the pier—nothing like fishing to give a man space to think.

  Last night, he’d had it all straightened out. He’d confront Gia. Make her talk. If she was in trouble she could trust him.

  Only, when he woke up this morning, the world was upside down again.

  And now he couldn’t reach Gia. And he needed to. He had to find out if she was okay. That she and her kid weren’t being harassed. Or worse.

  I’m next. That’s what she’d said the first time she’d come in.

  Maybe now she would be.

  “You’re right,” he said, shoving the phone back into his jacket pocket. “This is useless.”

  With that, he headed for the nearest exit.

  Sam watched Owen Gospel from across the room, sizing him up. Owen had been at the Net High before, many times. He’d struck Sam as the type who was always in-the-know. Hot new club? Owen Gospel was the first through the door. If you wanted to make US Weekly, you invited people like Gospel.

  Right now, Owen was enjoying the attentions of two lovely ladies, friends of Sam’s, as well as his employees. Owen liked the ladies. He also had a reputation for liking it rough.

  Sam made sure to be accommodating. More often than not, the girls Owen used showed up with burns or needing stitches. Sam would take care of the situation, smoothing things over with cash. It didn’t take much. A lot of these girls were fresh off the boat and desperate. In Vietnam, human trafficking was practically a percentage of the gross national product.