The Collector

5

The precinct in Westminster wasn’t much. After the clock tower and its Tudor splendor—a tribute to the city’s English namesake—the landscape degraded into utilitarian government offices. Seven and Erika worked for the Crimes Against Persons unit.

With a population just under ninety thousand—nearly forty percent Asian—the city averaged two murders a year. Seven and Erika were the only homicide-robbery detectives. Given the city’s budget, they didn’t have the luxury of limiting their caseload to murders like Mimi Tran’s. Homicide-robbery shared space with family protection and the gang enforcement unit, the idea being that, during major investigations, everyone came together to work as a team.

Which didn’t usually include the mayor. Unless, of course, the case landed on the front page, with the potential of being there for a nice, long stay.

Currently, the post of mayor was held by a woman with the unfortunate name of Ruth Condum-Cox—Dr. Ruth (with a nice long roll of the R, just like the sex therapist and talk-show personality), but only when she wasn’t around to hear that quaint little sobriquet.

Seven had often thought that if your name was Condum, you should probably have the presence of mind to steer clear of a man named Cox. But not Dr. Ruth. She’d taken it to the next level and hyphenated.

But then what did he know? Memorable name like that? It might just work on a campaign poster.

Ruth Condum-Cox had a face that said she should lay off the plastic surgery. Hard to tell her real age, but she was simulating her late fifties pretty well. She’d made her money in real estate and favored power suits. She’d run on a tough-on-crime platform, giving her more than a few friends on the force, including the chief of police. Chief Flagler now hovered over Seven, acting like the Tran case was one hot potato he wanted served on someone else’s plate.

“The last thing we need is to let a case like this put Westminster on the map,” Condum-Cox said, jabbing her finger at the newspaper. “Look what Scott Petersen did to Modesto, for Christ’s sake. Not to mention Michael Jackson and that fiasco. Jesus, the overtime alone will kill us.”

Seven looked over at Erika. Day two into the Tran investigation and they were already getting heat from the brass to wrap things up?

“Mimi Tran had no gang affiliations that we know of.”

This scintillating piece of good cheer was provided by Detective Harold Pham, a new face to the family protection unit. Pham was half American, half Vietnamese, and liked playing Johnny on the spot. Given the audience, he wasn’t likely to miss his shot.

Condum-Cox jumped on it. “We need to follow up on just that sort of thing. What else do we have?”

Seven looked at the chief, wondering how long he was going to let the game of Let’s Play Detective roll along. Since when did the mayor’s office lead an investigation?

“No weapon, no motive…nada,” Erika said, flipping through the file. “The autopsy is scheduled for later today.”

Condum-Cox frowned—or at least she made an attempt. Not much got past the Botox. “Autopsy? But I thought the cause of death was obvious. She was stabbed, right?”

“Multiple times. But we still need the medical examiner to confirm she bled out,” the chief said.

Condum-Cox nodded. Suddenly, she stiffened. She turned a wide-eyed stare on Seven, as if just realizing something.

“Detective Bushard, your brother was recently convicted of murder.”

It wasn’t a question.

Seven felt himself flush. “He pled guilty to second degree, yes, your honor.”

Seven could see the gears turning in the mayor’s head. A lead detective with a colorful background like Seven’s wouldn’t help her cause, not if she wanted to keep the networks off their backs.

The look she gave the chief was priceless.

“Detective Bushard and Detective Cabral are our most seasoned investigators. They have a top-notch record,” the chief said, coming late to Seven’s defense.

Not to mention they were the only two detectives in homicide for the city of Westminster—with a caseload that made Seven more than once wish he could clone himself.

Of course, none of that mattered at the moment. The long hours he’d put in; the tremendous responsibility he’d shackled on like a ball and chain, costing him his marriage. Hell, what was personal happiness compared to bad publicity for the city? He could almost hear fifteen years on the force being flushed down the crapper.

“Chief, I hate to interrupt, but—” Erika tapped her watch “—Detective Bushard and I have an interview with a vital witness for the Tran murder.” She glanced anxiously at Seven. “No promises, but this could be the break we need.”

Suddenly, all worries of a 60 Minutes segment vanished from the mayor’s porcelain face. “Well, goodness gracious.” Condum-Cox attempted a smile. “Proceed, of course.”

Seven grabbed his jacket, following Erika’s lead. “This might take a while.”

“Not a problem,” the mayor said. She waved them off, turning to the chief and the crestfallen Pham, who would be staying behind.

Outside, the sun felt warm on Seven’s face. “So,” he asked Erika, knowing full well she’d just bailed his ass. “What’s our hot date?”

She pulled on her Christian Dior sunglasses. They weren’t even fakes. She said spending money on shit like that made her feel rich.

“Starbucks.” Looking more like a starlet than a homicide detective, she headed for the car, a tan Crown Victoria. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a latte.”

Erika ordered a vanilla latte—nonfat, decaf, sugar-free.

“What’s the point?” Seven asked, grabbing his double espresso from the barista.

“A girl’s gotta watch her figure.”

“Right,” he said, holding the door open so that they could sit outside. “What are you, a size two?”

“Puhleeze!” She sat down at one of the cement benches. “Size four. That size two shit is for anorexic models with boob jobs.” She leaned forward, showing a hint of cleavage exposed by her button-down shirt beneath her jacket.

She cocked a single brow and lowered her voice to theatrical huskiness. “These babies are real.”

“No kidding?” He held back a smile, trying not to give her the satisfaction of cracking up.

She winked. “I figured you’d know the difference, cowboy.”

This time he did laugh. Ricky had been a plastic surgeon in Newport Beach before the AMA suspended his license. He’d had stories. The fact was, a boob job here was about as ubiquitous as a Lexus or a Mercedes on the 405 Freeway.

Seven took a sip of his espresso. “What’s going to happen when there’s no secret-weapon witness that we conveniently had to interview? Urgently? The chief is going to chew your ass.”

She rolled her eyes. “Give the man some credit. The chief knows what’s up. Dr. Rrrruth—” she rolled the German R “—may pull the strings, but that doesn’t mean the chief has to like it.”

Seven shook a finger at her. “You know, for someone who rocketed up the ranks by strategic ass-kissing, you sure don’t know what’s good for your career.”

“The key is strategic. I’m no Pham.” She wrapped her hands around the latte. “The sad fact is, he’d actually be a good cop if he wasn’t so busy climbing over bodies to score points.”

Seven took a minute, focused on the espresso, waiting for the levity to dissipate. Eventually, he told her, “I wish you hadn’t put it on the line like that with the mayor.”

Again, she gave a roll of her eyes. Erika had an arsenal of facial expressions, like a sexy raised brow or a killer smile. “But I did, so let’s forget it, okay? Now, help me come up with something the chief will like.”

He’d been thinking about the case all night, unable to get that image of Mimi Tran out of his head. He and Erika had been going over their notes from the witness interviews, the mother and daughter who had found the body, as well as neighbors. That’s when, like some celebrity evading her paparazzi, the mayor had made her entrance, the chief in tow.

“It’s a blank slate right now,” Seven said.

“Yeah?”

Erika grabbed a notebook from her purse, one of those mailbag types that could carry the kitchen sink if she needed. He’d seen smaller suitcases.

“Blank slate,” she said, slapping down a pen on the notebook for good measure. “At your service.”

He shook his head and picked up the pen. That was the problem with him and Erika: their curious meeting of the minds. They were a good fit.

He gave her a hard stare. “I wasn’t kidding. I don’t want you going down with the ship, okay?”

Which was exactly what would happen. He wasn’t fooling anyone. Since Ricky hit the six o’clock news, Seven’s own life had gone upside down. And he wasn’t near getting his act together. Now, murder and the mayor had landed on his doorstep for good measure.

“I said forget it. Now here—” she placed a dot at the center of the page and wrote “Tran” over it like a label “—is our murder victim.”

She drew several lines radiating outward and labeled the first one “occupation—psychic.”

“We start with Mimi Tran’s client list.” She drew several more lines radiating from there, each presumably representing possible clients and suspects. “We have her laptop and her PDA.”

“There was also a desk calendar back at the crime scene.”

“Exactomundo.” Erika tapped the page. “So we find out who saw her last and why.”

Going back to the center, she drew another line. In capital letters, she wrote “BLACK ARTS.”

“The bird?” he asked.

“It wasn’t exactly a scene from a Disney movie, now was it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You ever see Snow White?” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “That queen.”

He drew his own line and wrote “Fucking Bizarre.”

She smiled. “That, too.”

“Maybe we look for someone who thinks Mimi Tran shouldn’t be dispensing doom and gloom.”

“She gives some really bad mojo to a client. They begin to think they can erase the prophecy by getting rid of Tran.”

“As good a motive as any,” he said.

Erika drew another line and put a big question mark at the end. “The bead inside the bird’s beak. It was weird. When I held it up to different light sources, incandescent or fluorescent, it changed color. Like somebody turned on a switch, blue to red. No blurry transition, like those mood rings in the seventies. And then there was this sharp white line down the center, making it look like a cat’s eye.”

“Remember the symbols on the wall?” Over her question mark he wrote “All-seeing Eye.”

Erika cocked her head. “Could be.”

Hurriedly, he drew another line radiating out from the question mark, now in the mode. “And those wooden idols on the desk, they looked old. Museum quality. Maybe the bead is some sort of artifact?” He wrote the word as he said it, in capital letters.

“Something looted from an archeological site? Maybe sold by dealers on the black market?”

“Like the Getty.”

Just recently, the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles had hit the headlines. And not in a good way. There’d been quite a brouhaha concerning the Italian government’s claim that the Getty’s newest collection of masterpieces had been looted from ancient ruins and laundered—just like drug money. Most controversial were pieces like the Morgantina Apollo. The black market made it almost impossible to ascertain the history of these important pieces because, by necessity, the laundering process destroyed evidence about the origins of the artifact.

Museums like the Getty were credited with stimulating the illegal trade in antiquities. In an unprecedented move, the Italian government had filed criminal charges against one of the curators, claiming collusion with the dealers who’d sold the museum the collection.

Seven reached for his notebook and flipped to the hand-drawn symbols he’d copied from the crime-scene walls. He turned the notebook for Erika to look at.

“So there’s eyes painted on the wall, and the bead has a cat’s eye thing going.”

“And the victim is missing her eyes. Maybe it’s not so complicated,” he said. “Putting it in her mouth like that. Drawing the image with blood on the wall. Could be a warning of some kind. She was in on this looting deal and double-crossed someone?”

“Maybe.” Erika took a sip of her latte, looking out toward the street. “Ever heard of the evil eye?”

He finished his coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trash can, making the rim shot. “The evil eye? Come on. I thought you said you didn’t believe in that stuff?”

She shrugged. “But I grew up with that stuff. From the day I was born, I didn’t go out in public without my azabache,” she said, holding up her wrist. She wore a gold bracelet from which hung a piece of jet.

Seven knew she wore the bracelet out of nostalgia. It had been a gift from her mother. Erika explained about how el mal de ojo, or the evil eye, was usually transmitted inadvertently by someone who was envious or jealous. The story would go that a mother would take her new baby into town and a childless woman would say something like, “Oh, what a pretty baby.” Next thing you know, the kid has a fever or is vomiting. An azabache, or piece of jet, protected its wearer from the evil eye.

“Look,” Erika said, dead serious, “lots of cultures believe in this stuff. But the fact is, in this case the only person who needs to believe is the perp.”

He shook his head. “I think I’ll go with what’s behind door number two.” Seven drew another line on the paper radiating out from the central dot.

He wrote Greed and underlined the word twice.

“So it’s just some sort of camouflage, the bird and the bead?” She looked at the diagram, the lines radiating out from the center, letting it sink in.

She smiled and tapped the word. “Greed. I like it.”

He glanced at his watch. “You think it’s safe to go back to the station? Take a look at what’s on the victim’s PDA?”

She stood, grabbing the notebook and her purse. “Are you kidding? Dr. Ruth is long gone. It’s lunchtime. Prime fund-raising hours. By the way, how did it go yesterday with Beth and Nick?”

He shrugged, knowing she would eventually get to that. “How does it always go? She took a Xanax and I took Nick to Taco Bell. I stayed a couple of hours, put them both to bed.”

Out in the parking lot, he opened the door to the Crown Vic and got in. He kept waiting for the lecture, knowing it was there on the tip of her tongue. But Erika just started the car.

He looked over at her profile. He could see she was trying hard not to say anything. She made no move to back out of the parking space, just let the engine run.

“I can feel the disapproval beaming back at me from across the car, Obi-Wan,” he said.

She pressed her lips together, as if maybe she’d hold back. But then she let out this sigh and turned to him. “I’m sorry, but it’s been over eight months. How long are you going to sacrifice yourself on the altar of Ricky’s sins?”

“God, you Catholics. The drama.” He stared out the window, having nothing new to add to the debate.

But Erika was a bulldog. “First, your French-Canadian self is just as Catholic as me—practicing or not—so don’t be throwing my religion in my face. Look, I know you have Nick to think about. But here’s the thing. So does Beth. That boy should be her primary concern.”

Her tone said it all. As long as he was holding Beth’s hand through the crisis, she wouldn’t step up.

Erika gripped the steering wheel, her jaw set. She looked to be bracing herself.

“Okay,” she said, plunging in. “I’m going to say it. It’s a mistake but here goes. Beth wants in your pants and she’s not stopping until she has you, ring on the finger and all.” His partner turned to look at him. “Face it, Seven. She wants to replace one brother with the other.”

“Give me a break,” he said, completely disgusted by the idea. “Her life is falling apart. Hooking up with me is about the last thing she needs right now.”

Erika shook her head. “You don’t know women, Seven.”

“Oh, so because my marriage goes south—a marriage that I was way, way too young to take on—I’m a total loser when it comes to women?”

“And don’t we sound a tad defensive? What’s the matter, partner?” she asked. “Are you worried that because you fucked up once you don’t deserve to be happy? Is that what your life is about for the next twenty years, while Ricky does time? Stick around and fix your brother’s mess?”

Before he could respond—and dammit, he wanted to—Erika’s cell interrupted. She picked up with a frown.

After a minute, she glanced over to Seven with a look of surprise. He braced himself. It took a lot to surprise Erika.

“You are not going to believe this.” She slapped the phone shut and put the car into Reverse. She pulled out of the parking space. “That was Pham. We’ve got a live one.”

Again, that radar between partners. “A witness?”

Erika peeled out. “In the flesh.”

6

Most days, Paul Rocket had a kick-ass job. He’d wake up to Pink Floyd’s The Wall pulsing on the Bose sound system and do a set of push-ups right there on the cabin floor. Afterward, he’d head into the galley and blend up a protein drink. He liked Ultra Megaman. That shit put on muscle like nobody’s business.

Rocket wasn’t into steroids. He’d seen too many guys go nuts on the stuff. Why the hell take the risk when he could get the same results with diet and exercise? Hell, he’d read just about every book printed on nutrition. Not to mention the stuff on the Internet.

Oh, yeah, Rocket was living the life. He’d watch the sunrise on the deck of his fifty-five-foot schooner, dialed in to CNN on his laptop while powering down his drink. The sun sparkling on the water in Newport Harbor—now that was something. Imagine, Paul Rocket—ex-Special Forces, ex-mercenary—enjoying this slice of paradise. Afterward, he’d hit the gym. He had a membership at Gold’s. All courtesy of Mr. David.

Mr. David was a great man. Travel, money…hell, anything Rocket ever wanted, he just had to ask.

Like he said, most days, Paul Rocket had a kick-ass job.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

He stepped into the art gallery and looked around at the bizarre shit hanging on the walls. The black-and-white photographs showed a bunch of naked bodies twined together so that you couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended. Looked like a bunch of dudes, too. People actually paid money for this crap?

As he crossed the open room, men and women scurried out of his way like so many rats. At six foot four and 265 pounds, Rocket was used to that. His father had been a huge Samoan asshole who’d left his mom when Rocket was only five and his younger brother still in diapers. But at least he’d passed on his gene pool. Rocket had a tattoo of a cobra on the back of his shaved head but he preferred Armani suits and Bruno Magli shoes. People didn’t expect that, a man like Rocket dressing with class.

He looked around at all the rich boys and girls. This was the OC. To these folks, Rocket was an alien life form.

The thing was, today Rocket wasn’t the muscle. He was the babysitter.

He saw Owen leaning over some babe in the corner of the room. This one was skinny and blond and could barely stand despite the noon hour. Shit, was that dress made of red rubber? And there was Owen, getting an eyeful.

Rocket couldn’t figure the kid out. He looked so normal, charming even. But Rocket knew better.

He could tell the exact moment Owen knew he was coming up behind him. The kid had radar for that sort of thing. Rocket wondered sometimes if he had superhearing or something because of his eyes. Sometimes nature did things like that—took a little in one area and made up for it in another.

Rocket had been in Special Forces before he’d fucked up in Nicaragua and gotten his ass kicked out of the military. He’d been working for Mr. David ever since. Important people like Mr. David needed security, and Rocket was the best. Only—despite all his training—the kid had gotten the jump on him a time or two.

He’d mentioned it to Mr. David once. How quietly the kid could move. Mr. David had only laughed, saying that Owen was just like his creepy mother.

Mr. David didn’t care much for his wife. It was the only thing Rocket couldn’t respect about the man.

For Rocket, family was key. His mom lived with his baby brother, Anthony. Anthony was a cop and had a great wife and two daughters. Mom loved looking after those girls. They lived in Cincinnati, and Rocket always made a point to fly out and visit whenever he could.

He sent money, too, Mr. David making it possible for him to help out. Those girls, they were going to college. Rita, the oldest, she could probably go to Stanford or some shit like that. The kid had brains.

That’s why Rocket could understand what Mr. David was doing, protecting his son. A man had to take care of his own, right?

When Owen had first started acting weird, Mr. David pulled Rocket off security and asked him to start watching the kid full-time. Rocket was a little ashamed that he hadn’t always gotten the job done the way Mr. David meant. Sometimes the best Rocket could do was make sure the kid didn’t get his ass thrown into one of those foreign jails.

But those seven years roaming the globe…Mr. David had been happy with the kid’s progress. And Owen did seem different since they returned from his “missionary work” abroad, especially around Mr. David. But that only made Rocket suspicious. He wondered if it was all an act.

If maybe he should warn Mr. David.

But then things had quieted down. Mr. David had Owen working in the family real estate offices—if you called what the kid did work. And Rocket had his schooner docked in Newport Harbor.

He just hoped this didn’t turn out like that time in Nicaragua.

Owen smiled now, his eyes zeroing in on Rocket through the yellow lenses of his sunglasses.

Owen was tall, with blue eyes. Handsome, even. And he dressed like a million bucks. Every once in a while, he even gave Rocket a little fashion advice.

But there was something in that face. It had to do with his eyes. The boy didn’t blink. Some weakness in some muscle…he wore sunglasses all the time because his eyes could get damaged from outside dust and debris. He had to constantly put in drops to keep his eyes lubricated.

But it always struck Rocket as a little creepy how he could just stare and stare at you. Like now.

Sometimes, he’d get this expression on his face. Rocket had seen that look before. In Nicaragua, he’d worked with mercenaries, soldiers willing to work for just about anybody if the money was good. There’d been this one guy, the kind that liked the blood and gore a little too much.