The Collector (21 page)

C
arin Barnes sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, looking down at the file folders lined up before her. She was wearing running shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with her alma mater, the University of Michigan. In the weeks since she’d contacted Professor Murphy about the bead found at the murder site, she’d been gathering information on the players involved.

The first file folder, to her right, she’d labeled
“
David Gospel.”

Gospel was connected to the Eye through the murder of one Mimi Tran, the fortune-teller who’d been found stabbed to death with her eyes gouged out, and a bead from the oracle’s necklace stuffed in her mouth.

Not so coincidentally, his son, Owen Gospel, had been implicated in the separate death of another fortune-teller. To Carin, it looked to be a slam-dunk case…before a transient confessed to the murder. Even without FBI training, anyone could tell the file on the death of the Long Beach psychic, Michelle Larson, reeked.

Another interesting fact penned in the file: Gospel collected psychic artifacts.

“Imagine that,” she said, shutting the Gospel file and taking another drink of the ridiculously bad hotel coffee. From past experience, she knew no sugar or white powder that passed for cream could make a dent in it, so she drank it black.

Thus far, she hadn’t been able to connect Gospel with Estelle Fegaris or Thomas Crane, two of the other files set out before her.

Carin stared down at the file for Estelle, and smiled. After all these years, it would all come together—just as Estelle had predicted.

Carin knew Terrence, her boss at NISA, did not consider her the subtle sort. He’d spent most of their lunch together—before he’d given her the green light to head up the investigation here in California—he’d talked about her bull-in-a-china-shop approach. Finesse had never been a big part of her work at the FBI, which was exactly why she’d never been considered for covert operations.

Carin looked up into the mirror straight ahead. Clocking in at just under six feet, she had an athlete’s body. She wore her blond hair short and choppy, and hid her steel-gray eyes behind sensible lenses.

She’d lost count of how many times some random person had stopped her on the street to ask if she were interested in a career in modeling. There was even a time in graduate school when a short, balding man had run after her huffing and puffing down the streets of Old Town in Pasadena. He’d kept screaming that he
really
was an agent with the connections to get her on the cover of
any
magazine and she was going to be very
sorry
if she didn’t stop to talk to him.

Carin couldn’t have been less interested.

The way she saw it, she could either be one of those tall, skinny women with hunched shoulders who felt awkward in her own skin…or she could stand to her full height and ignore the gawkers. So, no, Terrence, Carin Barnes didn’t have an ounce of subtle in her.

She looked down at the files. But she did know how to keep secrets.

She opened the file labeled “Estelle Fegaris.”

Carin had always been fascinated by the brain. From the first time she’d studied biology in high school, she was determined to learn everything she could about the workings of the human mind. How was it possible that the chemical and electrical interactions of cells led to conscious thought? And if it’s true that we only use a small percentage of our mental capacity, what then was the purpose of the dormant sections?

These were questions that fascinated Carin Barnes. Particularly after Markie’s birth.

Her parents had been trying a long time for another baby, a sibling for Carin. They didn’t want her to be raised an only child. But it soon became clear that it just wasn’t in the cards. Even after costly and painful fertility treatments, her mother hadn’t been able to conceive.

And then, a miracle. After twelve years, when they’d given up on the possibility, they’d been blessed with a son, Markie.

It wasn’t until Markie turned three that they began to realize there was something different about him. Carin had been fifteen when he’d been diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder.

Suddenly, Carin’s interest in the brain had a purpose.

It turned out that autism was her generation’s new cancer. The incidence had increased to the point that the disorder was the topic de jour on all the talk shows, as well as headline news in the health section of the major newspapers. Every other grant had some neurobiologist claiming to have a finger on the cause or the cure.

Carin had her theories about the increase in autism in the general population. She wasn’t a fan of the “environmental causes” or the “over-vaccination” theories perpetuated in the media. Carin believed that autism was more like the high incidence of hemophelia in the royal bloodlines. The basic fact was that, when people married, they kept to a certain socioeconomic class. Autism, Carin believed, was just another case of inbreeding, like the Russian tsars right before the Bolshevik Revolution. It was a theory that was gaining some popularity in scientific circles.

From the University of Michigan, she chose Caltech for her graduate studies in order to work with Nobel Laureate Roger Sperry on the emergent properties of the brain. But Carin soon found work in the laboratory slow and unrewarding. It wasn’t getting her any closer to helping people like her brother. She was losing hope of making any substantial headway when fate introduced her to Estelle Fegaris.

For years, Carin had closely followed research being conducted on the effects of meditation on the brain. It appeared that brains of yogis who had meditated for fifteen years or more showed a significant difference from the activity found in those of individuals who did not practice consistent meditation. Specifically, using electroencephalographs, or EEGs, researchers determined that meditation in longtime practitioners like the Tibetan monks activated a higher frequency of gamma wave activity. Even more significant for Cairn’s purposes, the trained brains of these yogis had higher gamma wave activity even when
not
meditating.

Gamma waves, Carin knew, had been associated with a higher level of mental activity, such as increased awareness and focus. That’s when she made the connection. Carin measured the gamma wave activity in her brother’s brain and discovered it was far below average. She began to wonder if stimulating such activity in Markie’s brain could have some kind of impact on his autism.

She began corresponding with Morgan Tyrell. At the time, Tyrell had still been at Harvard, a maverick in the field of the “evolving brain,” a term he claimed to have coined. Interestingly enough, in his work with psychics, Morgan, too, had measured gamma waves in the brain. He discovered that those with claimed psychic powers had the same high levels of gamma wave activity as the yogis in the published studies. But Tyrell took it one step further. He claimed that a strong psychic could actually
stimulate
gamma wave activity in the brains of
others.

It was Morgan who introduced Carin to Estelle Fegaris.

Carin, a skeptic of the highest order, couldn’t be bothered with the hocus-pocus part of Morgan’s practice, which included people like Fegaris. But she was more than intrigued by the possibility that a woman like Fegaris could help Markie.

The day Estelle came to see Markie was the day Carin became a convert.

She remembered Estelle as a handsome woman with bright blue eyes and dark black curls. She could see by the way Morgan interacted with her that the two were involved sexually. Carin couldn’t blame Morgan. There was something so inviting about the woman. Having learned that Carin’s interest in the brain stemmed from her brother’s condition, Estelle asked to meet Markie, and Carin agreed.

If she closed her eyes, Carin could remember the scene almost frame by frame: Estelle sitting in front of Markie, while her brother stared into space, swaying rhythmically in his chair.

And then Estelle reached across the table and touched him.

Markie’s reaction was immediate and dramatic. He’d stiffened, as if shot by a jolt of electricity. Carin had thought he was having a seizure of some sort. She had been on the viewing side of that two-way mirror, with Morgan, a tall, stately man, standing beside her. Before she could move, Morgan had grabbed her arm, stopping her from running into the room and interfering.

He’d said only, “Wait.”

It took just a minute or two…but the time seemed an eternity to Carin. Estelle had touched the flat of her palms to Markie’s head and chest before closing her eyes in concentration. Soon enough, her brother’s breathing matched Estelle’s and his stiff body became limp, slipping back into the wooden chair.

Estelle opened her eyes and asked, “What do you want to tell your sister, Markie?”

He’d said, clear as a bell, “I love you.”

Just those three words.
I love you
.

After that, Estelle had walked out of the room, leaving Markie in a sort of slumber, his body in a fetal position on a futon set on the floor for that very purpose. Estelle herself didn’t look so great when she walked out: chalky white skin, perspiration and shaking hands.

Carin had immediately launched into plans for another session, but Estelle had given her this defeated look. There’d been tears in her eyes.

“I’ve worked with autistic children before,” she said. “Most times, I can’t even reach in as far as I did with your brother. I’m sorry. Really I am.”

Markie was too far gone. He was beyond the reach of even her psychic powers. That short communication had come at a great price for Estelle and Markie both. There had been too much stress on his system to reach out. Estelle didn’t recommend a repeat performance.

But there was hope. Estelle was of the opinion that the Eye, an artifact that magnified psychic abilities, could help children like Markie.

Since that day, Carin had been on a quest. She’d joined NISA. She used their resources to track down the man who had murdered Fegaris and stolen the Eye. But from there, the artifact just seemed to disappear into thin air. She’d lost track…until now.

And now, she had the homicide team at Westminster at her disposal. She’d assured the chief of police and his people that she wasn’t here to take over the case. No way. And basically, that was true—but not for any charitable reasons. NISA had zip in terms of funding, and Carin desperately needed the department’s manpower and resources.

She’d looked over the files she’d been given, reading the autopsy reports and witness accounts. It all seemed fairly mundane until she came across the name: Gia Moon.

Carin pulled the final folder on the desk toward her. On the tab, she had typed
Gina Tyrell
.

According to the folks at Westminster Homicide, Gia Moon, a local psychic, had approached the police about the murder of Mimi Tran. In Ms. Moon’s own words, she’d had a “vision” about the murder.

“I just bet you did,” Carin said with a smile.

Carin’s file on Gina Tyrell was a little more comprehensive than what the Westminster police had presented.

“Hello, Gia Moon.”

The fact that Gia Moon, an artist, was here—able to own a home and send her daughter to school—let Carin know the psychic had help.

Before she could pick up her phone to call Morgan Tyrell—not really expecting him to reveal any secrets, but willing to give it a try—her BlackBerry danced across the surface of the nightstand. She’d set it to vibrate, and watched it now, acting like a wind-up toy. She frowned, recognizing the number: Westminster Homicide.

She picked up. “Agent Barnes speaking.”

Her heart hitched into her throat as she listened.

She pulled the pen and pad of paper provided by the hotel toward her and wrote down the address. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

She jumped off the bed and changed quickly. Not familiar with the area, she’d made certain her rental car had an OnStar GPS unit. She’d just need to punch in the address and wait for instructions.

Carin holstered her gun and her BlackBerry. Before leaving, she tidied up the files and put them in her briefcase, turning the dials on the locking mechanism. At the same time that she’d been dreading the news, she’d half expected the call. She was more than ready.

Another grisly murder.

“W
ell,” Erika said, staring down at the two bodies lying on the carpet. “It’s not a horse.”

She was referring to the nursery rhyme—the one about the woman who had eaten the fly. The rhyme Gia Moon had recited after her second “vision.”

But Seven was thinking about something altogether different. He was remembering that frantic call he’d received just before David Gospel dialed 911.

Her name is Kieu. Or maybe there’s a
Q
in her name. You have to find her
….

Seven stared at the bloodbath before him, the very definition of too late.

The two bodies lay boxed in by furniture. The coffee and end tables, sofa and love seat, circled the corpses of the women like covered wagons. David Gospel had identified Velvet Tien, the name on the mailbox downstairs. They’d found ID for Xuan Du in the purse on the dining room table.

Gospel had made mincemeat of the crime scene, trampling over the bloody carpet and trailing blood back and forth to the kitchen and door. He was in the kitchen now, sitting at the table with a uniformed officer watching over him.

To complicate matters, Special Agent Carin Barnes was on the scene.
The fucking FBI,
Seven thought.

Apparently, Agent Barnes was not holed up in some secret FBI lab in Virginia, analyzing the bead she’d confiscated from Westminster Homicide. The FBI agent had, in fact, arrived long before Erika and Seven, apparently alerted to the murder and its connection to Mimi Tran and the “illegal trade in antiquities,” the FBI’s toehold on the case. From what Seven understood, the National Institute for Strategic Artifacts was connected to Customs, the idea being that there were artifacts that could be of interest to the government due to their possible military or diplomatic implications. Who knew?

A sleek-looking blonde, Agent Barnes had the long, lean body of a high jumper. She couldn’t be older than the midthirties, but wore the requisite black suit of the Bureau. She had been standing almost motionless next to the bodies while the crime scene techs did their work, every once in a while checking with a BlackBerry device that seemed melded to her hand.

Erika knelt down next to the younger victim. She looked closer, spotting something.

“Seven?”

Seven came to stand over his partner. Using the tip of her pen, Erika pointed to the woman’s mouth, where several particles clung to her lips.

“They’re crumbs,” Special Agent Barnes said, still focused on the screen of her BlackBerry, like maybe she had eyes in the back of her head. “I assume she had something stuffed in her mouth. Just like Mimi Tran.”

Seven peered closer. Around the victim’s mouth and on her chin, there did indeed appear to be crumbs.

“Hey, Dan,” Erika said, calling the crime scene tech over to the body. “Sample these, will you?”

“It’s been done,” Barnes said before Danny could respond.

Erika gave Seven a look. She stood. “So what was in her mouth?”

Agent Barnes glanced up, her glasses somehow making those gray eyes look bigger. “I couldn’t say until we analyze the crumbs. The object itself is gone.” Still keeping to her spot on the other side of the bodies, Barnes pointed her chin toward Velvet Tien. “You can see by the crumbs on the victim’s chest that it was removed
postmortem
.”

“Danny, can you come here a minute,” Seven called to the tech.

Daniel Ngo stopped what he was doing. He took a second before stepping over to the bodies. This wasn’t your normal crime scene—the blood and body parts could make even the most seasoned warrior lose his composure.

“The book on her chest,” Seven said. “It’s in Vietnamese. Do you recognize it?” he asked.

“Not a clue,” Danny said.

“The literal translation is ‘The New Scream that Cuts Your Guts,’” Agent Barnes offered, “which I assume is why both victims have been cut open, thus spilling their…guts.”

“You know Vietnamese?” Danny asked in surprise.

The agent lifted her hand, displaying the screen of her BlackBerry. “I found it online. It’s an epic poem written by Nguyen Du of the Le Dynasty.” She spoke in the voice of an intellectual rather than a cop. “Some say he plagiarized from the Chinese, and certainly the Vietnamese are highly influenced by Chinese culture. But it was written in six-eight verse, a popular form in Vietnam. Du used the story to convey the political turmoil at the end of the eighteenth century, but I suspect our killer had quite a different purpose.”

Agent Barnes stayed outside the ring of furniture, playing the detached observer. Or maybe her placement had more to do with the view. From that angle, she could see both bodies in situ.

“The killer, I believe, is trying to underscore Mr. Gospel’s relationship to one of the victims. The main character in the poem is a woman tricked into prostitution. I’ve already interviewed Mr. Gospel. Velvet Tien was his mistress.”

“Listen to fucking Sherlock Holmes,” Erika said under her breath, so that only Seven could hear.

“It’s an extremely famous piece of Vietnamese literature, more commonly known as the Story of Kieu.”

“What?” Seven asked, suddenly alert.

Agent Barnes cocked her head, her eyes now focused on him. “Does that mean something to you, Detective?”

Her name is Kieu. Or maybe there’s a
Q
in her name.

He looked around the scene, trying to remember exactly what Gia had told him over the phone.

She’s in some sort of prison, or maybe there’s a barricade keeping her from getting away.
He glanced at the furniture circling the bodies.
Her hands, she’s reaching for help
. He stared at the hands cut off at the wrist and placed just a few inches away.
She’s screaming but no one can hear her
. Velvet Tien’s mouth gaped open, frozen in a silent scream.
Her eyes…they’re gone. Taken
. Velvet Tien’s eyes remained undisturbed. But the other woman…

He hadn’t told anyone about the phone call—there hadn’t been time. That little gem had slipped away in the hustle over to the crime scene.

Now he told himself he needed more information. He stood in the middle of the very nightmare Gia had described. Everything she’d told him on the phone looked to be right there in front of him. He couldn’t just spill out the story. He needed to figure things out first.

“The eyes,” he said, addressing Agent Barnes. “Only one of the bodies had her eyes taken.”

Barnes stared down at them. “That’s Xuan Du, a psychic, just like Mimi Tran. Psychic ability is often referred to as the third eye. I imagine it has something to do with that.”

“How do you know the victim is a psychic?” Erika asked, ever the skeptic.

“The yarrow sticks on the dining room floor,” Special Agent Barnes answered readily. “They are used in the I Ching ceremony, an ancient form of divination. It’s quite popular, actually, especially in Asian communities. Judging from the fact that the yarrow sticks were scattered across the floor, I’d venture to say either the killer or Ms. Tien didn’t care for the reading.”

Seven nodded, as if everything she’d said made perfect sense. But his heart was racing. All he could think about was that call from Gia.

“You can handle things here?” he asked his partner.

Erika looked nonplussed. Seven didn’t give her the chance to argue the point, taking advantage of her uncharacteristic silence.

As for Agent Barnes, he made sure he was out the door before she could start in on her next theory.

The blond giantess stared at the door where Erika’s partner had just made a quick exit.

“He left in a hurry,” Barnes remarked.

Didn’t he just?
Erika thought, wondering what the hell was going on.

Erika kept her expression deadpan as she answered, “What can I say? He’s been battling the trots all day, poor guy. Some bad crab salad, I think.”

She stared up at the Viking princess, daring her to contradict her story. She didn’t even crack a smile. And here Erika thought she’d been downright clever.

It’s not that she had anything against blondes, but throw in tall, skinny and horning in on her case, and yeah—she wasn’t feeling so generous toward Barnes. Not to mention the fact that the agent appeared to know what she was doing as she studied the bodies. Shit, it would be a real pain in the ass if Erika had to show Barnes respect on top of everything.

Agent Barnes crouched down beside the body, studying Gospel’s mistress, Velvet Tien. “The position of the bodies, the Story of Kieu…the killer did his research, leaving perfect clues.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Erika said. “What clues?”

Barnes stood. “Not only does the Story of Kieu refer to Mr. Gospel’s relationship to one of the deceased, it also brings in the
Nguoi Viet Kieu,
the name given to the Vietnamese diaspora, the immigrants who moved here.” She raised a perfectly plucked brow. “
Kieu
is the Vietnamese word meaning ‘to reside.’ The killer is pointing the finger—at who or what is the question.”

Erika glanced at the BlackBerry in the agent’s hand. She was thinking the damn thing came in mighty handy, wondering if the FBI had popped for the little machine.

“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.