The Collector (22 page)

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.

S
even 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 and 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.

S
tolen 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 short 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
S
s.”

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.

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 expression. 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.”