The Collector (24 page)

“You didn’t go see her about the murders. You’re falling for this woman, Seven. A possible suspect in a high profile case.”

“Bullshit. Jesus, Erika, what the hell were you thinking, hiring Cedric? If we actually end up putting a case together against this woman, and her attorney discovers your personal involvement, what do you think is going to happen? Our case goes down the crapper. What could possibly make you believe it was worth the risk?”

She locked her arms around her stomach, giving him a hard stare. “
My
personal involvement? That’s what has you worried?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t hire Cedric?”

“No, you’re right. I put Cedric on her. And if I thought for a minute that you had your head on straight, I would have told you about it.”

He looked as if she’d slapped him. But before they could really get into it, the guy—Jesus, what was his name?—walked out from the bedroom.

“Is there a problem here?”

Like two kids caught in the act, Seven and she turned their attention to Frank. It was almost comical, the way Seven’s eyes grew huge as he stared at the men’s trousers lying next to her bra on the carpet.

Frank stood there with a sheet from the bed covering him toga style. From their conversation at dinner, Erika was pretty sure he was an engineer and not an accountant. Too much imagination. He’d never looked more the part of the nerd, with his glasses and that stupid sheet wrapped around him like some Roman senator.

And now he was trying to stick up for her? Bring it on!

“Everything’s fine,” she said. She looked pleadingly at Seven. “We can talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

But Seven just stood there frozen, as if he’d been flattened by one of those big rigs, staring at Frank in his toga.

In perfect timing, his cell phone went off. That distinctive ring.

Beth was calling.

Erika couldn’t help her mocking tone. “Don’t you think you’d better get that?”

He stared at her again with a strange disbelief in his expression—only to turn on his heel and flip open his cell phone on his way out.

“Hey, you okay?”

Frank again, coming to stand behind her.

She didn’t even want to look at him. “Yeah. Just dandy.”

Except that she felt like shit.

“He called you Erika.”

She took in a deep breath. Jesus. The lightbulb hadn’t gone on yet?

She turned to give him a wane smile. “You always knew Sophia wasn’t my real name. And by the way, you look ridiculous in that bedsheet.”

“Hey, if I knew you preferred me naked…”

She shook her head, looking away. “Why do I feel like I owe you an apology?”

He stepped up closer. “Because you’re a woman. It’s supposed to be the guy who lies and scams you into bed, not the other way around. That was your partner, right? You’re a cop?”

Erika frowned. Okay, she’d had a lot to drink. But she quickly went over her conversation with Frank during the evening—nothing which included anything specifically about police business. She’d made damn sure of it.

She stared at Frank in his toga. “What makes you ask that?”

He walked over to a set of bookshelves and picked out a framed photo of her in uniform, hugging her mother. Erika remembered her brother had taken the photograph when she’d graduated from the academy.

“A cop, right?” he asked, holding up the photo.

“Well, aren’t you the observant one.” She thought about it a minute. She asked, “What did you say you do for a living, Frank?”

He put the framed photo back. “Actually, I didn’t.”

“Really?” Suddenly, Erika got this sick feeling in her gut. “Okay. So, what do you do for a living, Frank?”

He shrugged. “I’m a reporter.”

She dropped onto the couch, her knees feeling like rubber…and it had nothing to do with the cosmopolitans she’d downed like punch. She tried to slow her breathing.

She was working on a red-hot case that was just about to blow open once these new murders were reported.

She laughed. “Wow. I must have drunk more than I thought, because I think I just heard you say you’re a
reporter.
”

He sat down next to her on the couch, still wearing the toga. “For the
Register.
But what’s the big deal? And by the way, for the record, I was sober the entire evening.”

He reached over and took her hand in his. He started stroking her wrist with his thumb. She felt a tingle run up her spine.

He had that look in his eyes. She saw it all the time. He was falling for the exotic Latina, never knowing how much baggage that entailed.

She shrugged it off, forcing herself to focus on something other than Frank’s broken heart.

“And here I thought you were an engineer,” she said, almost to herself. So much for her powers of observation.

He laughed. “Why would you think that?”

She looked into his hazel eyes behind the thick glasses. His wardrobe alone—slacks with a not-so-matching shirt—had put the idea in her head. Not to mention his cell phone strapped to his belt like a gun holster. Really, all he lacked was the pocket protector. And wasn’t Huntington Beach full of engineers, Boeing being one of the top employers in the area? She was used to them chatting her up at the House of Brews.

“Must be the name,” she said. “Frank. Sounds so solid and engineerlike.”

“And Erika sounds like a homicide detective?”

He said it with a smile, but again, she had this sinking feeling. She tried to think of any clues in the room that could lead him to believe she was a homicide detective, and came up empty.

He was still stroking her hand, his touch distracting as hell.

“Maybe you thought I was an engineer because I come off as such an intellectual.”

“You got off, all right,” she said. “Several times, if I remember.”

“Wow. Keep talking like that and you’ll definitely nail down that whole hussy thing you have going.”

“What? You didn’t see
hussy
tattooed on my ass?”

“Maybe I’d better take another look.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence, Erika on pins and needles, almost afraid of what was coming.

“So,” he began, sounding almost too casual.

Oh, God, here we go, she thought
. The marriage proposal.

But instead, he asked, “Is there a break in the Tran case?”

Suddenly, whatever amorous feelings she’d had simmering inside went stone cold.

She pushed his hand away and stood. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“What did I say wrong?” he asked, standing, as well. “I was just making conversation. Smoothing over an awkward moment.”

“Bullshit! You’re an investigative reporter for the
Register
. How did you know I was involved in the Tran case?”

She could see him calculating his chances of talking his way through this.

“If you are honest with me,” she said, “there is a
slight
chance I won’t go and get my service revolver.”

He nodded. “Okay. I may have asked the bartender your real name, and I may have Googled you.” He shrugged. “I go to that bar a lot. I thought it was interesting, how you gave a different name every time. Like maybe you had something to hide.”

She always used her credit card at the bar. She’d never thought she had anything to hide—or that anyone would come snooping around, slipping the bartender a twenty for information.

She couldn’t believe it. Plain and simple, he was here for a story. All along, he’d known who she was—she was his ticket to headline news on the Tran murder.

And here she’d spent the night feeling sorry for the guy? Calling him a nester?

More like a nest of asps….

She grabbed the neck of her robe shut. “Get…the fuck…out.”

“Geez. What happened to ‘if I’m honest I might get another chance’?”

She walked over to the drawer where, indeed, she kept her service revolver. It wasn’t loaded, but Frank wouldn’t know that.

“The door. Now.”

He nodded, sensing that she meant business. “My clothes?”

She kicked his trousers over to him. She figured they’d have his car keys and wallet. “I’ll drop the rest off with your friend, the bartender.”

He nodded, putting on his pants and leaving the bed sheet. “One bit of advice before I leave. The psychic—the one you hired the P.I. to investigate? I might be able to help you there.”

What the hell?
She quickly went over her conversation with Seven, a conversation Frank here had certainly overheard.
Fuck!
“You have thirty seconds to walk out that door before I shoot your sorry ass.”

He was zipping the trousers, talking fast. “If you want information on this woman, the best way to flush out her past is to let me run the story. The tabloids do it all the time. Make an accusation and see what dross rises to the surface.”

“Now you have ten seconds.”

He took out his wallet and pulled out a business card. He held it up as he flashed what she’d come to think of as an extremely sexy smile.

“Just in case,” he said, dropping the card on the coffee table.

She slammed the door shut behind him.

Erika dropped onto the sofa, still holding the gun. She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or cry.

She’d never had anything like this happen. Her nightlife never followed her into the light of day. She should have stuck with the usual suspects. Instead, she’d let some nice guy with what she thought was an engineering degree buy her dinner.

She glanced down at the business card and frowned. Suddenly, she put the gun on the coffee table and grabbed the card.

He was indeed a reporter at the
Register.
But the name printed on the card wasn’t Frank.

It was Greg. Greg Smith.

He’d lied about his name.

“Freaking great,” she said, already trying to come up with some damage control.

S
even’s conversation with Beth was short and sweet. Beth was embarrassed—
God, did I really make a pass at you?

He was understanding—
That was the alcohol talking, Beth. You and I are fine.

Only, he wasn’t fine. Far from it.

He’d gone to Erika’s place thinking he’d get some of it out of his system. He and Erika would have a fine old knock-down, drag-out like the good partners they were. They would come clean on their transgressions, all the secrets they’d been keeping from each other. Maybe they’d even open a bottle, and Erika would help him understand what the hell he was thinking, lusting after what might be their chief witness—if not suspect—on a triple homicide.

Instead, he’d walked in on Erika having a normal life.

Moving on….

Seeing Mr. Toga come out from her bedroom, Seven had felt as if he’d slammed into a brick wall. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Erika, the only other person who had no one else in the world.

After leaving her place, he’d driven in circles, first heading home, then thinking he’d just go grab a drink somewhere. Calm down.

He didn’t want to face the fact that there was no one out there waiting for him.

So he made another mistake, ending up exactly where he shouldn’t—back in front of Gia’s house.

He told himself he’d just pull up alongside Cedric’s Acura. He’d signal Cedric to roll down his window, let him know his services were no longer needed. But, by the time he got there, Cedric was long gone.

Seven turned off the motor and settled back behind the steering wheel. What was it Erika always liked to say? Something about denial being such a powerful emotion.

Maybe that’s what this was about. Denial. Acting as if he didn’t feel those sparks between him and Gia. Ignoring the image of their tangled bodies, like a memory he wanted to wipe from his mind, when it had never actually happened. Trying to make sense of things that couldn’t make sense.

He imagined this was what his brother had felt like. Out of control, wondering what he could do to make the circus inside his head shut down.

Suddenly, the porch light turned on and the front door opened. Gia stepped into the moonlight.

She was dressed in low-slung sweats tied at her hips, and a gray T-shirt. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, watching him from her porch.

He didn’t want to think there was anything special about her. She couldn’t read minds or tell him about his brother. She was just like the cute blonde at the grocery store or the bank teller who cashed his checks.
Nothing special
.

And still, he couldn’t stop himself from stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him.

By the time he reached her porch, he was out of breath.

“How do you do it?” he demanded, thinking about Beth. “How do you believe that you can raise your kid and take her to school and make macaroni and cheese and everything will be okay? How can you even…
imagine
those things you paint and still think that life goes on?”

He wanted so badly to have those answers. He wanted to explain it all to Nick and Beth and make them whole again.

Gia looked up at him. He thought maybe she would tell him to get lost. It’s what she should do. Every minute he stood here, he was breaking all the rules.

But that’s exactly what he wanted. To break the rules. Breaking the rules was normal.
The way life used to be way back when
…. He wanted to be the bad son to Ricky’s perfection, just like before.

Break the rules!

Before he could change his mind, he took her face in his hands, almost grabbing her. He kissed her hard on the mouth.

He could feel her pushing him away, but he didn’t care. He was breaking the rules. So he forced it, trying to convince her. It didn’t take long. Her arms came up around his neck and she kissed him back. He wanted to make her as breathless as he felt.

Crazy. So crazy. Just like Ricky….

Just like Ricky.

Jesus!

Seven forced himself to pull away. He was still breathing hard. What the hell did he think he was doing?

“I’m sorry,” he said. He shoved his hand through his hair, taking another step back. “I’m sorry.”

But Gia was having none of it. She followed him, the move just like a dance step. She put her fingers over his mouth and shook her head. “It’s okay,” she whispered, those eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Some things are meant to be. No matter how much we want to change them.”

He thought about that image of them in bed together. But he shook his head. “I’m not sure I believe in the things you do. Fate. Destiny. That we lack control over our lives.”

Her smile was beautiful and mischievous and alluring all at the same time. “Well, then. How about it’s just sex…or two lonely people holding each other through the night? You choose.”

She held out her hand toward his, waiting.

“See?” she said. “You’re in control.”

He sighed, realizing it was bullshit. He wasn’t in control…because there was no way in hell he could walk away from her.

His heart racing, he placed his hand in hers. He followed her inside, watched as she shut the door quietly behind them. He wondered about her daughter, for a moment hesitating.

“Stella is asleep in my room,” she said, holding his hand tighter. “But there’s a guest room down the hall.”

“Do you always answer questions before they’re asked?”

She frowned, thinking about it. “No. You’re…different. I hear you, but I can’t
read
you.”

He shook his head. “Why does that make perfect sense?”

She gave him that same smile, the one that made his heart catch right there in his chest. She led him down the hall.

Once they were inside the guest room, she shut the door and locked it. Her eyes on his, she pulled off her T-shirt. She shimmied out of the drawstring pants. She looked so vulnerable standing there in only her bra and panties.

“You choose,” she whispered.

He took off his shirt, giving in—giving up.

He closed his eyes, taking her into his arms, kissing her. He told himself it wouldn’t last. Soon enough, he’d have all those demons hammering at him. Beth and Nick. Ricky and his parents. The Tran case.

But for now, he had Gia in his arms. With his mouth against hers, the last thing he was thinking about was breaking the rules.

Sam was having dinner with Trudy H. A long, dull dinner, like so many they’d shared before.

The restaurant was called S. Trudy H. was downing a lychee tini, her third, while he sipped on a more pedantic martini.

Sam had been drinking Grey Goose martinis ever since he’d read somewhere that it was David Gospel’s favorite. Of course, he never did it in front of David. Sam didn’t want to give the old man the idea that he was somehow modeling himself after David. Hell, no.

Only he was. Very much so.

Gospel was a winner. Sam Vi planned to be a winner, too. In California, it was all about real estate and development. That’s where the real money came from.

Like Sam, the restaurant S straddled two worlds. Enormous silk lanterns hung like gossamer webs over white tablecloths. The light combined with hardwood floors to give the place a warm, amber glow. Modernist pastels of lilies decorated the walls, alongside screens lit up like neon bamboo.

The decor was serene but modern, the food delectably the same. Really, the place was a thing of beauty, representing to Sam what was best about the community here. Set just outside of Little Saigon in the Westminster Mall, the restaurant held an equal mix of Asian and Caucasian diners. Sam knew that had been the idea. To bring Vietnamese cuisine to the white community that might not venture into Little Saigon.

Trudy looked bored with the food. Trudy, Sam noticed, was easily bored. Lately, he was beginning to wonder if she was bored with him.

That worried Sam. In fact, a lot of things were beginning to bother him about his “engagement.” Like the fact that Trudy constantly denied the relationship to the stalkarrazi that followed her every move. Whenever a photograph of the two of them got printed in the tabloids, it appeared with a caveat attached, some comment from Trudy or her publicist about their “rumored” romance. Sam’s engagement was starting to feel like a box of cigarettes with a warning from the surgeon general.
Do not believe what you see
.

Rumor my ass,
he thought. A fucking six-carat diamond in a rare blue color wasn’t a fucking rumor.

Tonight, she wasn’t even wearing his ring. Sam took a swig from the martini. But, hey, maybe she was bored with that, too?

And here he was, trying to make himself over for her family? Well, Sam was starting to get the idea that Trudy didn’t give a shit about Sam the business mogul. She much preferred Sam the gangster.

These were the thoughts nagging Sam as he ate a perfect Chilean sea bass, wondering what Velvet would say if she could see him now.

Velvet, he was certain, would be telling him that Trudy was just part of the package: Sam’s attempt to make himself over into the image of David Gospel, the mogul on high. Sam had the money, sure, but now he needed legitimacy.

Velvet, Sam believed, would let him know that—like the Vietnamese businessmen who spoke only French, trying to become one with their colonial masters—he, too, was only mimicking David. Hadn’t he bought a construction company? Wasn’t he using Gospel to get coveted city contracts? Getting engaged to Trudy, a hot celebutante, was just another step in his transformation.

Well, fuck,
Sam thought.
Maybe she’s right.

Velvet didn’t approve of his relationship with Trudy. She’d told Sam more than once that Trudy was just pretty poison.

Just like David,
she’d said, making the comparison more than once. To Velvet’s way of thinking, Sam and she needed to stick to their community. They were outsiders in the world of people like David Gospel and Trudy H. And no matter how much they tried—no matter how many degrees she earned or blue diamonds he bought—they’d never fit in.

Velvet, Sam realized, wasn’t bored with that old geezer, David Gospel. Quite the opposite. She was falling in love. And unlike Trudy, for Velvet, that wouldn’t change.

So he was trying to figure out how to get her advice without the lecture he’d have coming right along with it, when he spotted his bodyguard coming toward his table.

The muscle that traveled with Sam kept their distance. Sam didn’t care about being seen with an entourage—hell, he loved it. But that was part of it, see? The fact that they stayed behind the scenes made it classy. And Sam was all about class.

Trudy didn’t even look up when his bodyguard leaned over to whisper in his ear. With no little irritation, he again noticed she hadn’t touched her food. He’d ordered for her, knowing she would take only a few dejected bites of the
tom hum nuong,
grilled lobster tail topped with tamarind sauce. She didn’t like Vietnamese food, even the gourmet feast prepared at S. Hell, who was he kidding? Trudy didn’t like
food.

But she liked her booze. She’d just sucked down her third cocktail, leaving only the lychee fruit at the bottom of her martini glass—damn thing looked like an eyeball, Sam thought. She was no doubt counting the minutes until they left for some hot club in downtown L.A. far away from Little Saigon…while Sam had been hoping for a quiet night at home.

That was another thing he wanted to talk over with Vee. Sam liked the community here. Okay, maybe it had all started as some dumb-ass attempt to become another David Gospel, but he
was
building an empire in Little Saigon. And it worried him plenty that Trudy, the woman he loved, wanted no part of it.

That’s what had been going on in his head, how maybe he should start listening more to Velvet and less to David, when his bodyguard whispered in his ear that he had an urgent call. Sam almost rolled his eyes at the annoyance, but took the phone handed to him—he always turned off his cell phone at dinner with Trudy. Any emergency would come through his bodyguard.

He’d been sitting there, staring at that damn lychee at the bottom of Trudy’s martini glass, when he’d heard the news.

Sam. It’s bad. Velvet. She’s dead.

At first, Sam didn’t know how to feel. It was a joke, right? Some sort of mistake. Velvet was like a sister to him, the one person who wasn’t afraid to tell him what a piece of shit he’d turned out to be and how he should do better. Be better. Over the years, he’d come to think of her as his conscience.

And now she was dead?

No, not just dead, the voice on the cell phone informed him. She’d been slaughtered. Gutted like the damn Chilean bass on his plate.

“What’s wrong, Sam?”

He looked across the table at Trudy H. Suddenly, she was every bit the woman Velvet had warned him about: a spoiled, too-thin celebutante who would never,
ever,
marry him.