The Collector (9 page)

David had made a quick decision then and there. Cover up. Make sure that the police wouldn’t trace her death back to Owen, putting Gospel Enterprises on the front page. But he always wondered if he’d done the right thing.

He remembered thinking about those macabre trophies he’d unearthed in the backyard when the kid was only twelve. Despite decomposition, David was pretty sure he’d been looking at animal parts…something small and vulnerable that his son felt a compulsion to kill, maybe even torture.

Now, he studied his boy, once again wondering what he should do.

“Okay,” he said softly, almost to himself. He stepped back. “Okay.”

He raced up the steps to his office. Once inside, he grabbed the remote. He waited for the mirrored door to open a crack before he sidestepped through. He punched in the code, waited impatiently as the drawer slid open.

He counted again, as if it had been a bad dream. But the stone was still missing. There, on the black velvet where a small blue stone should have nestled, there was nothing but empty space.

He began searching frantically. The stone. It had to be here somewhere. It had just rolled out of sight. The action of the drawer opening and shutting could have dislodged the piece from its velvet depression.

He kept looking, feeling into the corners of the velvet lining. Next, he crept along the floor on his hands and knees.

“Shit!” He sat back against the custom-built cabinets, trying to catch his breath.

It has to be here!

Only it wasn’t. And he knew it. He felt it in his gut.

He forced himself to focus through the haze of the alcohol. Meredith was right: he was drunk and out of control.

He’d already called his security guy, Jack. He was the best in the business, telling David long ago that he was being too cocky storing his collection in the house with such minimal security. David knew he’d fucked up, but he was also banking on Jack being good enough to find out what the hell had happened. In the meantime, David needed to think.

He stared up at the drawers filled with his treasures. Each and every object was sacred to him. The thought of taking them somewhere else—someplace where they wouldn’t be readily available to him—it was almost too painful.

No. He wouldn’t move his collection. Not yet. There was no reason to panic. He’d been careless, that’s all. This time, he’d listen to Jack, put in all the bells and whistles. Whatever Jack said he needed to keep his collection safe, he’d have it installed: motion sensors, cameras at every angle.

He felt suddenly reassured. Sure, Mimi was dead; that in itself was a disaster. But why take the next step? Why assume a connection to Owen and Mimi just because his kid fucked up with Michelle?

David pulled out his cell phone, punched in the number he knew by heart, a private number given to very few.

“Sam,” he said into the phone. “We need to talk.”

S
even thought they were through the worst of it once they passed the Orange Crush—the sobriquet given to that special spot in Orange County where five highways converged, including three major freeways, the 5, the 22 and the 57. But no, there’d been a SigAlert on the 60, some jackknifed big rig. It took them over an hour and a half to get to Claremont and the five colleges.

Seven was familiar with the Claremont Colleges, a group of universities that both stood alone and pooled resources. Pomona, Scripps, Harvey Mudd, Pitzer and CMC. His brother had been accepted to Claremont McKenna College way back when it had been named Claremont Men’s College. Pomona, too, offered him one of their coveted berths.

Seven remembered how it had been in those days. Ricky was five years older than Seven. Watching him in high school was like watching one of those superheroes on television. His brother was bigger than life. He was a scholar and an athlete—captain of the varsity volleyball team and the debate squad. With Dad’s curly blond hair and big green eyes, he was a good-looking kid who didn’t have time for girls.

And shit, did he have confidence. As far as Ricky was concerned, nothing was out of reach.

Seven looked like his mother: brown hair, hazel eyes, stocky build. He’d ended up just under six feet tall, so if he’d ever had the discipline for a sport, it wouldn’t have been volleyball. He didn’t have Ricky’s height or dexterity.

Seven’s father was a retired mechanic; his mother still worked at the senior center in Huntington Beach. He and Ricky had been raised in a modest middle-class home just a few miles inland from the Bolsa Chica Wetlands, a place where kids could still hike and fish and bird watchers hung out in fatigues with binoculars around their necks and telephoto-lens cameras on tripods. At least until they finally paved the place over and covered it with more million-dollar houses…a debate that had been going on for as long as Seven could remember.

But here was Ricky, dreaming big. He’d graduated near the top of his class at Marina High, earned magna cum laude from Occidental College. Next, he’d tackled medical school.

Seven remembered how proud his dad had been—a doctor in the family. No one like Ricky had ever graced the Bushard family tree. He was every parent’s dream.

But even that hadn’t been enough for Ricky. He’d wanted the best—a house on the water, a trophy wife and a kid in private school. A yacht he never had time to use.

Seven remembered the day he’d looked at his parents with that perfect smile and asked, “Do you know how many plastic surgeons there are in Newport Beach?”

SoCal. The land of the surgically enhanced.

For his part, Seven rode under the radar, having a hell of a good time smoking a little weed and downing Samuel Adams as his brother toiled. He’d graduated from high school…barely. He’d attended Golden West College, the local two-year community college, what his father referred to as UBL, the university behind Levitz, a furniture store on one of the main drags. Hell, if it weren’t for Laurin pushing him, Seven wouldn’t have gotten even that far.

His parents, who thought for sure he was landing in jail on a DUI, had been proud when he’d graduated from the police academy—or more likely relieved. Their little misfit was growing up, heading into the real world of responsibility as a cop.

But when his marriage broke up, the comparisons came again.
He just isn’t Ricky….

That’s what really blew about the situation. It wasn’t just his parents Ricky had failed.
Seven
had been proud of his brother. He had looked up to him. Depended on him.

How does that happen? How does someone you know and love and respect just go fucking psycho on you? The good son—the beloved big brother—turned killer?

“You okay?”

He kept staring out the window, watching the bucolic town of Claremont roll on by. Erika and her damn radar.

“Quick. Hand me a piece of paper,” he said, pretending to grab his pen. “I think I’m having a traffic-induced vision. That psychic shit could be catching.”

“Like the flu,” she said wryly.

Yeah, the trip had been a bitch, giving Seven way too much time to sit in quiet contemplation.

When they finally reached the campus of Pitzer College, Erika parked in front of the administration building. After getting directions, they headed straight for the archaeology department.

“Where did you hear about this guy, anyway?” he asked.

“Lois.”

Lois Banks was the guru of the precinct. As the watch commander, she knew just about everything about anything. If Lois said Professor Curtis Murphy was the go-to guy, as far as Seven was concerned, the man was golden.

Walking down the hallway, Seven noticed how all these intellectual types had a thing about their office doors. Cute signs and photographs covered most, or cartoon strips like
The Far Side
and
The Boondocks.
To Seven, the hall looked more like a college dorm than an office building. Maybe the professors thought the artwork made them hip, one with the student body.

But Murphy was different. His door remained pristine, bare of anything but his nameplate and office number. Interestingly enough, the look was that much more intimidating. Here was a man who didn’t conform—or just maybe didn’t give a rat’s ass one way or the other.

Erika had said Professor Murphy was expecting them. But the closed door didn’t look too inviting. She knocked. Seven heard what sounded like a muffled curse coming from inside.

After a minute, Erika knocked again, louder this time.

“Come in!”

Erika looked at Seven and shrugged. She opened the door, leading the way inside.

Stepping into Murphy’s office was like walking into another world. Forget the clean lines of the door; inside was chaos. There was a long table filled with pottery shards and other objects covered in dirt.
Shit, was that a finger bone?
Shelves crammed with books, some stuffed in sideways, looked ready to blow like popcorn in a Jiffy Pop tray. Glancing at the equipment on the table, Seven couldn’t decide if the guy was getting some painting done or about to conduct major surgery.

In the corner behind his desk, Murphy sat bent over an Apple notebook. One thing was certain: Indiana Jones, he was not.

Seven could see by his waistline Murphy liked his chow. Short, with a hairline that was already beginning to say, “See you later,” he looked to be in his mid-to late fifties, and very scholarly. Glasses, pipe on the desk, jacket with leather patches on the elbows hanging from the coat rack, the whole shtick. Using only two fingers, the professor kept banging away on the laptop, ignoring the fact that the detectives stood at the ready.

Erika looked over at Seven. He knew what she was thinking. The guy could be on the verge of a moment of sheer brilliance—something on the order of deciphering the Rosetta Stone.

On the other hand…

“Professor Murphy?” Seven did the mandatory flash of the badge. “My name is Detective Bushard. My partner, Detective Cabral, and I are here from the Westminster Police Department. It concerns a homicide.”

He could have been talking about a new hairstyle for Malibu Barbie for all the attention the guy gave him.

After another glance at his partner, Seven stepped forward and slapped his badge on the desk with a nice loud whack!

Murphy stopped what he was doing, looking startled. He stared up at Seven as if seeing him there for the first time. “I’m terribly sorry. I was in the zone.”

Looking at the guy, Seven realized he was a good ten years younger than he’d first assumed. The glasses and the receding hairline didn’t help, nor did the paunch. Apparently, the professor wasn’t the fieldwork type. Still, looks could be deceiving. According to what Erika said on the ride over, the Professor was tops in his field. How that was supposed to help with the Tran murder was still a mystery to Seven.

“No problem.” He gave the man a smile. “But we’re on a bit of a time crunch. It concerns the death of Mimi Tran—”

“Of course, of course.” Murphy pushed himself away from his computer and stood. He held his hand out, suddenly Mr. Amicable, giving both Seven and Erika a hardy shake. “The Vietnamese fortune-teller. I read about the murder in the papers. But how can I help you, Detectives? I understand this is a contemporary death.” He gestured over to the pots and bones on the table. “My bodies are usually hundreds, possibly thousands, of years old. Not to mention the fact that my forensic work is a bit shoddy. Not my area, really.”

Erika showed him the photograph of the bead. “But this might be?”

The professor’s eyes lit up like a Vegas slot machine. He practically ripped it out of Erika’s hand. He took his time examining it, at one point fumbling through his desk drawer to retrieve a magnifying glass for a better look.

“Where did you find this?”

It was almost an accusation.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Erika said, “but that’s confidential. Part of the ongoing murder investigation.” She moved in, working her magic. Not many men, whatever their age or sexual preference, could pass up her smile.

“But judging from your reaction?” She tapped the photograph. “I’d say we came to the right place to ask about this little item.”

Murphy looked up from his magnifying glass. “If it’s what I think it is, this would be a formidable find. Do you actually have the artifact?”

She sat down in front of the desk, crossing her legs, getting comfortable. Seven did the same.

“We have the object in the photograph, yes.”

“The stone changes color.” Murphy remained standing, a sudden urgency in his voice. “Red to blue, blue to red. Nothing gradual. No murky shift into green. Just like,
pow
, it’s a different stone.”

Seven glanced at Erika. “So you do recognize the piece?”

“Oh, yes.” The professor couldn’t have looked more pleased. “Well, this is interesting.” He shook his head, almost as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “The sacred object this came from is the stuff of legends.” He nodded, almost to himself. “You have, indeed, come to the right place, Detectives. Things that aren’t supposed to exist are a bit of a specialty of mine.”

“We’re all ears,” Seven said.

Murphy sat down behind his desk. “Ever heard of Agamemnon’s Mask? It was found by Heinrich Schliemann, a renowned archaeologist with a special interest in Homeric Troy. He made several key finds, including Mycenae and Troy,” the professor said, not waiting for an answer. “Greece,” he added, in case that needed clarification. “He found the mask in 1876.”

“I’ve read about it,” Erika said, surprising Seven. “It was supposed to be the burial mask of the great Greek king Agamemnon. Only it turned out to be a fake.”

“Not a fake, no…although it is not Agamemnon’s burial mask, as Schliemann claimed.” Murphy propped his fingertips together, the image of a professor ready to lecture. “Of course, questions have been raised about its authenticity. But most in the field consider it to be a legitimate find, most likely from an older tomb. Circa 1500 B.C. While Schliemann has been accused of profound dishonesty in his archaeological reporting, no one has ever proved that he manufactured a fake or tampered with an authentic find.”

Murphy pushed against his desk with his feet, causing his chair to roll across the wood floor to the bookshelf behind him. Despite what looked like complete disorder, he grabbed one volume from the jumble like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

“Schliemann popularized archaeology, bringing in gobs of money. His critics, of course, suggest at too high a price. Great treasures were spirited away by the aristocracy of foreign powers to display in their gardens and museums. The Greek government is still at odds with Great Britain over the Elgin Marbles, pieces taken from the Acropolis.”

He rolled the chair back to his desk and dropped the book in front of Erika and Seven. It was
The Iliad
.

“Homer writes about a rocky place called Pytho. It’s the name given Delphi in ancient times. There you can still see the rock where the Sibyl, the prophetess of Gaia, interpreted the rumblings of Mother Earth. Apparently, the area was prone to volcanic activity.”

“Gaia?” Erika asked. This with a sharp look to Seven.

Seven nodded, getting a sick feeling in his gut, watching the coincidences piling on thick.

“What exactly is
this?
” She again tapped on the photograph of the bead.

“See the distinctive design inside the stone itself? Like a eye? The artifact in the photograph dates back to the time of Gaia and her Sibyl, and is inseparable from Homer’s Mycenae,” he said, picking up
The Iliad,
and waving it like a prop. “Mycenae is a city shrouded in myth and legend. It was the center of power during the Archaic period. According to tradition, it was founded by Perseus, the very hero who killed the Gorgon, Medusa. A Cyclops presumably built the city walls. Like most Greek history, the story of Mycenae is a cocktail of fact and fiction.”

“Difficult to tell when myth takes over?” Erika suggested.

“Exactly. Homer tells us of Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, hero of the Trojan War. According to myth, Agamemnon insulted the goddess Artemis, sister of Apollo, by killing one of her sacred animals. Not only plague ensued, but a disastrous lack of wind kept his army from setting sail for Troy. He later sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia, to appease the goddess, who then allowed him to avenge beautiful Helen’s abduction.”