The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1)
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Authors: Lotta Smith
THE CATCHER IN THE EYE. Copyright
© 2015 by Lotta Smith. All rights
reserved
All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever
without express written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The
names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s
imagination, and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in
this book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or
dead is entirely coincidental and an unintentional.
There’s a first time for
everything.
I was at a medical
examiner’s office in rural Virginia. It was my first visit to this place and actually,
it also happened to be my very first trip to a morgue. I was here to attend the
autopsy of a woman who allegedly had fallen victim to a brutal murder. So far, I’d
seen more than my share of corpses in the past four months, however I usually saw
them at crime scenes and not morgues.
I don’t know much
about the statistics of murders, but I had seen lots of homicide victims since
starting this job. In the beginning, I kept track of the body count, but I stopped
counting after hitting ten on the third day of my current employment. Later, I
learned that it was just a temporary thing—one of those crazy, busy times—the “on”
season of killing. Anyway, who knew murders had on-seasons? And I’m not talking
about Walmart jobs during the holiday season or wedding industry in June.
My name is Kelly
Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, I’m not
making this surname thing up, and no, I’m not into kinky sex. I’m twenty-nine years
old, half Japanese, half Italian-English American. Currently single and
divorced with no intention or anticipation for new romantic relationships, much
less marriages anymore.
Been there, done
that. Thank you very much.
Right now, my mind
was completely set for the career. And guess what, thinking about my career as a
super-cool, classy, and oh-so-savvy sleuth (the assistant extraordinaire, to be
precise,) totally made me happy! The hard bench chair I sat on was no Cassina,
and with a faded grayish-green color scheme, sad taste in décor (or lack
thereof), and chilly yet stale air, the morgue’s waiting room was depressing at
the best of times. But I was optimistic. In fact, I was feeling kind of like flamboyant
because I really,
really
liked the idea of visiting the morgue in line
of my job. First of all, I loved
CSI
TV series, and the prospect of
seeing a live autopsy was totally thrilling. Besides that, it was not like the
morgues were open to the public so that anybody could take a sightseeing tour
and attend an autopsy, right? Having an access to visit this facility felt like
a real privilege.
In my mind, I was picturing
myself as a female version of Dr. John Watson, only less geeky. Maybe by taking
a part in the autopsy, I might come up with something that could lead to a
breakthrough. Just like super-assistants of brilliant detectives in fictions do
all the time. Maybe I could even kick some ass like a badass assistant, too. In
my opinion, it was often the assistant extraordinaire who should get the credit
for disentangling the mystery before his/her boss did. Something warm and fuzzy
started to bubble up in my stomach. It wasn’t the after-effect of a lunch
burrito. I had to use a great amount of self-restraint to keep myself from singing,
“For the first time in forever, I’ll be watching an autopsy!”
like a certain
Princess of Arendelle.
I didn’t realize I
was smiling until I heard “Why don’t you stop grinning like an idiot?” in a
deep and husky voice that belonged to Michael Archangel—a private investigator
who was sitting next to me on the same bench.
How I managed to
forget his presence I didn’t know. If nothing else, the delicate yet distinct scent
of Higher Energy by Dior, his fragrance de jour, should have alerted me to his
presence.
No thanks to his
voice, I was snapped back to the reality that it was him who had access to the
morgue, not me. I hadn’t clarified with the morgue but considering I had no
authority or qualification, they wouldn’t have granted me a permission to
attend the autopsy if I came here all by myself. I also noticed that perhaps, a
real
badass woman wouldn’t even imagine singing like a Disney Princess
while sitting in the morgue’s waiting room. The truth was, I wasn’t very sure
if I
wanted
to attend the autopsy at all.
I was no Dr.
Watson. I had no background in medicine. The closest experience I’d ever had
with this particular field was having a pediatrician and an orthopedic surgeon as
ex-faux-dads. It was the first time for me to see a cadaver getting cut open. The
corpses I had seen often had a hole or two, but I had never seen the human
innards peekabooing from inside of the body cavity, saying something like “Yoo-hoo?”
As I anticipated seeing
the contents of a human body, a gazillion of butterflies went wild in my
stomach. Okay, so the earlier flamboyance and faux-hardboiled tone were only
parts of my façade to hide my nervousness. And speaking of body contents, I
wasn’t sure if I’d be able to keep my lunch burrito where that belonged.
Discreetly, I took
a deep breath, just to calm my nerves and regain my composure. “I didn’t
realize you were watching every step of mine. But thanks for your keen attention
anyway. I’m flattered.” I said nonchalantly.
“Ha.” With a snort,
Archangel’s candy apple colored lips curled into a sarcastic smirk. “Don’t get
me wrong. But it’s hard to miss the action when someone sitting by my side starts
babbling silly things with an even sillier goofy grin pasted on her face. Especially
when this special someone starts drooling.”
I felt around my lips
with my fingertips only to find the area completely drool-free.
“I wasn’t drooling.
You tricked me!” I narrowed my eyes.
“It’s because you’re
such a good comic relief to poke fun at, Kelly,” he had the audacity to admit.
“But look on the bright side. It was just a joke and not a con. Hey, speaking
of a con, did I mention I’m no con compared to the lying, cheating, jilting, swindling,
oh-so-disturbing excuse for a human douchebag who happens to be your ex-husband?”
With a light-hearted chuckle, he added, “No pun intended.”
Biting my lip, I toyed
with the idea of kicking him really hard in the shin. This cra…I mean,
nonsense
,
with him dissing Warren and my past marriage was just getting old, and it was
oh-so-tempting to finally make a point. But I thought better of it. First off,
kicking your employer runs a potentially hazardous risk for your job security. Secondly,
most of his words were accurate, especially the part about my ex being a con—as
in being a convicted conman. I didn’t want to reinforce his cocksureness by getting
upset. That would only tip him off that yours truly indeed had
feelings
for
my ex-husband.
So instead of
kicking him, I retorted. “I never drool!”
“Hey, Kelly.” Flashing
the perfect set of pearly whites, Archangel nudged my elbow. “Look what you’ve
done to her.” I followed his gaze and spotted the female receptionist. She was practically
gaping at us from behind the counter. My eyes met with hers. I tried a polite,
social smile that implied I was not her enemy. She averted her gaze away.
“See?” He cocked
his head. “You’ve managed to creep her out in five minutes. What a shame. Now
I’m labeled as a P.I. who’s stuck with a weird assistant from La-La Land. Come
on, I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” As he shook his head, shining locks of his
long, golden brown hair swayed like dancing waves.
“I see, so you’ve got
a reputation to maintain.” Rephrasing his words, I gave him an up-and-down look.
Today, his attire consisted of a skin-tight above-the-knee-length dress in
vivid magenta, purple fishnet stockings paired with fuck-me-if-you-can high
heels. Okay, so the colorful attire flattered his alabaster complexion and the long,
shiny hair that went midway down his back. Even the heavy makeup wasn’t
laughable.
Yes, you heard me
right. I said he was dressed like a woman. I’m not making any of this up. His outfit
de jour was described as skimpy and eye-catching, at best. It was not his
Halloween costume on an account that it was early April, not the last day of
October. Did I mention that cross-dressing was his “casual/business” attire? I
didn’t know and didn’t want to know what he wears for black-tie events.
I glanced back at
the receptionist, who was now shaking her head as if she was trying to clear away
many thoughts that kept running through her mind. I suspected she was taken
aback. No, “taken aback” was an understatement. I wouldn’t be surprised if her
brain was caught in a temporary cerebral arrest. Michael Archangel had that
effect for many people. Basically, unlike L.A. or Miami, seeing a transvestite in
rural Virginia was a very rare occasion, which alone counted as an element of surprise.
There was another major element called confusion. Indeed, to the casual eye, his
appearance was very confusing. Here I’m not talking about an esthetically
challenged dude playing dress up as a geisha.
He wasn’t ugly.
Lucky him. Thanks to inheriting high cheekbones, baby blue eyes, a well-sculpted
nose in a perfect shape that would make Cleopatra cry with envy, and a tall and
slender figure from both his mother (Miss California) and grandmother (Miss
Greek), he managed to appear almost as strikingly gorgeous as a woman. At least
in photos.
Speaking of
photos, I supposed perhaps she had seen the pictures of him in the morning
paper. Newspapers often carried his photographs. As a Virginia-based P.I. he
usually consulted with law enforcement such as the FBI, and worked on tricky,
weird, or even the most impossible cases. And as a matter of fact, he happened
to be a good detective. Not just good but top-notch. He always cracked
difficult cases really fast, and as result, newspapers, magazine articles,
websites, and sometimes even TV shows reported his accomplishments.
Then again, seeing
him in person was a whole different story. Archangel happened to have even
bigger impact in person. He still looked
almost
like a woman. To be
precise, he looked more like a supermodel than a woman. I mean, it’s not like
supermodels look like the rest of us
real
women, right? Those tall and skinny
girls are byproducts of women-hating men who dominate the fashion industry and all
set to punish us real women by force-feeding us with distorted body images,
just because we have curves and boobs.
Okay, enough with my
little speech. I had mixed feelings about my employer’s looks. I know his
outfit preference was none of my business and I do believe that everyone’s
entitled to express themselves through fashion. And I appreciated that he was
the one who caught all the attention, not me. I was the shadow. I enjoyed my
invisibility. Then again, it gets
a little
awkward when sometimes, total
strangers would be looking at us, chattering about ‘That totally dazzling
supermodel,’ and they went on like, ‘Who’s she? The little one standing next to
her? An assistant wannabe? Doesn’t she look so mediocre and a little bit heavy?’
And it gets
a
little
annoying when Archangel caught such chatters and goes like ‘Did you
hear that? They think I’m pretty and you’re not!’
Did I mention that
he has a diva personality?
Yeah it’s pretty
clear, I ain’t no size two. But in my defense, I’ve got the boobs, uterus,
ovaries, and everything a girl needs. Besides that, it’s totally rude to judge
people based on the physical features for Pete’s sake! I might be described as
a petite woman, but that doesn’t make me
the little one
. On top of all, I’m
the assistant, not a wannabe. Besides that, if you looked carefully, Archangel’s
jaw was a little bit too strong for a woman and he has an Adam’s apple. At 6’3”
with lots of toned muscles, what he resembled the most was a Greek Goddess with
excessive growth hormone. Or Poseidon in drag.
“Mr. Archangel, why
do you think I’m the one who’s responsible for spooking her out? Has it ever
occurred to you that maybe you’re the one who’s grabbing her full attention?” I
asked.
“Why?” Without
answering my question, he arched one eyebrow.
“First of all,
she’s looking in our direction in general, so both of us are in her sights. And…”
I fidgeted with the words.
“And?” he probed,
tapping the backrest of the bench chair with his fingers sporting nail polish
in the same shade of color as the lips.
“And…”
I was ready to
tell him, “And… with all due respect, a giant transvestite is very
eye-catching—or rather, eyesore?” Then it dawned on me that maybe dissing your
employer might not be a good move. Call me desperate, but I wasn’t made of
money and I needed to pay my credit card balance. Unlike Mom, I wasn’t a
rich-husband-magnet either. Which meant I really needed to keep my job as a
personal assistant to this huge, cross-dressing, brilliant-yet-cynical detective.
Maybe I shouldn’t have purchased those pricy pillows from Neiman Marcus but they
were so worth it. You want to invest in high quality pillows to ensure beauty
sleep and sweet dreams, especially when you see murdered corpses on a regular
basis.
Also, I knew the
chances of my scoring other gainful employment anytime soon were practically
nonexistent. My resume wasn’t something described as highly-decorated. On top
of all that, it’s not like having my last employer murdered
and
being an
ex-wife of a notorious swindler would catch the potential employer’s attention in
a good way, would it?
Yes, I was desperate.
So much for an independent woman ready to kick ass.
“Kelly? Tell me
why you think I’m the one who’s creeping her out.” Crossing his long legs, Archangel
pressed on.
“Well…” With all
due respect, I furrowed my eyebrows like a confused third-grader struggling to
grasp the concept of division. “What was I thinking? Isn’t it odd that I can’t
recollect whatever was in my head?”
“Ha. You need to
get a head CT to see if you’ve got the brain at all,” Archangel gave out a
throaty, husky, deep, oh-so-manly laugh. Did I mention his voice was often a dead
giveaway for his otherwise confusing gender? When I first met him I thought he
must be gay, but now I wasn’t so sure. I knew his sexual orientation was none
of my business and I respected people with every sexuality, but for a guy who
opted to wear women’s clothes, Michael Archangel was pretty much lacking
delicacy.