The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (25 page)

“Can you wiggle
your toes?” I asked.

“Of course.” He took
a deep breath.

“Your toes are not
wiggling.”

“You missed it. Just
look carefully.” The toes moved, only slightly.

“Oh, that’s more
like a twitch,” I commented.

“Seriously, it’s
just a sprain. An icepack will do an overnight magic and the next morning, my leg
will be good as new. After all, it shouldn’t be broken. Look, I was walking
without problems. If it’s really broken, I wouldn’t be able to walk on it,
right?” he was talking as if he was trying to convince himself, not me.

“For your
information, you were not walking very well. If it makes a difference.” I pointed
out.

It was amusing
that someone who’s capable of tracking a killer without information such as
residential address can be so blind when his own health is concerned.

“Come on, I’ve
never broken a single bone. Not even once.”

“There’s a first
time for everything, so why don’t we check it out with technology like X-ray?”
I suggested. “Then we’d know who guessed it right.”

“I’m beginning to
think being concerned about you might have been the stupidest mistake that I’ve
ever committed.” He muttered under his breath.

“So you admit you
care for me. That’s sweet. Thank you,” I said, settled myself on the driver’s
seat, took the ancient phone out of the purse, and speed-dialed one of the ex-faux-dads
who was the professor of orthopedics at a prestigious medical school. He picked
up my call on the second ring.

“Hello, this is
Kelly, your ex-faux-daughter. How have you been? Oh, that’s great. Mom’s just
fine. Yes, happily remarried to a count of Scotland. Of course, I’ll send her
your love, sure. By the way, I need a very good orthopedic surgeon who
specializes foot-and-ankle injuries in the D.C. vicinity, immediately. No, I’m
totally unhurt and well but my employer needs immediate medical attention.
Thank you so much for asking. Right now, we’re in Lake Ridge, Virginia but he’s
based in McLean. Yes, swollen with a baseball-sized knot, and very painful. An
ice bag? Oh yes, I’ll buy that and ice the leg on the way. Yes, I’ll keep him
comfortable. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

By the time I had
arranged a rendezvous with a hotshot foot-and-ankle specialist at a medical
center close to Archangel’s home, he was audibly cursing. Still, as I started
the car he was leaning on my shoulder, letting me hold his weight.

“Trust me, it’ll
turn out nothing serious. And with making such a big fuss and all, you’ll make
a fool of us.” He muttered.

“Speaking of a trust,
I completely trusted that you’ll come and prevent the killer from killing me
all the while I was there. Maybe it’s your turn to trust me.” I mentioned.

He snorted, but
didn’t complain further and I took it as a good sign.

EXCLUSIVE
!
– Kelly Kinki Strikes AGAIN, Whacks a Serial Killer with her Godzilla Breath (as
in, literally)

By
Sebastian McDonnel

The Daily Holler

Washington D.C.—America’s got Kim Kardashian,
but mind you, don’t forget we’ve got a K.K. of our own by the name of Kelly Kinki.
The fire-breathing, short-tempered former wife of Britain’s most notorious
swindler Warren Barnadoff Estevez, with nicknames such as Vicious B**** and Dragon
Lady, and the only daughter of Lady Yoko—the countess of Scottsdaleshire—who’s
got heavier punches than that of Mike Tyson’s. Yes, that’s the Kelly.

Before KimK had even started cameo roles
on Paris Hilton’s
Simple Life
across the Pond, our K.K. was already
rocking the world (at least, she shocked the whole Great Britain) with her
rapid-fire f-bombs and signature dragon breath.

Just recently, Kelly has re-emerged from
a long hiatus and finally, she’s back in action! This time, she is armed with hand
sanitizer and extremely dangerous. So, beware. Don’t even think about crossing
her path. As we already know, she can be pretty fierce.

For the past several weeks, Washington
D.C. metro and its neighboring areas were terrified by Eyeball Snatcher the
serial killer, who had allegedly murdered at least 3 women and a fetus by
poking the eyeballs out of the victims while they were still alive. It is
assumed that there were more casualties.

FBI had initially concluded Frederick Reynolds—an
American musician who was previously found dead in his own studio with a
suicide note and the murder weapon—to be the culprit. But on Wednesday night, FBI
suddenly released a statement that Alan Hamilton, a 37-year-old antique shop
owner of Lake Ridge, Virginia, was arrested for eyeball snatching murders, killing
Reynolds, and kidnapping two women including our Kelly.

In the statement, Hamilton had allegedly
murdered three women; including a dancer, a travel & lifestyle writer, a pregnant
local coroner, and her fetus. Then he went on poisoning Yves to death and slipped
a prearranged suicide note to frame the musician for all his crimes, attempting
to manipulate the investigation process. He had almost succeeded except for one
mistake: capturing our Dragon Lady to poke her eyeballs out. A big mistake.

As soon as the FBI had declared the
closure of Eyeball Snatcher cases, Hamilton went on to snatch Kelly to poke the
eyeballs out of her, just like he did to other victims.

Meanwhile being a captive in Hamilton’s basement,
Kelly breathed fire, in a desperate attempt to avoid losing her eyeballs and
getting killed. And she breathed fire a la Godzilla manner. She used hand
sanitizer liquid and candles to do the trick, and torched the notorious Eyeball
Snatcher like a petroleum-soaked toilet paper.

Hamilton, who was wearing fleece at the
time of Kelly’s Godzilla moment had sustained second to third degree burns over
40% of his body surface area. He is currently hospitalized in ICU of an
undisclosed hospital. In plain English, he is placed under maximum security and
we honestly hope so, for the sake of the Americans.

Five pairs of eyeballs were recovered
from Hamilton’s place. Forensic tests showed that four pairs of them were taken
from the murdered women and the fetus, and another came from Hamilton’s own estranged
mother who died in London. Hamilton is also under investigation for the
“accidental” death of his adoptive parents in Florida 15 years ago and several missing
children and cases and “accidents” that had occurred in Virginia 20 years ago.

Karen Andrews, a local student and another
abductee was found safe and unharmed at Hamilton’s place. She was admitted to
Georgetown University Hospital for checkup but is expected to be released soon
with a full health clearance.

Yesterday, Michael Archangel—a Virginia
private investigator and Kelly’s employer, who had earlier kicked and smashed
our camera to bits—was photographed hobbling out of his McLean home on crutches
sporting a cast on his leg.

Detailed information regarding his injury
has not been disclosed yet, but according to Emily Farrel, an FBI spokesperson,
the P.I. sustained an injury while helping the FBI raid the place as a
consultant. Farrel denied the alleged cancellation of consulting contract with
Archangel as “false and ungrounded.”

Neither Kelly nor Archangel returned our
emails for more detail regarding the case, incident, and the current situation.

Here
is life lesson de jour: 1. What goes around comes around, 2. Never, ever make
Kelly angry, and 3. Wearing fleece while cooking may be hazardous for your
health.

* *
*

It was a lovely afternoon. The
weather was sunny without even a sign of a cloud, the temperature was just
right, and in the garden, azaleas were blooming.

One week had
passed and so had post burning-Eyeball-Snatcher-to-near-death frenzy. Except
for the same old ugly photo of yours truly (imported from England) that kept on
popping on the corner of every internet page, tabloid, 12 o’clock news, and
late night talk shows to be handled as the current butt of jokes, my life had
pretty much returned to normal, and I was mostly happy about it.

Still, there were
times when you had to play it hard. Especially when a certain gutless,
cojoneless, shameless FBI Advisory Special Agent had appeared at my workplace (and
temporary residence) doorstep without notice.

“How may I help
you?” I asked in an icy tone to Richard Henderson, who was standing in the
foyer, looking uncomfortable.

“Hello, Ms. K. Well,
I thought I’d just drop by, meet Archangel and…” He said in a half-confused,
half-scared tone.

“And?” I pressed
without a slightest hint of a smile. I wasn’t going to let him in so easily.

“And meet you, of
course!” he chuckled awkwardly, but I gave him a blank stare.

“Do you have an
appointment? If you don’t have an appointment, I have to check with his
schedule,” I continued in the same icy tone until Archangel interjected.

“Hey, cut him some
slack, Kelly. He’s worked hard to revoke the cancellation of our contract with
the feds so from outside, it appears like the cancellation had never happened
in the first place. That requires helluva lot of paperwork.” Archangel called
from his office. “Let him in.”

I gave out an
audible sigh.

“Kelly, you are very
subtle,” Archangel commented when I led Henderson into the office.

“It’s Japanese
thing. I’m half Japanese and subtlety happens to be my specialty. Anyway, I was
just trying to make a point.” I replied.

“I believe I’ve
got your point, and I’m glad you’re doing great, Ms. K.” Henderson muttered.

“Of course, I’m
good. No thanks to you.” I replied in a sing-song tone.

“Don’t forget he’s
worked hard to pay you a generous cash bonus.” Archangel mentioned. 

“In exchange for
my signed non-disclosure agreement, buying my silence. I didn’t like their
attitude and you know what? I could have made much more myself if I had accepted
John Oliver’s invitation to appear in his show.” I fumed, flipping my hands for
emphasis

As soon as the FBI
got a hold of Alan Hamilton, the real Eyeball Snatcher, they had boldly offered
Archangel to cut the deal to pretend that previously sidelining him was all for
the show. They wanted to mislead general public into believing that the FBI had
deliberately released the statement that the investigation of Eyeball Snatching
Murders was over, so that the real culprit would come out from hiding and commit
a critical mistake that gets him busted. In feds’ speaking, it was just another
cutthroat strategy. But in my opinion, that was just another pathetic excuse—to
save their as… I mean,
face
.

“I might have
gotten a book deal, probably a reality TV show, and scored millions. Mr.
Archangel, you could have been the costar of
Keeping up with Kelly Kinki
.”

Of course, I was half-joking.
That said, I was half-serious.

Frowning and lips tightly
shut, Henderson rolled his eyes. Presumably, he was trying his best not to
blurt out whatever was in his mind. I felt like I had understood the reason that
his wife had left for a deli cook.

Archangel
shrugged. “Kelly, you declined John’s offer to join his TV show, saying that I
had a doctor’s appointment on that day and you couldn’t make it to New York
City. That was so sweet of you. Made me almost weep with gratitude.”

“On top of all that,
my car is still missing in action and the feds say they can’t pay for that damage
on the account that Eyeball Snatcher didn’t steal the car. That’s outrageous,”
I continued. “The car was stolen while I was being snatched for Pete’s sake.”

Even though the Lake
Ridge neighborhood where
Rhapsody in Pink
was located was relatively
safe, my purple Pimp car had just disappeared, probably now sold to some rich pimp,
drug dealer, or gangsta in some third world country.

“That was a
freebie and I heard you saying you don’t want to get caught dead in that hideous
purple Caddy,” Archangel chimed in.

“Still, that Pimp
car definitely had a sentimental value, not to mention it came in handy when
I’m in heavy traffic and/or hitting the mall on Black Friday,” I pouted. “People
didn’t want to mess with me in that car, they thought the driver might be a gangsta
or something. Also, it stood out like a sore thumb and I could always locate my
car without breaking a sweat in the parking lot.”

But the truth was
I didn’t miss that gangsta car so badly. Actually, a part of me appreciated the
car thief. Whoever had stolen my car had sort of helped me out with getting rid
of the hideous vehicle. In addition, it turned out that my car insurance policy
came with a brilliant auto-theft coverage. I was still having a hard time
imagining someone,
anyone
with an iota of sanity, had bothered to steal that
purple Caddy. Anyway, I was planning to buy a new car or lease something
fabulous as soon as the car insurance policy paid off. Currently, I was torn
between purchasing and leasing.

Archangel shrugged
and waved at Henderson. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Henderson acknowledged.
“You look different.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe
it’s the boot. Gives me extra mojo.”

Sitting at the
desk, Archangel pointed at his left leg propped up on an ottoman (with fluffy
pillows under the leg) by the desk. A bulky black boot with lots of Velcros was
peeking from his Levi’s pant cuff. Colorful balloons saying things like “Get
Well Soon!” and “I Told Ya to Watch Your Step!” were strapped to one of the
armrests of his chair. With a knowing grin, Karen brought those balloons
yesterday.

“That’s not what I
meant.” Henderson replied. 

Recently, Archangel
had undergone a makeover (which was, actually, a makeunder). Today, he was
wearing loose-fitting stonewashed Levi’s, Washington Redskins sweatshirt, and a
snakeskin cowboy boot (on the good leg.) His hair had been cut short in a
conservatively messy ‘do, and barely covered the nape of his neck. When he ditched
high heels due to the leg injury, he ditched heavy makeup as well.

“Kelly, can you
fix a cup of matcha green tea for Ritchie? I’ll have coffee.”

“I’m on it,” I
couldn’t help chuckling. Henderson positively loathed matcha green tea.

When I returned
with three cups of coffee (I’m not that evil as to actually bring matcha to
Henderson,) and cookies lined up on a dish, Archangel had relocated himself to the
lounge chair by the coffee table. As I saw Henderson carrying the ottoman for Archangel,
my feelings toward the FBI Advisory Special Agent softened a little.

“How’s your leg?”
Henderson asked, carefully balancing the crutches on the side of the sofa.

“Not too bad. The
good news is I don’t need a surgery. And the bad news is I have to keep it elevated
all the time to hold off swelling. When swelling kicks in, it looks like some
kind of a rotten tomato.” Archangel replied. “But at least, now I can predict
when it rains. That’s awesome, right?”

Placing his boot
leg on the ottoman, he grinned ear to ear. “Hey, wanna see the bruises? It’s kinda
cool. Totally like
Fifty Shades of Purple
meets Jackson Pollock. I guess
the leg can star in a C-class zombie movie without makeup.”

Henderson cringed.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”

As for the
condition of Archangel’s leg, both of our assumptions turned out to be accurate.
He had sprained and broken his left ankle. With a fractured fibula and
overstretched ligaments, the injury was nothing minor. Then again, according to
Dr. Donahue, the hotshot orthopedic surgeon my ex-faux-dad had kindly arranged
for Archangel, he was lucky that the soft tissue damage was limited and no
surgery was required. I didn’t know which was surprising, that the damage to be
described as
limited
concerning an ankle the size of a grapefruit, or
that we had a bone with such a weird name as fibula.

While recuperating
from injury, Archangel had managed to solve three cases in the past two days.

“Sorry about your
injury.” Henderson said.

“Don’t be. It’s
just a temporary thing,” Archangel shrugged, patting the top of the boot. “The
biggest damage is that I feel like a total idiot. In retrospect, I should have
spared the Taser and zapped him instead of smashing the device prematurely. My mistake.
Maybe I could have used the gun when that SOB jumped from the top of the stairs,
but I wasn’t all that confident if I could shoot without killing him. Maybe he
might have been better off having a gunshot wound, rather than third-degree
burns.”