The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

That’s it? That’s my
feelings?

I felt unexpectedly calm.

It was a strange feeling.

The shabby alley was reeking of
stale beer and urine.

I didn’t know how I dared to
come here.

Maybe I was wasting my time…

I knocked on the door.

No answer.

Perhaps, I was making a complete
fool of myself…

Again.

Still, I had to come. 

After some banging, the next
door banged open.

“She ain’t got no keys, push the
door and just shuddafuckup.” Spit the old woman. A junky, obviously.

I thanked her politely.

Shaking her head, she
disappeared back to her cave. 

For the first time in many, many
years, I felt peaceful.

Perhaps, what I was feeling was…love…

“Suppose there’s a victim’s face here
on the plate. Think of the fried eggs as eyes, now let’s consider this asparagus
as the neck of the vic, okay?” Henderson said.

“Regarding food as
the face of a murder victim? That’s a unique way to depict food. Very
appetizing.” Archangel commented.

“Shut up and look
at the fried eggs.”

Henderson,
Archangel, and I were gathering at the dining table at Archangel’s office slash
main residence. On the dining table were three plates of eggs benedict, and dozens
of photographs. Over the table, the photographs were spread like a patchwork
centerpiece. Each photograph featured a bloody corpse minus the eyeballs.

“Excuse me, but
they are poached eggs, not fried.” I corrected Henderson, who responded with a
quizzical look on his face.

“Eggs benedict,” showing
the dish with the palm of my hand, I smiled apologetically to the FBI agent. “One
with Canadian bacon, the other with prosciutto and pineapple confiture. Bon
appetit.”

I had no idea why
I had to feel apologetic.

“Okay, eggs
benedict, not fried eggs,” he nodded, and dug in.

* * *

On a regular day, I get up around 7:30,
groom myself, and walk up to my workplace—the 19
^th
-century Greek revival
house in Bradley Drive, McLean, Virginia.

The large two-story
house with 6 bedrooms, 5.5 baths, and a grand staircase was just a moderate
residence in the neighborhood. Archangel inherited this house that served as
the office and residence from one of his late distant aunts. The same aunt had
left him two apartment complexes just three blocks away from the house, and
actually, I happen to be one of his tenants. It seemed like she had had a good
sense of interior planning. Both the house and the apartment came with
relatively conservative interior décor with relaxing color schemes, such as
lavender-colored walls in my unit and lovely (and very expensive) pieces of
furniture.

Making breakfast
for two had become my morning ritual at work. When I was new to this job I used
to come to work after eating breakfast on my own, but soon shifted to sleeping
in, cooking food at Archangel’s, and eating with him in the dining room
decorated in pink. With the former routine, I had nothing better to do other
than longingly watching my employer eat, which made me hungry again. I tend to
get hungry when I see other people eating. Good thing I wasn’t in the food
business.  

This morning
started just like usual.

I opened the entrance
door, walked into the grand foyer accentuated with a gorgeous crystal
chandelier from Baccarat, and a leather upholstered Italian chair from circa
1960s. I took a look at the flowers in a Tiffany vase and decided that the
white calls were doing well.

Michael Archangel
was already in his full gear (today’s attire: a white miniskirt and a scarlet sweater)
and coming down the grand staircase muttering, “Morning. Coffee? Where’s my
coffee?”

“Good morning, Mr.
Archangel, coffee’s coming right away.” With a little finger wave, I switched
on Mr. Coffee and launched cooking. I suppose it wouldn’t require much effort just
to switch the coffee machine on, while he got dressed in the wardrobe that
involved a mini-skirt and applied heavy makeup. But it was a ritual and considering
that I was paying only 100 bucks a month (utilities included) for the nice and
spacious 2 bedroom apartment that I occupied, I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t
sure if I could even rent a closet for that money in this neighborhood.

When I was whisking
up Hollandaise sauce, Henderson called the landline. In the kitchen, Archangel
was hanging around with a mug of coffee in one hand. When the phone rang, he
put the mug on the granite countertop and took the kitchen phone. His jaw
slightly hardened when he got a notification that another woman’s body missing
the eyes was discovered in a forest park in Maryland. After disconnecting the
phone, he told me that he’s expecting Henderson bringing in further detail of the
case. Which meant the FBI agent secured his share of breakfast.

“According to the Chief
Medical Examiner’s findings,” Henderson said. “Whoever killed the victims had first
choked them like this.”

He put the head of
the fork in the middle of the sautéed asparagus and crushed it underneath. “But
the point is, the killer compressed the vic’s throat with a force just to knock
her unconscious, but not enough to suffocate her to death. The vic’s hyoid bone
was intact.”

“Hmm,” munching on
a cut piece of prosciutto, poached egg and English muffin topped with pineapple
jam, Archangel placed the knife on the asparagus in the similar manner as the
FBI agent did.

Then he dug into
the other egg with the fork. He scooped up the yolk without breaking the yolk
sac. “The killer poked the victim’s eyeballs out while she was unconscious,
just like this.”

Setting the yolk
aside, he sprinkled ketchup over the white of the egg. The red ketchup filled
in the egg white that used to accommodate yellow yolk, just like blood filling
in the empty eye socket now that the eyeball had been poked out.

“This killer’s got
a knack for some kind of craftsmanship. Not to mention this killer had kept the
cool while working on the eyeballs. So an eyeball is protected by the sclera on
the surface, it tend to rupture when handled without caution.” Archangel
commented.

“Exactly. On both
occasions, the killer poked the eyeballs out of the victims without breaking
them. That isn’t easy. Add that the victims were still alive when it happened.”
said Henderson, cutting his bacon egg benedict. Unhardened egg yolk started
running into the Hollandaise sauce. He dipped the above mentioned abused
asparagus into the mixture of egg yolk and sauce, and savored it. 

“Yum…” he muttered
happily to himself.

I noticed it was
the first time I saw him with an expression that remotely resembled a smile.

Richard Henderson was
in his forties. As far as I’d known him, he was always wearing a dark suit and
his hair was always set in the same Ivy League style.

In general, Henderson
didn’t exhibit much of facial expressions other than stern-faced scowling. He
had this extremely serious exterior whenever he was surprised, pissed off,
disappointed, and relatively-happy. I assumed a part of the reason for his demeanor
is his line of work where showing emotions is often frowned upon.

Sometimes, I find
myself almost convinced that he was born this way, except that a scowling
newborn baby with Ivy League haircut in a dark suit seems a little bit out of
norm. Richard Henderson reminds me of Agent K from
Men in Black
movies.

Henderson turned
to me. “Thank you for a delicious breakfast, Ms. K.”

“My pleasure,
Agent Henderson,” I said with a vague smile which I hoped to be polite. “It’s
wonderful for you to join our breakfast.”

But I didn’t
invite him for further occasions. I had no problem eating with him. Also, it
was sweet that he said nice things about my cooking. After all, he was my
employer’s regular client, which made him more like a colleague. However,
eating with him showing, explaining, and demonstrating ghastly details about
murders didn’t exactly fit my concept of pleasurable dining. Talk about an
appetite killer.

He continued. “It’s
the best meal I’ve ever had since I had separated from my former wife.”

“You used to be
married?” Words slipped out before I recalled concepts such as protocol and etiquette.

“Yes,” he nodded
very curtly. “Only in the past. Now I’m happily divorced.”

Richard Henderson was
not someone you could imagine with a significant other, much less a spouse. Still,
I managed to add, “You seem to be holding up very well.”

That was the
phrase one certain Christian etiquette website had listed in the ‘Do Tell’
section. Personally, I didn’t hear much of such words in my post-divorce days. But
as much as unimaginable Henderson being married, I knew how it feels when your
loved one suddenly loses interest in you and moves on, leaving you still
wondering what you have or have not done right to keep the relationship fresh
and exciting. For me, seeing my ex ditching me and hopping off to the new
season of his life with that 21-year-old Brazilian dancer wasn’t a pleasant
experience. Anyway, that was so over and learning Henderson and I shared
something in common gave me a sense of closeness with him.

“Thanks.” Shaking his
head, Henderson said uncertainly. “But actually, I don’t miss her all that
much. It’s only the good meals I used to eat with her that I sometimes miss,
except she never cooked.”

“So you still miss
her company. That’s sad.”

“No way!” He gave
out a stern chuckle and I found myself wishing to get the heck out of this awkward
situation.

“Dining with a
crocodile that was kept unfed for a month would have been far more peaceful
than eating with her. Our marriage was nothing but a stupid byproduct of a tequila
induced temporal insanity.”

“Oh…”

Now I was
confused. Was he trying on a tough guy attitude, or just being honest?

“She ran away to Oahu,
Hawaii, with a cook of the deli she frequented and bought food,” Archangel
interjected. “That’s how he lost his wife and his favorite meals for good.”

“What the hell do
you think you’re doing stealing
my
punchline, Michael?”

Henderson scowled.

“You know what, Ritchie,
in comedy, timing is everything.” Archangel said matter-of-factly. “And you
were missing the right moment.”

Henderson humphed
and continued. “The deli’s still doing business at the same spot, but without
Chad the cook, the food is never the same.”

As I made
sympathetic noises, Henderson attacked the food.

“By the way, about
the strangulation part,” Archangel raised his fork, completely unconcerned of
his client’s annoyance. “Is it intentional that the killer choked the victims
unconscious but not enough to kill them? Or due to other reasons, such as the
killer was not strong enough?”

“That’s yet to be
determined.” Henderson shook his head while wolfing down asparagus topped on
the Canadian bacon egg benedict. “The Chief Medical Examiner thinks suffocation
alone was not the cause of death in neither case. He says the death’s multifactorial,
including but not limited to being left in the woods and devoured by wild
animals.”

“Getting eaten by
the residents of the woods like rats, raccoons, and ravens, without exit, hope,
sight, or eyeballs. That’s a nightmarish way to go.” Archangel muttered and took
a gulp of black coffee. Then he added, “By the way, Ritchie. The second victim
has recently divorced or split from her significant other, if it helps to ID
her.”

“How can you tell?”
Henderson arched one eyebrow.

“From the slight
ring-tan on her left ring finger.”

He said, pointing
at a photograph to which Henderson leaned forward to take a better look.

While taking a
small sip of tea I impulsively took a glance at the photographs. The images of
bloodied women jumped into my eyes, and I ended up coughing like a dog with a
distemper.

“Okay, I’ll take
that possibility.” Henderson said to Archangel. Then turning to me, “Are you
asthmatic or something?”

“No, it’s only that
her table manner happens to be taking a sick leave today.” Archangel informed
him while I was still coughing and unable to utter a coherent word. “Can you
believe she went to one of those fancy finishing schools in Switzerland? No
wonder she’s a socialite dropout.”  

Between the
coughs, I gasped. “Excuse me, but they taught me deaths and murders are not
favorable table topics back in Switzerland…”  

Sitting at the
same table with a feds agent and a private investigator plus murder scene
photographs was really icky. Trying to eat while they simulated the killer’s (and
the victim’s) moves using food and utensils was simply nauseating.

“For your
information, I didn’t drop out of the society. It’s just that I got sick of
being superficial and I quit it intentionally. See the difference?” I pointed
out to Archangel.

“Oh yeah?” he
shrugged.

And I turned to Henderson,
“I wasn’t a Park Avenue Princess, but my faux-dad#6, a filthy rich coffee shop
mogul who’s originally from Columbia, thought that it was a brilliant idea to send
his step-daughter to that finishing school in Switzerland and Le Cordon Bleu in
Paris. He really liked the prospect of helping me cultivate my inner elegance
and all.” I clarified. I was feeling this ‘A fancy finishing school in
Switzerland? Seriously?’ expression desperate to creep out from underneath his poker
face.

Back then, going
to Europe seemed like a fabulous idea. I wasn’t Ivy League Material, and I didn’t
have enough passion to drive my heart and soul to dedicate four years in a
certain field of study. Besides that, I wanted to give Mom and her new husband some
space to enjoy their adults-only quality time. So Mom has this special knack
for scoring one rich husband after another, but her marriages tended to be
short-lasting. I was feeling a tiny bit responsible for that. Anyway, it was
terribly generous of the faux-dad#6 to cover all the expenses for my pricey
education. Especially, considering that he had already been split from Mom
before I finished my education. He had even sent me to the Debutante Ball in
Paris.

Anyway, going to
Switzerland was absolutely life-changing for me. At a café in Zurich, I met Warren,
“the King” of the City (I’m talking about the financial district of London. Not
everything in this world is about New York, you know.) And the next came the
nuptial and
The Days of Decadence
, which was beyond divine—huge manses
with servants and everything, trotting the world on private jets, appearing in
posh lifestyle mags and TV shows, shopping at Bergdorf Goodman and vacationing
in St. Tropez. Ah, memories…