The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

After Archangel had finished observing
the corpses and the house, and spoke with Henderson and forensic techs, we came
out of the house. The sun had disappeared underneath the horizon but with
street lamps and lights from media vehicles, it wasn’t dark.

Reporters threw
questions at Archangel but he ignored all of them, and ambled fast to the Camaro.

The British tabloid
reporters, still mean and now pretty much pissed off, were also there. They
were carrying another camera. They kept on throwing questions at me—about my
personal life and my feelings toward my ex-hubby now serving three hundred and
five years in the maximum security prison in the UK. When they asked me about the
relation with
this rude giant bloke in women’s clothes
, I gave them a
look implying don’t-mess-up-with-him-‘coz-you’ll-be-very-sorry. Archangel simply
gave them a finger.

“Give me the key, I’ll
drive.” Archangel declared.

“Why? Is anything
wrong?” I asked. He usually lets me drive the Machomobile without complaining.

“You’re upset.” He
said matter-of-factly.

“No I’m not,” I
retorted, a little too defiantly.

“Oh yeah?” He raised
one eyebrow casting an inquisitive look at my right hand.

In my hand,
Camaro’s key and other keys dangling from the key fob were chattering and
clattering.  My hand was visibly shaking.

I handed him the
keys, he took it with a slight nod.

While I sat in the
passenger’s seat, I kept on thinking about Dr. Stewart. I remembered how
sheepishly she spoke when she confided in me about feeling out of place at the
morgue. I recalled how excitedly she rubbed her belly, when she told me the
great news. Then I remembered how happy and radiant she looked.

Also, I realized
that I didn’t cry. Whether I was proud of myself or not, I didn’t know.

“Are you cold?” Archangel
said, driving in the scarcely lit road in a steady pace. “You’re shaking.”

“Am I?”

My voice was
quivering and my teeth were clattering.

“Yes, you are.”

“Well,” I said. “I’m
cold, I guess.” Then I added, “And I’m shocked, disgusted, scared. I suppose I’m
just overreacting. I used to believe I’m not easily shocked with any usual
crime scenes because I have seen worse cases before. Now I’m quite embarrassed,
shaking like this. I wish I could be someone who’s cool at any murder scenes,
someday. You know, just like a seasoned professional.”

“You wouldn’t be
someone
cool
with murder scenes,” Archangel said matter-of-factly.

“Because I’m
unskilled, untrained, unofficial, unprofessional, long story cut short, an amateur?”
Besides that, Bitchtricia Warshawsky’s face was completely dry
; I added
in my head, not knowing why I was competing with a former-feds-turned-a-Congresswoman.

Is it because
Archangel mentored her? Or that she was engaged to him?
I was confused and clueless.
So everyone including myself was fully aware of the complete lack of credentials
on my part, but I was totally obsessing with that for totally unknown reasons. And
I had no fucking idea why I was comparing myself to Archangel’s former fiancée.
Talk about a frustration.

“Yes and no. But
your reaction wasn’t all that bad considering you didn’t puke, or cry like a
drunken idiot shedding bodily fluids all over the place. Or collapsing on the
spot, potentially ruining forensic evidence. It just indicates you’re normal,
at least marginally.” He said. “As far as I know, I’ve never met anyone who’s
indeed cool at murder scenes except for some murderers.”

“But you can look
at the corpses without a twitch of a facial muscle.” I pointed out. “And Agent
Henderson’s always well-composed in front of the corpses. Even baby faced
officers who looked as if they just came out of the police academy were better
composed than me.”

Archangel gave out
a low chuckle. “Detaching yourself from the murder and the corpses, and keeping
the emotions inside is the first thing they teach at any law enforcement
academy, so the officers were only following the protocol. They may be
pokerfaced, but inside, they’re freaking out as much as you are, maybe, more
than you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. In
addition, even though Henderson keeps the same scowl, he cries at night.”

“You are making
that up, right?”

“Not really, it’s
just that I haven’t yet checked. You’d never know, it might turn out that I was
right.” He shrugged. “About that Congresswoman, she had to be literally resuscitated
by paramedics at the first crime scene she attended. She puked inside her mouth,
got choked and had almost died. That was not a pretty sight. Besides that, did I
mention you’re the first person that I’ve met who, with no military or police
procedural training, had managed to eat dinner just after discovering the first
corpse of lifetime?”

“No, that’s a
total news flash. And, am I?” I asked, recalling the first time I encountered
Michael Archangel. It was before becoming his personal assistant and after
touring the globe as a fire breather with Iron Dragon. Back then, I was a live-in
maid at a manse in a private island in the Caribbean. My last employer was a
nice, if a little bit temperamental, elderly lady. The island had a great
privacy and I used to take a stroll on the white sands and evening skinny dips
in the sea. When a large number of outsiders came to the island, so did
troubles. Plenty of troubles including murders.

“Yes, you’re the
first person who had no problem eating roast beef after witnessing a murdered
corpse. That made it pretty much difficult to ditch the theory that you might
the killer.”

That fiasco in the
island was promptly solved by Archangel, just like usual. In addition, he saved
my behind by loaning his pink summer jacket to me (my clothes were stolen while
I was skinny dipping in the sea) and nailing the killer who was planning to
kill me as well. The P.I. wasn’t all that eager with the part of saving me,
though, anyway, he liked my pancakes and Japanese style sweet omelet with a
hint of soy sauce.

“Thank you,” I
said. And I meant for everything.

“For what?”

“For your
assurance that I’m normal. I was beginning to hate myself for being a terrible
person.”  

“You hate yourself
just because getting frightened by horrible deaths? Then you must be coming
with lots of reasons to loathe yourself every day.”

“No, I mean, I
hated myself because I was being a jealous bitch,” I confessed. “When I met Dr.
Stewart back in the morgue, she was so happy, radiant, and, and…so
mother-to-be. I said congratulations for her coming motherhood, and I meant it.
I was indeed happy for her, and happy for her baby, too. But at the same time,
a jealous, vicious, and obnoxious bitch was crawling in the bottom of my heart,
wondering why I wasn’t the one to be a happy mother-to-be.” I gulped in the air
to help prevent my voice from cracking. “Maybe those mean Brits were right that
I’m a poisonous bitch deep inside.”

Archangel kept on
driving without saying a word.

“First of all, I
fancied the idea of shooting the tabloid guys from UK with an automatic weapon
just to quiet them. And as much as I was happy for her, I was envious of Dr.
Stewart. I knew she had chosen to marry someone who doesn’t lie, jilt, or
conduct a Ponzi-scheme while I chose to marry someone who does anything to get
what he wants without hesitation or remorse. Plus, my ex was capable of withholding
vital information such as that he’d undergone vasectomy to keep the wives from
getting pregnant. That bastard. I know the grass is always greener on the other
side of the fence and I know it was my own decision and stupidity for being
such a blind not to see his dark, lying, criminal, pathological side. I’m fully
aware of that. But I couldn’t… just couldn’t stop imagining what ifs—like if I
had a child with Warren and so on. I know it’s ridiculous and useless to
daydream such a thing. And the saddest part was that he never told me about having
the vasectomy. It was only after the divorce settlement that he finally came
clean that he loathed the concept of having children and building a family. He had
the audacity to tell me that he regarded children nothing but rivals he has to
compete to get the wife’s attention.”

I felt warmth on
my shoulder.

“Don’t get all
tensed up.” Archangel whispered, patting my shoulder. “The last thing you want
right now is a stroke.” His face was unreadable.

“Sorry,” I said, “maybe
I’m boring you to tears.”

“Don’t be sorry,”
he said. “Your story wasn’t boring and as a matter of fact, shooting the shit
out of those media cretins was somewhat tempting except that’s illegal. In
addition, you’ve finally confirmed my speculation was right.”

“What speculation?”

“You’re idiot who
still has feelings for that pathological liar after everything.” His words were
harsh, but his tone was soft. “But you’re normal for the most part.”

“I might be an
idiot, but I’m normal. Lovely, just lovely.” I gave a light chuckle then I
realized my cheeks were all wet with tears. Oh yeah, I was an idiot. What kind
of a smart person still kept their ancient flip phone from the past marriage? How
pathetic was I to cling to the same old cell phone number, awaiting the ex in
prison to call? I was one step away from wailing and sobbing. 

“Besides that, just
being a teensy bit envious of someone is a whole lot different from wishing
that special someone to death.” Archangel tossed a tiny box of tissues on my
lap. “It was nothing more than a short lasting emotion. Your envy didn’t kill
her or her baby, regardless of your point of view toward the universe, karma,
kabala, feng-shui, or whatever psychobabble you’re into, understand?”

“Mr. Archangel, sometimes
you are really sweet.” Blowing my nose in an unladylike manner, I said.

“I’m sweet, gentle,
sensible, and considerate for 24/7. Didn’t you know that? Another red flag for your
silliness.” He shrugged. “What we can do now is help catch the killer ASAP. It
doesn’t bring the victims back to life, but at least, securing the killer
behind the bars can relieve the loss, pain, and sufferings of the victims’
families and loved ones, if only a little. On top of all, by capturing the
killer, we can stop any more killing. So, personally, I believe it would be
more constructive to think about whodunit than crying over imaginary spilt milk.”

“I agree with you,
especially getting more constructive part.” I said between sobs.

“Hey, look on the
bright side. Unlike your ex-hubby who’s got three-hundred-plus-year prison time
left to serve, you’re a free person. This fact alone tells that you’re a lot
better than him. If there’s a loser that’s him, not you. Maybe you can find new
romances, even a new hubby or two.”

“New romances? I
don’t think so.” I shrugged. “New relationships, much less new husbands are not
part of the things I’m anticipating for my life.”

“Why not?” He
asked curiously. “Is that because of the British paparazzi?”

Five o’clock
shadow had started to appear on his jaw line. But somehow that looked rather
nice, even though he was wearing heavy makeup and women’s clothes. So he was
eccentric, but it was not bad eccentric. It was nice eccentricity. Just like a
glam rocker.

“No,” I shook my
head, “They’re annoying but they have nothing to do with my life in general. I
know they’ll keep on calling me Kelly the Bitch forever and there’s nothing I
can do with that.”

I tried to smile
but I wasn’t very sure if that worked very well.

I continued. “I’ve
promised myself to change and spend my life doing something meaningful. And
living my life as a man-hopper isn’t a part of my plan, you know. I don’t want
to live like my mother.”

“Kelly, what’s
wrong with you? Your mom’s great. Throwing parties to save dying museums from
closing
is
meaningful, if I may say.” Archangel shook his head, as if I
had mentioned something outrageously foolish. He had once met Mom years before
we got acquainted, and he stayed a big fan of her up to now.

“I know. Mom’s great
both as a huge supporter of art and as a mother. Her taste in men has been mostly
good except she had this tendency to pick up husbands with short attention spans,
such as my biological father. Not to mention that she’s got this short
attention span issue herself as well. But at least, none of her former husbands
was convicted of anything criminal. That’s fabulous. It’s not like I don’t
appreciate her lifestyle, but following her path is not my best interest.”

If you define smartness
as an ability to stay rich, my Mom—the Countess of a village in Scotland (she
became officially a lady by her ninth marriage) is a pure genius. Basically, she’s
a poster-woman for a rich-husband-magnet. I hate to sound superficial but most
of supposedly smart people were living in small and barely-decorated houses
despite hard work and everything. On the other hand, Mom’s been constantly
living in manses decorated by designers from maisons such as Versace and Hermes.
Anyway, I suppose it’s quite something that she’s never really worked but has
been living in nice manses that often come with
real
Matisse, Renoir, or
even Da Vinci paintings.

I added. “I’ve once
tried to follow her path. And look what I’ve got—a marriage to a cheater-slash-swindler,
the following fiasco and a social suicide. So unlike her, who usually had
multiple next prospect-husbands-to-be lined up before the end of each nuptial,
I ended up as a socialite dropout. A jinx. I guess that’s very significant
evidence to rate my taste in men as ‘poor’ unlike ‘super-duper-excellent’ of
Mom’s.”  

Archangel snorted
out laughing.

“Excuse me, but
that’s not the part where you’re supposed to laugh! I was…I was totally
devastated, you know, feeling like a failure.”