The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

Four days later, we went to a posh,
Beaux Arts-style condo in Kalorama Triangle, Washington DC. The second victim
had been identified this morning, and Henderson summoned Archangel to see her residence.
In hopes of him picking up anything about the murderer.  

At the entrance of
the condo complex, there was a doorman—a big guy in his mid-fifties with white
hair—who gave a well-concealed but apprehensive once-over on us. He looked like
all the doormen I’d interacted in the past. I greeted him and explained the
purpose of our visit. He led us into the entrance hall where we were met by the
concierges, then the beautiful Nordic woman made a phone call. Thirty seconds
later, she showed us to the elevator to go up to the 13
^th
floor.  

“Hey, you have
something in common with the victim.” Archangel said to Henderson as soon as he
stepped out of the elevator. He was waiting for us in front of the room #1313,
which was the same number as his office in the Capitol Hill. “Maybe that gives
you some big clue to solve the case pronto.”

“Unfortunately, it’s
just a coincidence and what we share in common is limited to the room number.”
Henderson replied with his signature scowl. Today, he seemed extra-grumpy.

“I don’t think the
room number is the only thing the late victim shared with you.” Archangel said.
“She’s divorced, just like you, and just like I said.”

“What are you, a
psychic?”

“No, you’ve got
the
look.
”

“What look?”

“The one that says
you’re extra grumpy by tasting regurgitated bitter memory of your past on an
account something reminds you of
your
bitter divorce. So, what do we
know about this newly identified victim?”

Henderson gave out
a sigh. “Her name was Alice Sinclair, a thirty-three-year-old columnist, leisure
and travel writer. Her work had appeared in publications including Vogue, New
York, Marie Claire, Travel and Leisure, and a various newspaper. And indeed, she
got divorced just a month ago. The former husband Anthony Klein is a hedge fund
manager. Right now, Klein is based in Manhattan. She obtained this condo and a
handsome asset division through the divorce settlement. Her parents are living
in Orange County, California, and she lived here alone. It was only this
morning that a local dentist reported to that the second victim’s dental
records matches to that of his patient Alice Sinclair’s.”

He led us inside
the second victim’s residence.

It was a gorgeous,
four-bedroom property with marble floorings and modern designer furniture. The
interior décor was mostly finished with soft gold and different shades of blues,
giving the place a touch of an upscale hotel air.

The rooms were
embellished with numerous pieces of contemporary art pieces, most of which were
abstract paintings. The place looked more like a gallery than a residence. If only
somebody had taken time to remove the cheap-looking knickknacks scattering the
collection, the condo might have looked like a small museum. Maybe she had
intended to mix and match, but it didn’t seem to be working nicely. Anyway, she
was so into warm colors. Most of her collection was in either red, pink,
orange, or a mixture of those colors. One of her red paintings of the sunset
caught my eyes. Obviously, it was one of the knickknacks, but it looked much
cheaper and much poorly composed even for knickknacks’ standards.

On the
mantelpiece, there was a photograph of late Alice Sinclair, smiling with a
handsome man in his early forties. They were standing on the pier at Hilton
Hawaiian Village. The vast blue ocean spread behind them, with Diamond Head in
the far back. In the photo, they were both smiling. Alice looked happy,
carefree, and radiant.

That made her
premature death seem even more painful and tragic, but at the same time,
learning that she had her happy moments had a somewhat soothing effect. I know
you can never estimate, much less understand, a total stranger’s life just
peeking it from outside. Then again, Alice Sinclair seemed to have lived in a
posh apartment without much inconvenience and she was surrounded by artwork she
liked.

I recalled the no-frills,
minimalist rental apartment Leonie Ganong, the first Eyeball Snatcher victim had
lived, and that cute dollhouse of Dr. Julia Stewart’s. Compared to them, the
grandeur of this upscale condo was something exceptional. The bathroom alone
seemed to be able to accommodate Leonie Ganong’s entire apartment.

They lived
entirely different lives in entirely different settings. Their personal,
financial, and professional lives were not even remotely related. Then again,
all of them ended up dead, having their eyeballs taken out of the body while
they were still alive. So perhaps, differences in their lifestyles mean little
or nothing.

Looking around the
living room, Archangel said. “I suppose she had regular cleaning services but
the cleaner hasn’t come here for a while. What’s the explanation for that?”

As he mentioned,
the place was kept exquisitely clean and spotless just like his place following
his cleaner Johanna’s visit every Tuesday. It was obvious that Alice Sinclair
had a cleaning service on a regular basis. The only thing indicating this room
has been left untouched was scattered petals of dead flowers in a Baccarat vase
placed in the center of the low table.

“As for the
cleaner, she took two weeks off in order to attend her sister’s wedding in El
Salvador.” Replied Henderson. “This condo has a number of staff like the
doorman and concierge people, but none of them thought twice about her absence
because as a travel writer, she often traveled for a long period of time. Those
factors had contributed to the delayed timespan to identify the victim.
Everyone including her immediate family had assumed she was traveling somewhere
exotic or luxurious. In addition, she had already completed and submitted
columns and articles for the next three months, so there was no editors or
publishers giving her calls, desperate to catch her.”

“How was the split
from her ex?” Archangel inquired.

“According to her
family and the ex-hubby, it was an amicable divorce. Indeed, the person smiling
with her in the photo is our guy.” Henderson indicated the photo from Hawaii. “In
addition, he was in Singapore at the time of her death and her body was abandoned
in that forest in Maryland, making a solid alibi. I know that doesn’t exclude
the possibility of ex-hubby hiring a contract killer but he has no plausible
reason to kill her. They have no kids, so no custody war or child support to
pay for. And he’s not receiving Alice’s life insurance upon her death and all. Not
to mention that generally, contract killers don’t take eyeballs out of the
targets. Catches too much attention.”

“I see.” Archangel
nodded as he cast a glance at a red pumpkin sculpture covered with black eyeballish
polka-dot patterns, a piece by Yayoi Kusama. “Considering he gave this up
without a fight, I guess he wasn’t so passionate about patterns that incur
images of eyeballs.”

“I suppose I got
your point,” said Henderson. “According to her divorce attorney, the husband
was more than happy to give every pieces of art to her. The hubbie paid for
those pieces but it was Alice who took initiative to obtain them. Giving them up
to the ex-wife saved him much cash.”

“Some people don’t
care for art, even when the work they detest scores big bucks.” Archangel
commented. “By the way, was she engaged in some kind of religious or spiritual group
that worship the eyeballs?”

“Not that I know
of.”

“You want to check
it out.” Archangel said matter-of-factly. “Look, just about every piece of her collection
features multiple round shapes, it might be just that she had peculiar attraction
to round shapes, but at the same time, eyeballs are round.”

“Will do.”
Henderson nodded.

There were large
bay windows that offered stunning views of Rock Creek Park. I pictured her
enjoying afternoon tea, taking in all this stunning vista, comfortably sitting
at the Italian leather sofa set with a low glass top table.

“Do you see anything
in common between her and other victims so far?” Asked Henderson, rather
desperately.

“Other than all of
them are women of average built with dark hair and relatively big, dark eyes,
ages around 30, and having their eyeballs poked out alive?” said Archangel.

“Yes. Other
things.”

“That’s hard to
tell.” Archangel frowned.

“So, the killer’s
picking up victims who share his type of physical profiles randomly?”

“It seems random
to us, but the killer should have his or her own reason and/or method to pick
up the victims, poking the eyeballs out of them alive. It’s not yet clear what
this killer does to the eyeballs, though. Anyway, there should be something
that links all three women which we haven’t recognized yet.”

“Alright.
Personally, I have no fucking idea what those women had in common.” Henderson
cursed, shaking his head. “Leonie Ganong was a single sexy dancer lived in
Maryland. Working hard, always seeing multiple men for cash. Julia Stewart was
a doctor and a pregnant housewife in suburban Virginia, and Alice Sinclair was a
DC based rich divorcee with a glamorous job.”

“Yeah. It’s
certain that they had something in common,” said Archangel. “The problem is
we’re not aware of this special something.”

After some more surveillance of the
place, we left while Henderson stayed in with forensic photographers and the
officers, and walked out of the room #1313 door.

Just outside the
door, a very young girl—age around eight, dark blonde in a ponytail, a little
on the chubby side, and big hazel eyes that sparkled with brightness and
curiosity—stood. She was leaning on the wall with crossed legs, like a
mini-teenager waiting for someone while pretending
not to be
waiting for
anyone.

“I like your
shoes.” She commented.

“Thank you.” I
replied, smiling. We were the only ones walking down the corridor and
I
was
the only woman, so I assumed she complimented my footwear. It’s a girl thing.
Usually, a girl compliments other girl’s footwear, right?

“Not yours,” she
shook her head and addressing to Archangel’s shoes with the palm of her hand. “I
was talking about his shoes.”

“Oh…” I took a
glance at Archangel’s footwear. They were red platform shoes with shiny studs
embedded on the back of the heels while mine consisted of a boring pair of black
chunky-heeled pumps from the comfort shoes shelves at Macy’s.

“Thanks, Fashionista.”

Archangel gleamed
at the kid in a pink Juicy Couture hoodies, a white V-neck tee from Calvin
Klein Kids, a pair of black jeans from True Religion, and a pair of black Sketchers
with shiny studs on the toes.

Then she turned to
me. “You know, the best statement a woman can make begins with the shoes she
puts on her feet, you know.” She added, “No offence.”

“None taken.” I
said, though I did a mental eye-rolling. Telling her that I was so past
making-fashion-statement
phase after all those hooker shoes in my previous job with Iron Dragon and the
days of Manolos and Jimmy Choo shoes when I was Mrs. Estevez was easy and
tempting, but I opted out. I didn’t come up with suitable words to replace
words such as
hooker
,
prostitute
, or
‘ho
.

I added, “For your
information, my shoes are comfortable and affordable, you know.” Fully aware
that she’d take me as one of those sagging old grandmother who’s been around
since stone ages.

“I’ll keep that in
my mind for the time I hit the old age and start having arthritis.”  She
said with such earnestness that I couldn’t help laughing out loud.

“What’s so funny?”
She furrowed her eyebrows.

“Well, in general,
a girl of your age considers yourself to be immortal and age-resistant
existence.”

“Well, the thing
is I’m not a usual child, which is a blessing and a curse.” She shrugged.

Then looking up at
Archangel, she said nervously. “Has anything happened to Alice?”

“What makes you say
so?” He asked, squatting to lower his eye level to match hers.

“First, you’re
Michael Archangel the giant brilliant detective who wears women’s clothes and helps
the law enforcement; second, that means you people do not visit her just for
fun or drop in to say hi; and third, I haven’t seen her for ages even though
she’d totally promised that we go to Sicily in June. She also told me she wouldn’t
be going on the road until then. Basically, we’re a team.”

“And you are?”
Archangel asked.

“My current name
is Karen Zwerg Tycon Andrews, meaning I’m likely to have some minor changes with
my last names when my mother splits from her current husband and remarries with
a new guy.” She introduced herself sounding more like a fifty-year-old lady
than a child. “I’m the BFF of Alice and her next door neighbor. So, what
happened to her?”

Archangel crossed
his arms. He didn’t tell anything.

“Oh my God, it
must be bad, is she missing, or worse yet…?” she furrowed her eyebrows.

“I didn’t say
anything.” Archangel muttered.

“Sometimes,
silence and gestures are more telling than millions of words.” She retorted. “Did
you know crossing your arms indicates your reluctance to communicate?”

Standing as tall
as physically possible, she said. “So, how bad is the situation?”

“Have you ever
heard of a saying that says ‘Don’t ask a question to the answer you don’t want
to know?’”

“Come on,” she
snorted. “If you think you can get away by treating me like your typical,
ordinary baby girl, then you are dead wrong. Okay, so physically, I’m merely an
eight-year old child, but...”

“And legally, you’re
an eight-year-old child, period. The end of discussion.” Archangel interrupted
her and rose up.

But she didn’t
give away without putting on a fight.

“I’m in the
sophomore year of high school, got an IQ of 200, and multiple pediatric
psychiatry specialists had certified that I have a mature mind which is more
mature than most adults. I can cope with most things adults conceal from ordinary
kids of our age.”

“That doesn’t mean
you have the same legal lights as an adult. Wait until your twenty-first
birthday. Besides that, most adults are a bunch of idiots and jerks which casts
agnosticism to the hypothesis that you are genius.”

Turning his heels,
he started taking long strides. “Goodbye, Fashionista. Go home and have some
cookies and milk.”

“I can’t believe
you treated her like that! I’m very disappointed.” I hissed, following his back.
“Can’t you be a little nicer to her? As the BFF, she deserves to know things that
she’d eventually learn from six o’clock news.”

He replied with a
snort.

“I’m not a child,
I’m even going to the prom! Alright,” she yelled from behind. “I’ll Tweet that Michael
Archangel is a truly crappy detective! And I’ll write you’re not only a freak
but a jerk too! I’m gonna trash you on every SNS, comment sections in news and
gossip sites.”

Archangel the crappy
detective continued power walking.

“I’ll also write that
you totally ignored someone who’s about to offer an invaluable information just
because she is a minor! Being a minor doesn’t mean the information he or she
carries is worthless, but this supposedly top detective
so doesn’t
understand.
Come on, he deserves to be called a narrow-minded-cross-dresser rather than a
badass-detective!”

Archangel stopped,
turned back, and I thought he would bitch-slap the little girl. With pouted
lips and pink cheeks, her initial façade of a bored teenager had completely
fallen off.

“Tell me about the
invaluable information you know.” Archangel said. With tight jaw and bulging
veins in the neck, he didn’t look happy but his voice was calm.

“Has she been…” she
started in a quivering voice, stopped for a moment, but managed to continue, “Murdered?”

“Yes,” Archangel
replied through gritted teeth. “And there’s no place for misidentification of
the corpse. Multiple forensic evidence had confirmed that the body was hers.”

Without a word, she
buried her face in her hands.

“I told you not to
ask a question to the answer you don’t want to know,” Archangel extended his
hand and patted her head.

“I know.” She nodded,
her voice shaky and muffled. “And I knew you two are here for that Eyeball Snatcher
case investigation. I’ve seen you, Mr. Archangel going into that poor doctor’s
house in the evening news. But I still had some hope that Alice is still alive
until I find out the truth…just like
Schrödinger's
cat
paradox. The cat can
exist as being alive and dead all at once.”

She raised her head and tried to smile,
but big, fat tears were running down her cheeks.

I handed her tissues.

“Thank you, Miss...” She quietly blew her
nose.

“It’s Kelly,” I said. “You can call me
Kelly.”

“Thanks, Kelly.” she sniffed.

“Unfortunately, her death is a solid fact.
There’s no blurry, gray-zone like she is dead-and-alive at the same time.”
Archangel said. “I’m sorry.”

“What a shame,” she sighed, her shoulder
slumping. “She is the best babysitter in this district, and she taught me
French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, and Mandarin. We talked about everything
including our love lives.”

“Love lives as in plural? I’m impressed.” Following
her comment, Archangel arched one eyebrow.

“Hello, I’m a high school student, I have
my love life. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,”
Archangel said. “Now let’s talk about the love life of Alice’s.”