The Collector (6 page)

“Look,” Erika said, dead serious, “lots of cultures believe in this stuff. But the fact is, in this case the only person who needs to believe is the perp.”

He shook his head. “I think I’ll go with what’s behind door number two.” Seven drew another line on the paper radiating out from the central dot.

He wrote
Greed
and underlined the word twice.

“So it’s just some sort of camouflage, the bird and the bead?” She looked at the diagram, the lines radiating out from the center, letting it sink in.

She smiled and tapped the word. “Greed. I like it.”

He glanced at his watch. “You think it’s safe to go back to the station? Take a look at what’s on the victim’s PDA?”

She stood, grabbing the notebook and her purse. “Are you kidding? Dr. Ruth is long gone. It’s lunchtime. Prime fund-raising hours. By the way, how did it go yesterday with Beth and Nick?”

He shrugged, knowing she would eventually get to that. “How does it always go? She took a Xanax and I took Nick to Taco Bell. I stayed a couple of hours, put them both to bed.”

Out in the parking lot, he opened the door to the Crown Vic and got in. He kept waiting for the lecture, knowing it was there on the tip of her tongue. But Erika just started the car.

He looked over at her profile. He could see she was trying hard not to say anything. She made no move to back out of the parking space, just let the engine run.

“I can feel the disapproval beaming back at me from across the car, Obi-Wan,” he said.

She pressed her lips together, as if maybe she’d hold back. But then she let out this sigh and turned to him. “I’m sorry, but it’s been over eight months. How long are you going to sacrifice yourself on the altar of Ricky’s sins?”

“God, you Catholics. The drama.” He stared out the window, having nothing new to add to the debate.

But Erika was a bulldog. “First, your French-Canadian self is just as Catholic as me—practicing or not—so don’t be throwing my religion in my face. Look, I know you have Nick to think about. But here’s the thing. So does Beth. That boy should be
her
primary concern.”

Her tone said it all. As long as he was holding Beth’s hand through the crisis, she wouldn’t step up.

Erika gripped the steering wheel, her jaw set. She looked to be bracing herself.

“Okay,” she said, plunging in. “I’m going to say it. It’s a mistake but here goes. Beth wants in your pants and she’s not stopping until she has you, ring on the finger and all.” His partner turned to look at him. “Face it, Seven. She wants to replace one brother with the other.”

“Give me a break,” he said, completely disgusted by the idea. “Her life is falling apart. Hooking up with me is about the last thing she needs right now.”

Erika shook her head. “You don’t know women, Seven.”

“Oh, so because my marriage goes south—a marriage that I was way,
way
too young to take on—I’m a total loser when it comes to women?”

“And don’t we sound a tad defensive? What’s the matter, partner?” she asked. “Are you worried that because you fucked up once you don’t deserve to be happy? Is that what your life is about for the next twenty years, while Ricky does time? Stick around and fix your brother’s mess?”

Before he could respond—and dammit, he wanted to—Erika’s cell interrupted. She picked up with a frown.

After a minute, she glanced over to Seven with a look of surprise. He braced himself. It took a lot to surprise Erika.

“You are not going to believe this.” She slapped the phone shut and put the car into Reverse. She pulled out of the parking space. “That was Pham. We’ve got a live one.”

Again, that radar between partners. “A witness?”

Erika peeled out. “In the flesh.”

M
ost days, Paul Rocket had a kick-ass job. He’d wake up to Pink Floyd’s
The Wall
pulsing on the Bose sound system and do a set of push-ups right there on the cabin floor. Afterward, he’d head into the galley and blend up a protein drink. He liked Ultra Megaman. That shit put on muscle like nobody’s business.

Rocket wasn’t into steroids. He’d seen too many guys go nuts on the stuff. Why the hell take the risk when he could get the same results with diet and exercise? Hell, he’d read just about every book printed on nutrition. Not to mention the stuff on the Internet.

Oh, yeah, Rocket was living the life. He’d watch the sunrise on the deck of his fifty-five-foot schooner, dialed in to CNN on his laptop while powering down his drink. The sun sparkling on the water in Newport Harbor—now that was something. Imagine, Paul Rocket—ex-Special Forces, ex-mercenary—enjoying this slice of paradise. Afterward, he’d hit the gym. He had a membership at Gold’s. All courtesy of Mr. David.

Mr. David was a great man. Travel, money…hell, anything Rocket ever wanted, he just had to ask.

Like he said, most days, Paul Rocket had a kick-ass job.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

He stepped into the art gallery and looked around at the bizarre shit hanging on the walls. The black-and-white photographs showed a bunch of naked bodies twined together so that you couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended. Looked like a bunch of dudes, too. People actually paid money for this crap?

As he crossed the open room, men and women scurried out of his way like so many rats. At six foot four and 265 pounds, Rocket was used to that. His father had been a huge Samoan asshole who’d left his mom when Rocket was only five and his younger brother still in diapers. But at least he’d passed on his gene pool. Rocket had a tattoo of a cobra on the back of his shaved head but he preferred Armani suits and Bruno Magli shoes. People didn’t expect that, a man like Rocket dressing with class.

He looked around at all the rich boys and girls. This was the OC. To these folks, Rocket was an alien life form.

The thing was, today Rocket wasn’t the muscle. He was the babysitter.

He saw Owen leaning over some babe in the corner of the room. This one was skinny and blond and could barely stand despite the noon hour. Shit, was that dress made of red rubber? And there was Owen, getting an eyeful.

Rocket couldn’t figure the kid out. He looked so
normal,
charming even. But Rocket knew better.

He could tell the exact moment Owen knew he was coming up behind him. The kid had radar for that sort of thing. Rocket wondered sometimes if he had superhearing or something because of his eyes. Sometimes nature did things like that—took a little in one area and made up for it in another.

Rocket had been in Special Forces before he’d fucked up in Nicaragua and gotten his ass kicked out of the military. He’d been working for Mr. David ever since. Important people like Mr. David needed security, and Rocket was the best. Only—despite all his training—the kid had gotten the jump on him a time or two.

He’d mentioned it to Mr. David once. How quietly the kid could move. Mr. David had only laughed, saying that Owen was just like his creepy mother.

Mr. David didn’t care much for his wife. It was the only thing Rocket couldn’t respect about the man.

For Rocket, family was key. His mom lived with his baby brother, Anthony. Anthony was a cop and had a great wife and two daughters. Mom loved looking after those girls. They lived in Cincinnati, and Rocket always made a point to fly out and visit whenever he could.

He sent money, too, Mr. David making it possible for him to help out. Those girls, they were going to college. Rita, the oldest, she could probably go to Stanford or some shit like that. The kid had brains.

That’s why Rocket could understand what Mr. David was doing, protecting his son. A man had to take care of his own, right?

When Owen had first started acting weird, Mr. David pulled Rocket off security and asked him to start watching the kid full-time. Rocket was a little ashamed that he hadn’t always gotten the job done the way Mr. David meant. Sometimes the best Rocket could do was make sure the kid didn’t get his ass thrown into one of those foreign jails.

But those seven years roaming the globe…Mr. David had been happy with the kid’s progress. And Owen did seem different since they returned from his “missionary work” abroad, especially around Mr. David. But that only made Rocket suspicious. He wondered if it was all an act.

If maybe he should warn Mr. David.

But then things had quieted down. Mr. David had Owen working in the family real estate offices—if you called what the kid did work. And Rocket had his schooner docked in Newport Harbor.

He just hoped this didn’t turn out like that time in Nicaragua.

Owen smiled now, his eyes zeroing in on Rocket through the yellow lenses of his sunglasses.

Owen was tall, with blue eyes. Handsome, even. And he dressed like a million bucks. Every once in a while, he even gave Rocket a little fashion advice.

But there was something in that face. It had to do with his eyes. The boy didn’t blink. Some weakness in some muscle…he wore sunglasses all the time because his eyes could get damaged from outside dust and debris. He had to constantly put in drops to keep his eyes lubricated.

But it always struck Rocket as a little creepy how he could just stare and stare at you. Like now.

Sometimes, he’d get this expression on his face. Rocket had seen that look before. In Nicaragua, he’d worked with mercenaries, soldiers willing to work for just about anybody if the money was good. There’d been this one guy, the kind that liked the blood and gore a little too much.

Rocket knew some of the things the kid had done. Mr. David had filled him in when he’d first asked him to look after Owen, not wanting Rocket to go into this thing blind. They’d had the kid seeing a psychiatrist and taking pills. But Mr. David told Rocket he was the extra peace of mind. So Rocket stayed at the kid’s side while they’d toured around the world, working for different religious organizations.

His opinion? You could stuff that kid in a fucking monastery for the next ten years and Owen would still come out all wrong.

But then, maybe Mr. David knew what he was doing. The boss was smart. Hadn’t he graduated from some big-name school? Mr. David had made Gospel Enterprises what it was today, taking the family company to the next level. He knew what he was up against with Owen. And people could change, right?

“Rocket, my man,” Owen said. “I didn’t think art was your thing.”

“Mr. David needs you back home.”

Whenever he talked to Owen, he never called Mr. David “your father” or “your dad.” It was always “Mr. David.” Rocket made a point of it.

“Really? How incredibly boring.” He turned back to the blonde in the wild dress. Really, the only thing holding that girl up was tight rubber and the wall. “Sorry, darling. Looks like I have business to tend to.”

“Come
on,
Owen.” She played with his tie, using it like a leash to pull him closer. “I thought we could have some fun together.”

Rocket had an idea of what Owen thought was fun. He didn’t know what kind of shit the girl was into, but she should be happy if Owen gave it a pass.

“Next time, sweets,” he said, giving her a light peck on the lips.

Owen sauntered ahead, leaving Rocket to follow. Rocket didn’t mind. Actually, he preferred never turning his back on him.

Owen stopped in front of one of the photographs near the gallery entrance. It took Rocket a minute before he realized the woman in the photo was the girl still holding up the wall, the one in the rubber dress.

Only, in the photo, she wasn’t wearing clothes. She was wrapped in cellophane.

In the photograph, she held one end under her foot as the plastic twined around one of her thighs and up her torso, just like a snake on a branch. She was holding the other end over her face, with her tongue pressed against the cellophane as if she were licking it.

Rocket turned away. He’d seen a man killed in just such a way, suffocated with a plastic bag over his head.

“What do you think?” Owen asked, staring up at the photograph. When Rocket didn’t respond, he laughed. “Not to your liking?”

Owen reached out and traced a finger over the girl’s mouth, where her lips pressed against the plastic wrap. “I bought it for my office. Spent a bloody fortune on it.”

Standing behind Owen, Rocket looked at the photograph again and shook his head.

What a piece of shit.

It’s just like he’d thought this morning when Mr. David called: this was going to be one hell of a day.

P
ham had the witness set up in the interview room. He was practically falling over himself in his rush to hand her on to Seven and Erika. Not a good sign.

It didn’t take long to figure out why.

Gia Moon was movie-star beautiful. Seven had always had this thing for Jennifer Connelly, and it was almost as if the actress had walked into the precinct to pay a visit—swear to God, the woman could be her twin. Long swan neck, black shiny hair, skin to die for, as Erika would say. And those blue, blue eyes. Definitely Oscar-worthy.

Yup, Gia Moon was something. She was also a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal. At least that was Seven’s take on things after listening to her story.

They hadn’t bothered videotaping the session once Pham filled them in on the witness’s special talent, just Erika taking her statement.

“So let me get this straight,” Erika continued. “You didn’t know Mimi Tran?”

“That is correct.”

She spoke using this precise diction. He could see she was irritated, as if she’d already gotten wind that they weren’t buying what she was selling. Still, he couldn’t help staring. There was something mesmerizing about her face and its near-perfect symmetry.

She was dressed simply in jeans and a T-shirt. No makeup—didn’t need it, in his opinion. But there was paint on her hands, like maybe she’d been fixing up the den and dropped the paintbrush in her hurry to run on over to the precinct and tell her story.

“When I read the article in the paper,” she said, “I realized I had to contact the police.”

Erika took a moment. Seven recognized that carefully controlled expression on his partner’s face. Erika didn’t like people wasting her time.

“Because you had a dream?” she prompted.

“I
thought
it was a dream, Detective. But after I read the article in the paper, I knew it was more than that.”

“You’re talking about a premonition?”

“Yes.”

“But you called it—” Erika pretended to check her notes “—a vision?”

Gia Moon didn’t answer right away, but he could see the tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t enjoying the attention. In fact, she looked ready to bolt…which was unexpected. Usually the crazies who showed up with important “evidence” after a story like Tran’s hit the paper couldn’t wait to have their say.

“You can call it whatever you wish, Detective,” she said.

Erika didn’t even glance up from her notes. “Actually, I’m using your words, Ms. Moon. In your
vision,
you saw Mimi Tran being murdered in her home?”

“No. It wasn’t clear like that. It never is. It’s like a dream, subject to interpretation. I saw a woman in danger. I saw blood—or at least the color red.”

She seemed to be making an effort to remember—or perhaps edit her words now that she knew she would be held accountable. She glanced down at her fingers.

There, under her nails, the color of the paint. Red.

“When I read the story in the paper,” Gia Moon continued, “certain things from my dream suddenly fell into place, making me think it was Mimi Tran’s murder I saw.”

“You have these often?” Erika asked. “These…visions?”

Moon frowned. “I don’t see why that would matter, but yes. I often have visions of this sort.”

He liked that schoolteacher tone. Not many people took on Erika. Seven had to admit it was a bit of a turn-on. Really, it was a shame about the batty part.

“But this is the first time you’ve contacted the police?” Erika pressed.

Seven caught a slight hesitation before Gia answered, “Correct.”

“Why is that, Ms. Moon?” he asked, seeing an opening.

She turned to look at him. Her smile—shit, he felt it right down to his toes. But he kept his eyes steady, knowing that was one of his talents. Intense interest…the kind that got people to open up.

“I think that would be obvious, Detective,” she said, still with that devastating smile. Like it was a joke between them. “The police don’t exactly
invite
my kind of input.”

“In your dream, Ms. Tran was killed by a demon?” Erika’s tone said it all.
And why would we?

“As I explained, that doesn’t mean she was literally killed by a demon. It could be a representation, a symbol for the killer. He could have a tattoo or it could be a piece of jewelry he wore.”

“Really?” Erika said. “How very mysterious…and vague.”

Seven almost cringed before he pulled up a chair and sat down, giving it a shot. “Can you describe the demon?”

Gia Moon closed her eyes, as if getting a bead on the thing with her “inner eye.” He almost smiled, but stopped himself.

“Scales,” she whispered. “Red mist. Black, protruding eyes.” She opened her eyes and stared at Seven. “Very large teeth.”

Seven glanced at Erika. Gia Moon had just given a fair description of the painting in the entry to Tran’s house.

Which didn’t necessarily mean shit. Scales, big teeth, protruding eyes—sounded like your basic demon, right? The newspapers had mentioned the victim was Vietnamese and a fortune-teller. It could be a common enough image given the culture.

On the other hand, the description of the painting might indicate that Gia Moon knew the victim…that she’d been inside her house.

“Go on,” he said.

“She felt fear. All-consuming fear,” she said. “She was terrified. At the same time, there is something familiar about this demon. I think she had encountered him before—but never the violence. The attack confused her. She hadn’t expected the attack. That’s why she invited him inside.”

“She invited the demon inside?”

There had been no signs of a forced entry—information that Seven knew hadn’t been printed in the papers.

“She fought him.” Now Gia wrung her hands, almost as if washing them in the air. “There’s blood coming from her hands.”

The victim
had
had defensive marks. But anybody who watched
CSI
regularly could come up with that much.

“He was…so hungry.” Now her eyes looked unfocused, as if she were again slipping into some scene only she could see. “He fed off her fear. There was a lot of blood, but he wanted more. He liked it when she tried to run away. But then she died. Too quickly. He didn’t like that.”

It was almost as if she was speaking in a trance. Jesus, he thought, if this was an act, she was good.

Suddenly, she focused back on Seven, waking up. She took a deep breath and stood. She shouldered her purse.

“I felt compelled to come here and tell you about my vision. For what it’s worth, of course.”

“Hold on.” Seven stood, as well, taking her arm to try and stop her from leaving.

Only, the instant they touched, static electricity—coming hard and fast and unexpectedly—shocked the two of them apart. They stood there, staring at each other.

Moon was petite, maybe five foot three. Seven was just under six feet. She had to look up to meet his gaze.

But those eyes, they could zing right through a man.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The way she said it, she was apologizing for something very different than that silly shock between them.

“A woman is dead, Ms. Moon,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “We take any information that you may provide very seriously.”

“All right.”

He watched as she sat down again. He could see she was just as shaken as he. She took a moment to steady herself.

He sat down beside her, but Gia Moon turned to Erika, addressing her. “You’ll want a test, of course. Something that lets you know I have information never leaked to the press.”

Erika glanced at Seven.
Is this chick for real?

“There were eyes everywhere,” Gia Moon said. “And there was something in her mouth.” She spoke as if tired of jumping through hoops. She was searching for the quickest way to cross the finish line. “Something very old—very powerful. And small. Blue. No, red. Perhaps made of glass. I would start there.”

Seven felt the blood freeze inside his veins.
Holy shit.

“Seven, why don’t you start the videotape?” Erika asked.

“I’m on it.”

His partner leaned forward, now completely focused. “What do you mean, start there?”

“With the object. This blue or red piece,” she elaborated, with another tired gesture. “It’s—” she seemed to struggle for the right words. “It’s very old. Museums. Private collections. It might be a gem of some sort. Whatever it is, it’s missing. Someone is looking for it. He wants it back.”

Nothing she’d just told them had been reported to the press. Even if she’d managed somehow to speak to the two witnesses who had found the body, neither of them knew about the blue bead.

“Go on,” Seven said.

Gia Moon again stood, the motion part of her story rather than an attempt to leave. “She invited him inside. She punched in the alarm code, disarming the security system.”

Gia acted out the gesture, stabbing her finger in the air as if punching in the numbers herself. Seven noticed that her hand was at the same level as Tran’s actual keypad.

“It was a horrible death. But she didn’t die the way you think.” It was almost as if she were reading some script in her head. She opened her eyes. “And he isn’t near done.”

“You’re talking about another victim?” Seven asked, standing as well.

She nodded. “The demon. He’ll kill again. And if my dream is correct,” she said, speaking as if it were nothing to her, what she was saying, “I’m next.”

Mimi Tran wasn’t worthy. Her death lacked finesse.

You prefer to remember another time. Another woman. A better experience.

Puerto Rico.

You smile. You never forget your first time.

You’re in San Juan, the night of the festival. At midnight, everyone will walk backward into the ocean, dreaming of love.

You make a wish. There is nothing wistful about your dreams.

The palm trees on the beach are permanently bent from the sea breeze. At that moment, the sky above doesn’t threaten, as it has all day. As the music pumps the bikini-clad crowd into a frenzy, you watch families, children, lovers, on the beach, all preparing for their ritual baptism.

You feel their energy pulse with the beat of the conga drums from the salsa band. They walk around as if the party never stops. You, on the other hand, know exactly when this party will end. You’re in control.

Security is tight. There are armed police in Kevlar vests everywhere. Some convention of elected officials is in town, your only bit of bad luck. But you don’t care. You have the power of life and death. You’re not afraid. You’re God.

Tonight’s festival is a pagan ritual. Every man, woman and child will walk backward into the ocean and throw themselves into the sea, cleansed of their sins. Only, you know that it’s you who will do the cleansing. You look forward to it.

Palm tree trunks glow with artificial light on the manicured grounds. A band performs on a floating stage set up in the shallows of the private beach. Three women dressed in white sway their hips in a motion as old as time.

The crowd doesn’t need encouragement. Grandmas dance on the shore with toddlers, husbands stare adoringly into the eyes of their wives as they salsa knee-deep in the ocean. On the floating stage, men and women wearing cowboy hats follow along in a dance with the natives—a contingent from Texas.

You stare at the ramparts of an ancient fortress dating back to when this was an important military post, its shores decorated with cannons, the walls built to keep out the English Armada. The fortress is lit up tonight. Lightning flashes in the distance.

The women at the Bacardi booth keep the rum flowing. Every other man or woman carries a plastic cup, laughing and drinking. The cups are stamped with the Barcardi emblem: a bat. Here, the bat is a symbol of good luck.

As midnight approaches, the pulse of the party revs up. Couples once dancing poolside become part of the mass migration to the beach. Suddenly, the crowd converges. You stand body to body with strangers, getting drunk on their alcoholic stupor, but your eyes follow only
her.
You were at dinner when she and her boyfriend fought. You’ve learned women take all sorts of shit from men, but now, she’s alone.

One of the singers in the band explains the ritual for the tourists. People grab hands and begin wading backward into the warm water.

You come to stand alongside the woman. Like everyone else, she wears a barely there bikini. You’ve been waiting all night for this moment.

She takes your hand and smiles. She’s blond with blue eyes. You hear her slur her words as she tells you how amazing this all is. Like New Year’s, she says. You hear a touch of the South in her voice. Texas, then.

Beach balls are tossed into the ocean by hotel staff as the crowd counts backward. Ten, nine, eight…The girl squeezes your hand. She tells you her name is Mary.