The Collector (17 page)

“He’s your son. Our only child. Don’t you think he’s been punished enough for your suspicions?”

He yanked his arm free. “It was more than a suspicion, Meredith. Don’t try to make me out to be the villain here. I
saved
his ass. And I’ll do it again, if I have to.”

She seemed to collapse with relief. “Thank you,” she said, getting the answer she wanted.

She slipped away down the hall like a wraith. It was all she’d needed to know, that he’d keep her little boy safe. And damn if he wouldn’t.

No one was getting their hands on Owen.

That pleasure would be entirely his.

E
rika stared up at the column of reflective black glass. She’d read on the Internet that the building had been designed by some famous Dutch architect to resemble an Egyptian obelisk. Here in Newport Beach there were no skyscrapers to speak of. Only the offices of Gospel Enterprises at Fashion Island even came close.

“I bet it’s a hell of a view from the top,” she said.

Seven headed for the entrance. “Haven’t you heard? The view’s always better from on top.”

She shook her head, following her partner.

Scant decades ago, Fashion Island was just a nice little outdoor shopping mall with a sweeping view of the ocean. Today, the indoor-outdoor center included the OC’s only Blooming-dale’s and Nieman Marcus, along with an upscale farmer’s market, restaurants for every pallet and a Venetian carousel. The mall was surrounded by posh hotels and had its own summer concert series. Come November, it would be home to the tallest decorated Christmas tree outside of the Rockefeller Center. Erika brought her nephew and niece here every year to take their photo with Santa Claus.

Stepping into the marbled entry of the Gospel Building, Erika tried not to act intimidated as they checked in with security. She glanced at her partner. Seven looked loose, his body language saying it all. As far as he was concerned, he could have been walking into Wal-Mart.

Erika grimaced. She figured Ricky, the plastic surgeon, had given Seven a taste of this kind of opulence. But that’s not where Erika was coming from.

In preparation for their meeting, she’d read up on David Gospel. Rumor had it that “The David” was at this moment negotiating with “The Donald” to build a posh new golf resort for Trump down south. Gospel Enterprises was over a hundred years old and privately owned. Its holdings included office buildings, residential villages, retail centers, marinas and golf clubs.

You name it, Gospel owned it.

On the Web site, Gospel’s mission statement talked about “a land of riches,” something not to be “misused” for short-term gain. Landlord, builder and investor, Gospel Enterprises planned communities. They were
ecologically sensitive
—whatever that meant to someone who made money mowing down wetlands and building malls and homes in cities that already didn’t have the infrastructure to support their bulging populations.

For the last thirty-five years, David Gospel, Chairman of the Board, had been the company’s master planner. Like many of the OC’s elite, Gospel was USC-educated. After he’d done a stint in the marines, he’d returned to USC for his MBA. The last ten years, he’d made the list of top philanthropists in the country for his commitment to education and the environment.

He was also an avid skier…and a collector.

It was the latter entry that had interested Erika the most. As Seven said, it was time for some real police work.

To that end, she had called Gospel bright and early in the morning, letting him know they wanted to talk about his relationship with Mimi Tran. His personal assistant thought she could
maybe
squeeze the detectives in before Gospel’s noon helicopter ride to Malibu.

Erika took a deep breath, straightening her suit jacket. She’d put a lot of thought into what she was wearing—a dark blue Tahari suit she’d bought on sale at Nordstrom Rack. God knows how many different styles she’d tortured her hair with before she’d decided to just wear it down.

Watching her, Seven elbowed her in the ribs. “Don’t,” he said.

“What?” she asked, acting as if she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

He gave her a look. “You’re worth ten of these guys.”

“Ya think?”

The elevator doors opened onto a reception area worthy of
The Apprentice,
complete with a stunning view of Newport Harbor. Erika stared out at the white sails floating on a plate of brilliant blue water, the hump of Catalina Island off in the distance. Again, she tugged at her suit…only to get her arm pinched by Seven.

“Right,” she said, stepping ahead of him to take on the receptionist.

Gospel didn’t keep them waiting.

His office was tastefully decorated, the walls painted a tranquil salmon, the furniture a butter-soft leather complimented by natural woods. Erika was pretty damn sure that was an original Dalí hanging behind his desk.

Gospel himself wasn’t too hard on the eyes. Tall and very distinguished-looking, he had pewter hair and hazel eyes. And while she clocked him in at his early sixties, he could still fill out a suit. The man worked out.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, indicating the leather sofa after introductions. His secretary hovered as he asked, “Would you care for coffee? Water, perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” Seven said. “We’ll try to make this quick, Mr. Gospel.”

“David, please,” he said, dismissing his secretary with a nod of his head.

He took a seat opposite the coffee table, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat down. The suit looked expensive. Prada, Erika thought. She noted the museum-quality pieces scattered about the room—African masks, idols from the Far East, rugs with geometric decorations and faded colors. It all reeked of money.

“I assume this has to do with Mimi Tran?” he asked.

Like any good tactician, Gospel knew the best defense was a strong offense.

“Your lunch with Ms. Tran on Tuesday in particular,” Seven said. “We believe you were the last person to see her alive.”

Gospel held up his hand. “I beg to differ, Detective. The last person to see Mimi was her killer.” He shook his head. “It’s just such a damn shame. She was so exceptionally talented.”

“As a psychic?”

“Yes,” Gospel answered. “As a psychic.”

Seven kept a close watch on the man’s face, wondering what he might give away. But Erika couldn’t get a handle on it. Normally, she was all business. But today she felt antsy and out of her league. The research she’d done in preparation only made her feel intimidated. She was a little girl from Santa Ana taking on the man who lived in a glass fortress.

Worse yet, she couldn’t stop comparing him to Alfonso. How Gospel was the kind of man her father had always pretended to be. Someone important—a leader. But Alfonso had been all talk…until Costa Rica, of course. That’s when he’d made a small fortune in the import-export business. Now, Alfonso was back in California with enough money to retire and give his new family—the better family, the one he actually loved—the absolute best. A house in Santa Ana Heights and designer duds for Consuelo…while Erika’s mom still lived in an apartment in Garden Grove and shopped at the discount stores.

As if he could read her thoughts, Gospel turned to look at Erika, focusing on her rather than Seven.

She felt herself blush hot.
Jesus.

“So you saw Ms. Tran in a professional capacity?” Seven asked, taking the lead.

“I was a client of Ms. Tran’s, yes,” he said without hesitation.

“You get a lot of business advice from fortune-tellers?” Erika asked.

Her tone showed a healthy dose of suspicion, trying to put him on the defensive.

But Gospel didn’t bite. “Actually, it was my personal affairs where I sought guidance. Of course, I don’t make my sessions with Ms. Tran public knowledge. But then, as you know, Detectives, even President Reagan sought unorthodox advice at times.”

He was referring to one of the greatest scandals of the Reagan administration: the revelation that then President Reagan had acted on advice from his wife’s astrologer, Joan Quigley.

Erika sat up straighter. She could feel herself perspire. She didn’t like the fact that Gospel made her think of her son-of-a-bitch father. She liked even less that her response was anger.

“David,” she said, crossing her legs, leaning toward him. “I can see that you’re quite the collector.” She motioned to the room filled with objets d’art. “Are any of these artifacts?”

It was a wild stab in the dark. But it scored.

“Artifacts?” he repeated, as if the question needed some sort of clarification.

For the first time, she saw the man nonplussed. She pressed her point, gesturing to an idol on the coffee table. “Like this little guy, for example. What are we talking about, a couple of centuries old, maybe?”

He took a moment, appearing to smile to himself—almost an unspoken touché.

“This is Kali,” he said. He picked up the small statue and handed it to Erika. “And you’re quite right. The piece is quite old.”

The figure wore what looked like a garland of skulls around the neck and held in its four arms a sword, a trident, a skull and a conch shell respectively. The tongue protruded snakelike, reminding Erika of the lead singer of the band KISS.

“She is standing triumphant over the demon Raktabija,” Gospel continued. “In the Hindu religion, Kali is worshipped as the goddess of destruction, a fearful manifestation of Parvati—an incarnation of the Mother Goddess. The gods become troubled by the demon Raktabija because every drop of his blood that falls to earth creates another demon. But Kali spread her tongue over the battlefield to ensure Raktabija’s blood never touched the ground. Intoxicated by the demon’s blood, she destroys his army and takes the skulls and limbs of those she kills. I bought that particular piece at Christie’s for a little less than two hundred thousand. It was an extraordinary bargain.”

Erika tried to act as if it was her custom to hold $200 K in her hand as she set the idol back on its stand.

“Is that something you and Mimi Tran shared in common?” Seven asked. “An interest in the occult…demons in particular?”

David Gospel slowly turned to look at her partner. Erika thought she caught another whisper of a smile. She didn’t like it, that expression of absolute confidence on Gospel’s face.

“Yes,” he said, “as a matter of fact.”

He stood and walked over to his desk, where he picked up a wooden figure about as tall as his hand was long. Erika frowned, finding the statue somewhat familiar…until she remembered. It looked just like one of the three wooden idols they’d found on Mimi Tran’s desk back at the murder scene.

He set the figure down next to the statue of Kali. “I admired this in Mimi’s office once. She had four of them lined up on her desk. She immediately gave it to me as a gift. It’s Enkidu, the wild man of Sumerian mythology. ‘The whole of his body was hairy and his locks were like a woman’s,’” he said, appearing to recite a poem. “That’s from the Epic of Gilgamesh, presumed to be the oldest written story on earth. It was originally written on twelve clay tablets.”

“You have those, too?” she asked. “The tablets, I mean?”

Gospel didn’t hold back his smile this time when he looked up to meet her gaze. “Unfortunately, Detective, some things are out of reach for the private collector.”

Erika couldn’t image that there were many things on this earth denied David Gospel. From inside her purse, she withdrew the photograph of the bead and showed it to him.

“Are you familiar with anything like this? We found it at the crime scene. We’re wondering if it belonged to Mimi Tran?”

He took the photograph, but gave it only a cursory glance. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, Detective. In my own collection, anything I purchase is through a reputable dealer and carries all the necessary paperwork authenticating the purchase.”

He was letting them know before they asked:
Bring it on.

“Now. Is there anything else I can help with?”

A hell of a lot,
Erika thought to herself. She would particularly like an explanation for that cat-who-swallowed-the-canary expression on his face. But here he was showing them the door, apparently not wanting to keep his helicopter waiting.

“We’ll stay in touch,” Seven said, standing as well.

Erika followed her partner out, still wondering what it was about the interview with Gospel that had set off all these alarm bells inside her head. She was about to mention that to Seven, listen to his take on things.

Only the minute they stepped outside the building, Seven’s cell phone went off.

It was the chief. He needed them both back at the station. Pronto.

C
hief Flagler sat behind his desk with a frozen expression on his face. No, Seven thought, frowning.
Frozen
was the wrong word.
Wooden,
now
that
would be more accurate.

Mayor Condum-Cox, aka Dr. Ruth, stood directly behind the chief and slightly to his left. Her position and the chief’s stiff posture made Condum-Cox look like a ventriloquist. The chief was the dummy, letting Condum-Cox do the talking.

Her message came in loud and clear: back off David Gospel.

The whole day felt a little like one of those amusement park rides right after some acne-challenged kid straps you in and the car bucks forward. You look at the torture you just committed yourself to undergoing for the next three minutes and think,
Oh, shit.
…

Seven was already feeling itchy about the case, sensing a growing divide between himself and Erika. Now the mayor was waking them up to other considerations, like her sorry hide and how she didn’t like hanging it out there as a target for Gospel.

“The last time this office took on Gospel,” the mayor said, sounding spitting mad, “he sued the snot out of the city. You remember McGinnis, don’t you, Roy? Your predecessor? Exactly.
Nobody
remembers McGinnis!”

Seven assumed the liberal use of the chief’s first name was tactical. Dr. Ruth was hoping to remind
Roy
of their relationship both in and out of the office.
You’re going to help me here—Roy—aren’t you?

“Gospel made sure his career was wiped off the face of the earth,” Condum-Cox continued. “He
buried
the man. Now, McGinnis owns one of those mow-and-blow gardening services. Runs it with his cousin in Stanton. Let me tell you something, Roy, after twelve years of public service, I am not ending up the proud owner of a gardening service.”

“Hold up, Chief. Why was McGinnis investigating Gospel?”

This from Erika, who seemed to have given up on the Little Bo Peep act she had going back at Gospel’s. His partner was all business again, addressing her question to the chief as if the mayor wasn’t pulling the strings right there in front of them.

Condum-Cox, of course, was having none of it. She came around the desk to direct a blistering glare at Erika…who just loaded one of her patented smiles, aimed and fired.

“Roy,” the mayor said, addressing the chief but staring right at Erika as she spoke. “I didn’t call this meeting to open
that
can of worms. David Gospel is a pillar of this community. And let’s not forget those unlimited resources. I consider him a personal friend and I will not have his family suffer any further harassment from this office.”

Condum-Cox stood with one boney hip jutting out, her arms crossed. In her cherry-red suit and matching lipstick, she was the urban warrior. She didn’t even blink as she stared at Erika.

“Get your investigation under control, Roy,” she said.

As she walked out of the room, everyone left behind knew what she’d meant.

Get your people under control,
Roy
.

The door didn’t even click shut before Erika asked, “What can of worms?”

The chief gave it some thought, like maybe he was considering his odds on getting Erika out of the room without answering.

“Michelle Larson,” he said at last. “The murder took place seven years ago. Long Beach. But the victim’s mother lived here and Larson had an office in Little Saigon. McGinnis started throwing some weight around. He thought Gospel was going down and he wanted in on the headlines. Well, he got headlines all right.”

“An office in Little Saigon?” Seven thought about it. “This victim…she wasn’t a psychic, was she?”

The look on the chief’s face…

Holy shit,
Seven thought.

“Holy shit,” Erika said, rising out of her chair. “No way. Gospel was a suspect in the murder of a psychic?”

“Not David, no,” the chief said. “The son. Owen Gospel.”

Erika sank back into her chair. She glanced at Seven, then turned back to the chief. “Can of worms officially blown wide open.”

Seven might not be psychic, but he could read that expression on the chief’s face just fine. He was thinking he never should have brought Erika up the ranks to detective.

And she wasn’t done. “Gospel must have checked in with the mayor first thing this morning—right after we made an appointment to discuss his lunch meetings with Mimi Tran. That’s why Gospel was so cocky during our interview. The man owns half of Orange County and has half the politicicans here in his pocket. He knew he had the mayor covering his ass.”

The chief appeared suddenly very uncomfortable. “I’ve looked into the matter, Detective, and while it does seem to raise some red flags, the Long Beach case was solved years ago. A transient confessed to the killing.”

Erika nodded as if in agreement. “Right. The old a-transient-did-it defense.” She gave Seven a wink. “That’s my personal favorite.”

“The man confessed, Detective.”

“And Gospel wouldn’t have the
unlimited resources,
” she suggested, using the mayor’s words, “to make that happen?”

“Chief,” Seven said, trying to stop the Latina’s momentum before she crashed and burned with her accusations. “You can’t really ask us to stop an investigation.”

“No…but I’m not ignoring the mayor’s concerns, either. We
do
need to tread carefully here. Meredith Gospel had some sort of nervous breakdown because of harassment from this department during the Larson investigation, and we didn’t even have jurisdiction. My opinion? The Gospels had a legitimate case against McGinnis and the city. Luckily,” Roy said, propping his fingertips together, elbows resting on the padded arms of his chair, “we’re getting a break with the case.”

Seven glanced at Erika. “A break?”

“The FBI is taking over. Special Agent Carin Barnes of the National Institute for Strategic Artifacts contacted me yesterday.”

Erika almost jumped to her feet again. “The National Institute for what? What the hell is that?”

“National Institute for Strategic Artifacts. Apparently, your expert, Professor Murphy, recognized the bead as an object that is at the center of an international investigation. He contacted NISA.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. That’s unbelievable!”

“What exactly will our involvement be?” Seven asked, trying to figure out why this little powwow was happening out of the presence of the ever-present FBI—conspicuously so.

“I’ve assured Agent Barnes that the FBI will have our full cooperation. She, in turn, assures me that she intends to keep us involved. Now, I have no idea what the hell that means, but I want to keep our involvement low-key, understand? Let the FBI lead the charge.”

And don’t draw attention to Gospel,
Seven read as a heavy subtext.

Erika rolled her eyes and mouthed to Seven,
What bullshit
.

“I don’t mind telling you both,” the chief said, sealing it, “I’m glad the feds are stepping in. So. You two on board?”

Seven stood. “Whatever you say, Chief.”

He caught Erika’s eye and motioned toward the door. When she hesitated, keeping that stubborn jut to her jaw, he took her by the arm. With one last look of disappointment aimed at the chief, she shook her head and headed out.

Erika kept glancing over her shoulder as they marched down the hall, giving the impression that she might just turn on her high heels and head back to give the chief a good talking-to. Seven could almost see the steam coming out of his partner’s ears.

“We should have given Murphy the damn bead,” she said, arms pumping at her sides. “Maybe he wouldn’t have sicced the FBI on us.”

“It wouldn’t have made a lick of difference. You heard the chief. He’s happy to lob this grenade.”

But Erika shook her head. “Nuh-uh. I don’t care what the chief says. I’m not covering Gospel’s ass with the FBI.”

Seven stopped in his tracks, forcing Erika to do the same. She turned to face him with her arms crossed.

“Listen to me. We’re not covering anyone’s ass, Erika. Not even our own. But we don’t have to go in with guns blazing.
Capice?
”

“But?” she asked, knowing him too well.

“But…while we’re waiting for instructions from the FBI…”

“We have a little time on our hands without some agent breathing down our necks?”

“Maybe a lot of time,” he said, continuing down the hall. “I’m betting this Agent Barnes is holed up with the professor and the bead in some underground lab in Quantico. It’s a judgment call.” He opened the door for his partner. “But I say we go talk to this guy who confessed to the other murder. See what seven years in the pokey has done to jog his memory.”

Erika walked through the door, this time with a smile on her face. “Go, Yoda.”

The only problem being that Benjamin Bass, the self-confessed killer of Michelle Larson, had died shortly after his incarceration.

“Hanged himself his first week in jail.” This information was delivered by the warden of the correctional facility over the speakerphone back at the Crimes Against Persons unit.

“Any suspicious circumstances surrounding his death?” Seven asked.

“Not really.”

“He hanged himself,” Erika said. “Surely there were signs about his mental state. He wasn’t on any kind of suicide watch?”

The silence that followed reeked of a man grappling with his conscience.

“Warden,” Seven said, helping the guy along. “The man’s dead.”

“From what I understand,” the disembodied voice said, “Bass was a total schizo. Heard voices telling him to do bad things. These guys go off their meds and end up on the streets. Nobody gives a shit until they start burning down bridges with their campfires or stab some poor civilian they think is an alien trying to control their mind.”

“Did anyone come for his effects?” Erika asked, hoping to salvage something from this fiasco.

“What effects, Detective? The man had nothing. Just another lost soul.”

After they hung up, Erika looked at Seven. “He was lost, all right.”

They both sat in a minute of silence for what was surely a miscarriage of justice. It didn’t slap you in the face that often, but when it did, it stung.

Erika tapped the file from the Larson murder. It had taken some smooth talking to get the records here, pronto, but Erika had managed. “There were no signs of a break-in. You’re telling me Michelle Larson just opened the door and let some stinky bum walk in?”

“His story was that he was panhandling. She walked by his regular spot every day and felt sorry for him. He followed her home. When she went into the kitchen to get her purse, that’s when the voices told him to follow her inside and kill her.”

“Bums going door-to-door. Now that’s a new one on me.”

“He said he’d been watching her for weeks,” Seven said, repeating the bullshit in the police report—bullshit he believed about as much as Erika did.

“Cover-up, much?” Erika pushed away the file. “So. Time for Plan B, right?”

“I’m afraid to ask.” Seven gave a long, tired sigh. “Okay. What’s Plan B?”

“That’s where you grow a pair and agree we should have a little talk with Owen Gospel.”

Seven looked over at his partner.
Shit.
“You heard what the chief said.”

Erika grabbed her purse and shrugged. “So we’ll be gentle.”