The Collector (27 page)

S
even stood next to Erika before the chief’s desk. They’d been called in—one of those special invitations every cop learned to dread.

Apparently, Gospel had been filing motions all morning—cease-and-desist; unlawful imprisonment—threatening to sue anything that moved.

The mayor’s rage over headlines and lawsuits still lingered in the room with her designer perfume.

I told you to handle things—Roy—and trust me when I tell you that flagging down Gospel’s son and harassing him in a public place in front of witnesses does not help the situation!

The chief was rubbing his temples, looking to fight off a migraine. “I told you to let the FBI handle this.”

“Excuse me for saying so, Chief, but Special Agent Barnes made it very clear that she has a hard-on for some artifact we promised the Greek government,” Seven said, failing miserably to keep his own anger in check. “Finding the bastard who did this wasn’t exactly her focus.”

“Gee, Seven. And here I thought it was justice for all?” Erika said.

“That’s enough,” the chief snapped, banging his hand on his desk.

But Seven didn’t think so. “The kid looked awfully good for the murder of MimiTran. For God’s sake, we’re cops, not politicians.”

“Good for the Tran murder?” the chief asked, now seeming to pack it in with the mayor. Despite a shock of white hair and ten pounds he didn’t need, he could be pretty intimidating. Now he rose slowly to his full six feet two inches from behind his desk. “Where’s your evidence, Detective?”

“I think that’s why it’s called an investigation, Chief,” Erika said, moving in like a bulldog.

“I expect anyone on my force to act professionally. Harassing Owen and David Gospel is
not
professional.”

“That’s right,” Seven said, turning to Erika. “We only shake down gangbangers and the homeless—”

“And
not
law-abiding citizens,” the chief finished, starting to look a little purple in the face. “Jesus. All we have is some asinine psychic and now she’s front-page news? Do you have any idea how much damage control I’ve been doing this morning? If you ever think you’ve seen the shit hit the fan before, Detective Bushard, think again, because that time is
now!
It’s all our necks on the chopping block. So stop dicking around with Gospel and go get me some righteous evidence!”

Seven recognized the last word when he heard it. He didn’t like it, but he and Erika headed out.

Once they hit the hall, he flipped open his cell phone.

He’d been calling steadily all morning. He’d left messages, but Gia wasn’t picking up or returning his calls…and he could well imagine why. Like the chief, she’d be getting calls from the press to the crazies. There was probably just a little puff of smoke on her counter where her answering machine had sat.

Around the fifth time he punched in her number, Erika grabbed the phone from his hand and shut it.

“Jesus,” she said, handing it back to him, “will you give it a rest?”

Only he couldn’t. He hadn’t spoken to Gia since waking to find her unable to breathe in the bed beside him. Bringing her back from the brink like that—her assertions that she would have been fine even if he hadn’t been there…that it was all part of the process. Her visions.

What was it Nietzsche had said? Something about the irrationality of a thing being no argument against its existence, rather a condition of it?

Well, Gia’s condition was blowing his mind. What he’d seen that night, that
couldn’t
be an act. Yesterday, he’d spent hours online, reading up on psychic phenomena. Then Erika shows up throwing information in his face that Gia Moon can’t exist? What the hell was Gia hiding from? His head was spinning.

When Erika started honing in with her Latina sensitivity, he’d taken off. Most of the morning he’d spent just driving around. When Nick got out of school, he’d taken him fishing down at the pier—nothing like fishing to give a man space to think.

Last night, he’d had it all straightened out. He’d confront Gia. Make her talk. If she was in trouble she could trust him.

Only, when he woke up this morning, the world was upside down again.

And now he couldn’t reach Gia. And he needed to. He had to find out if she was okay. That she and her kid weren’t being harassed. Or worse.

I’m next.
That’s what she’d said the first time she’d come in.

Maybe now she would be.

“You’re right,” he said, shoving the phone back into his jacket pocket. “This is useless.”

With that, he headed for the nearest exit.

Sam watched Owen Gospel from across the room, sizing him up. Owen had been at the Net High before, many times. He’d struck Sam as the type who was always in-the-know. Hot new club? Owen Gospel was the first through the door. If you wanted to make
US Weekly,
you invited people like Gospel.

Right now, Owen was enjoying the attentions of two lovely ladies, friends of Sam’s, as well as his employees. Owen liked the ladies. He also had a reputation for liking it rough.

Sam made sure to be accommodating. More often than not, the girls Owen used showed up with burns or needing stitches. Sam would take care of the situation, smoothing things over with cash. It didn’t take much. A lot of these girls were fresh off the boat and desperate. In Vietnam, human trafficking was practically a percentage of the gross national product.

Sam didn’t consider it taking advantage—he figured he had more to offer than what usually awaited the flotsam and jetsam of illegals arriving on the shores of opportunity. Shit, sometimes they found the girls half-dead inside metal cargo containers at ports in Long Beach or Los Angeles.

When Owen Gospel had first started coming to the Net High, Sam had seen it as a plus. The kid’s father was one of the most influential men in Orange County. It couldn’t hurt to get in good with his only child, right? A son, no less.

But it didn’t take Sam long to figure out there was no love lost between father and son. It was something he couldn’t understand, Owen’s disrespect for his parents. Shit, if only Sam’s father had lived. As it was, Sam honored his father daily in death.

Owen struck Sam as a punk. But Sam didn’t underestimate him. Too many people had done the same to Sam over the years, discounting him as so much gang trash.

Catching Owen’s gaze, Sam headed toward him. The girls scattered as he approached. He motioned for Owen to join him in a private booth. It was early, just past noon. The Net High wouldn’t open officially for hours.

Sam smiled as he shook Owen’s hand. He knew how to put on a good show.

After Velvet’s murder, Sam had started to think about strategy. It was weird, how he’d always thought he had a purpose in his life. A goal. He was going to be swimming in money. And power. Oh, yes, that most of all. He hadn’t understood until now just how shitty his “grand plan” had been. Trudy H.? A distant memory since Vee’s death. Making himself over in the image of a man like David Gospel—not even an option.

Velvet had always told him they were Children of the Dragon. Now, Sam thought he finally understood what she meant. No more making pacts with the devils of the world like the Chinese triads and Gospel.

So he’d called Owen Gospel, hoping to mine that rift between father and son.

Sam knew in his gut David Gospel had killed Vee.

Oh, maybe Gospel hadn’t gone over to her apartment and personally gutted her open with Xuan Du. But he was responsible. Nothing had ever gone wrong for Vee before Sam brought her into Gospel’s life. And Mimi? What about her? No, Gospel was the thread pulling it all together. Him and his damn artifacts.

Owen sat across from Sam. Both men waited, sizing each other up.

“So,” Owen asked. “Am I here to talk about dear old Dad?”

Sam shook his head, knowing that would be too easy. “Of course not.” He frowned. Sam had always been good at this. “What makes you ask?”

Like he said, he didn’t underestimate Owen Gospel.

“Just a hunch,” Owen replied.

“I wanted to talk,” Sam continued, “because I have a business proposition.”

Sam knew what it took to succeed. He’d been at this game for years. Rule number one: take it slow and don’t fuck up. That’s how Sam planned to get justice for Vee…that’s how he would honor her spirit.
Take it slow and don’t fuck up.

Sam leaned forward on the table, toward Owen, knowing the importance of body language. He needed to act pumped. The story was he couldn’t get David Gospel on board in his big plans. So what was the next best step? Gospel’s kid, Owen.

“I’ve been trying to make things work with the old man,” he told Owen. “But you know how it is. He’s like God or something.”

He wanted to rub it in, get the son good and mad.
Daddy is way out of your league.

Sam had thought about it all night. He would talk to Owen, let him know that things weren’t happening fast enough. He wanted a piece of Westminster. Little Saigon was his home turf and David had promised him part of the new expansion plan….

Only, the project had been tabled—some problem with the city planning commission, pissing Sam off but good. Hadn’t Sam been buttering up the old man to solve just these kinds of roadblocks with his connections in the mayor’s office? Gospel couldn’t call in some favors?

Sam knew how to play stupid thug for Owen. On the phone, he’d explained how he needed that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow faster than
dear old dad
was promising. Could Owen help him out?

So it pretty much shocked the shit out of him when Owen gave Sam a big smile and said, “This is about Velvet Tien, isn’t it?”

Sam took a moment, reminding himself,
Don’t underestimate Gospel’s kid
.

“Wow.” Sam shook his head. He pushed away from the table and met Gospel’s strange blue eyes. He’d noticed from the first there was something wrong with the kid’s eyes. The glasses and the constant eyedrops. That unblinking stare.

“She’s my cousin, you know,” Sam said, seeing how far the truth would get him. “And I loved her, very much.”

“He did it,” Owen said with that startling gaze. “He killed her. I’m not saying he planned it. Daddy
never
thinks anyone is going to get hurt. He just knows what he wants.”

Owen sat across the booth with the weight of regret on shoulders fitted perfectly in a sleek-but-rugged Belstaff shirt, the body language said it all: what could he do? He was just the son, a powerless observer.

But Sam wasn’t buying it—but he was listening.

“They died, Mimi Tran, Velvet Tien and the other fortune-teller, Michelle. They died because of Dad—oh, yeah. I know all about that. You see, Sam, you’re just another tool to feed my father’s obsession with immortality. They all died, even your poor cousin. And you know why?”

Here, Owen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the booth table, making Sam think of his own strategy about body language. Owen was letting Sam know he was pumped, ready for action against the old man.

“You said it yourself, Sam. He’s like God. Only Dad, he actually thinks he can do it. Become immortal.”

Owen gave a short laugh, as if it were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. But Sam heard something else. Admiration. Or maybe it was a desire to beat the old man to the punch on the immortality gig.

“He used to tell me these bedtime stories,” Owen continued. “Each and every one talked about changing the rules and living forever. My favorite was the story of the Moon Fairy. It’s Vietnamese, you know? Are you familiar with it?”

Sam nodded. Every kid had heard the story of the king who married his fairy princess, only to betray her by trying to sacrifice their child in his quest for immortality. According to the story, the Moon Fairy turned her daughter into a rabbit and took her to the moon to keep her safe.

Sam frowned, making another connection. Those eyes of Owen’s. How they never blinked. They kind of reminded him of a rabbit’s eyes.

Here, Owen leaned over the table eagerly. “The thing about these stories, Sam? There’s always a sacrifice.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. This was a chess match.
Pawn to queen’s four….

“You’re saying Velvet was his sacrifice?” Sam asked.

Owen smiled. They were on the same page now. Two men who didn’t trust each other, but hoped to bring down their nemesis. The enemy of my enemy
is my friend
.

“I know you want revenge for your cousin. You called me because you thought I could help. You want to destroy the old man. You’re playing him,” Owen said.

The punk’s unblinking stare sent a shiver up Sam’s spine.

“I’m here to tell you, Sam, I want to play along.”

G
ia pulled back the blinds and stared at the crowd of reporters. She’d unplugged the phone, hoping for a little less volume to the day. Mission accomplished. Despite the throng just outside her door, she felt absolute silence—and not in a good way.

Stella,
she thought to herself. Without her daughter’s presence, Gia felt empty.

She remembered having a similar connection with her own mother, the famous Estelle Fegaris, psychic archaeologist. Only, to Gia, Estelle had been so much more.

Gia sighed, staring through the window, searching the faces outside for the one she knew was coming. She wondered if he was already there in the shadows, even now watching her.

I’m next.

It’s what she’d always believed. Maybe this time, with the morning’s headlines, it would prove true.

By now, Thomas’s psychosis had focused to the point that killing her would be a compulsion he could not refuse. She couldn’t be sure why he’d ended up here in California. Possibly it was the Eye that had brought him; she’d always thought that thing was corralling them all closer for its own inevitable purpose.

He was experiencing seizures, she knew that much from her visions. How it connected to the Eye, she wasn’t sure. Estelle had once told her exposure to the crystal wasn’t always safe.

Gia continued to watch from behind the blinds. The man she was looking for was tall with thinning blond curls.

But it wasn’t Thomas skulking in the shadows who caught her eye. Instead, she focused on another man, one pushing past the reporters, flashing his badge, making his way to her front door.

Seven.

She sighed, dropping back the blinds. She’d been thinking about him all morning.

It happened so often like this. She’d have this feeling that reminded her of those lava lamps with the oil heating up until an opaque bubble rose to the surface. Anticipation—for what or whom, she didn’t always know.

She’d thought it had been Thomas she’d been expecting out in that crowd.

She couldn’t help a small sigh of relief.

Seven gave a sharp knock at the door. She let him in and he quickly shut the door behind him.

“You okay?” he asked.

She could see that he was trying to catch his breath. She knew this was difficult for him. He’d be making choices that warred with his values as a cop, choices she had forced by allowing events to proceed as they had.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Liar,” he declared.

“What does it matter how I feel?”

“It matters to me.”

Before she could think better of it, she stepped into his open arms. She rested her head on his chest, just breathing in the smell of him, soap and a spicy aftershave.

Seven took her face in his hands. Their eyes met.

But this time, when he leaned down to kiss her, she turned away.

He let her go, looking almost relieved as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. The action made Gia smile. He looked suddenly ten years younger, an awkward boy who didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“How’s Stella handling all this?” he asked.

“I sent her away.” And because she could see the questions on his face, she said, “It’s just too much for her.” Gia had never been a good liar. Stella had left yesterday, long before the headlines. “I sent her to stay with some relatives.”

“Good thinking.”

He didn’t say it with suspicion. Instead, he took her hand in his and pulled her toward the kitchen. “Got any coffee?”

“I can make some,” she said, suddenly finding herself just as breathless.

A few minutes later, he was holding a cup between his hands, standing next to her at the counter. “About the other night—”

“Please, Seven. I’m a big girl. I know that a relationship between us is impossible. I don’t regret what happened, but no repeat performance. I promise.”

He watched her for a minute. “Well. That sounded a little rehearsed.”

She hid her smile behind her coffee cup. “Okay. Maybe it was just a little. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s okay. I had my own canned speech going back in the car on the way over. Only mine centered around the fact that you stopped breathing. The sex, I kind of liked.”

She kept her gaze on his. He was an incredibly handsome man, the type women swooned over. Hazel eyes and a crooked smile.

She could imagine how lonely it must be for him as a homicide detective. The home life couldn’t be easy.

Which was part of the problem. That she could relate so well to his situation.

She put down their coffee cups and leaned into him, just letting him hold her.

He brushed his hand up and down her back. “I’m here now. I’m listening. Me. Not Detective Bushard.” He whispered in her ear, “Tell me what you’re hiding. I’ll keep your secrets. I’ll keep you safe.”

The offer broke her heart. “If only it were that simple.”

He rested his forehead against hers. They stood there, the two of them, holding each other. After a minute, he asked, “Is this what they call a meeting of the minds?”

“Ha, ha.”

He brushed her hair back, and seemed to be searching her face for answers. She knew how badly he wanted her to reassure him.
It’s okay, Seven. I’m one of the good guys….

“I’m sorry.” She stepped away and tucked her arms around her stomach. “I have more than myself to think of, Seven.”

“Stella. This is about your daughter, then?”

Gia walked over to the window and pulled back the blinds to look at the crowd of reporters waiting outside. She needed to remember what was at stake.

“In my old life, I was a scientist. I even have a doctorate.” She shook her head. “I could explain things in a way that made
sense,
” she told him. “Now I have to go on faith.”

She could see that someone had trampled her impatiens. Seven came up behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders.

“I was reading some articles on the Internet,” he said. “There’s this theory that kind of made sense to me. That maybe psychic ability isn’t any different than being a concert pianist or a rocket scientist. It’s a talent. Some people, they just notice things in a different way than everybody else. It’s like their computer program is just more sophisticated for predicting patterns. They stick the pieces together and come up with a story. More often than not, they’re right.”

“You’re starting to believe.”

He turned her around, looking puzzled. “And why don’t you sound happy about it?”

She took his face in her hands. On tiptoe, she leaned up and kissed him. One deep kiss.

She stepped away. “I have to do something, Seven. I’m going to see a friend of mine. He helps put me into a trance state.”

“What are you talking about? What are you planning?”

She could already hear the alarm in his voice. “I have to know what’s going on,” she explained. “I can’t afford to let the killer be in charge of my head anymore. I need to stay a step ahead of him.”

“Him?” Seven said, catching the slip. He grabbed her shoulders, not hard, but enough to keep her there. “You know who did this?”

She shook her head. “I can’t be sure. Not without going under. It’s not…pleasant. But I can’t avoid it any longer. Maybe if I’d had the courage to do it before, those women would still be alive.”

He dropped his hands away. “How can you stand here and not tell me?”

“That’s the responsibility that comes with my gift. I can’t tell you what I don’t
know
to be true.”

“Bullshit. You’re holding something back. And now I’m wondering why?”

She could see the physical transformation: Seven becoming “the cop.” Well, it was probably for the best. They both had their roles to play in the drama ahead.

“Of course, you’ll want more than an audiotape of the session,” she continued, trying to avoid what was coming next. “I thought perhaps Special Agent Barnes should stand as a witness.”

He closed his eyes as if she’d struck him. He shook his head and opened his eyes, looking like a man just waking up. “Right,” he said, nodding his head as if it all made sense. “Okay. Oh, and—how the hell do you know about Agent Barnes?”

“I know Carin Barnes. I’ve known her for years. If she hasn’t already said as much, she’s shown more restraint than I’d anticipated.”

He took another step away from her, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe what was happening.

“Agent Barnes has a special expertise in the field of paranormal phenomena,” Gia said.

She knew it wasn’t helping, these pathetic attempts to explain, when she could only tell him half-truths.

But suddenly, he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes focused just above her as he frowned. He brushed past her, shoving open the curtains to stare at the crowd of reporters.

“What the hell?” he said under his breath.

The next thing she knew, he was heading for the front door.

“Where’s today’s paper?” he asked. “The one with the article?”

“It’s right over there,” she said, pointing to the stack on the coffee table. The pages were folded back to the fortune-teller murders and her involvement as a psychic.

He picked up the page and walked out the front door. She hurried after him.

She could see he was gunning for one man in particular. Seven must have seen him through the window in the kitchen. The reporter seemed to recognize Seven, as well. He motioned for his cameraman to follow, and headed for the street, away from Seven and the line of fire.

Before he could get away, Seven grabbed his arm. He pushed the paper into the man’s chest.

“Is your name Greg Smith?” Seven asked.

The man smiled. “It’s good to see you, Detective Bushard.”

The next thing she knew, Seven’s fist connected with the man’s smug expression.

Rocket stared at the surveillance tape playing on the television screen. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, but the coffee had long since gone cold. He’d been at this most of the morning, staring at the same three minutes of footage. Rewind—play. Rewind—play.

He knew he should have told Mr. David about what had happened at the mall, those few hours Owen had given him the slip. And still he hadn’t said a thing. From the beginning, Rocket had had a bad feeling about Owen’s request to go to the Asian Garden Mall. Rocket kept wondering,
Why Little Saigon?
Hell, Owen was a Rodeo Drive boy, through and through.

After he heard about those poor women getting killed, it all made sense. The mall wasn’t that far from the scene of those murders.

Damn punk would have had just enough time….

Rewind—play.

And now, more bad news.

Rocket knew he needed to be very careful about how he approached Mr. David with the facts. He didn’t want to just dump a bunch of information on the man.

Mr. David might overreact. Rocket knew what it felt like to be pushed into a corner. That time with Ollie North, maybe if he’d handled things differently, if he’d been better prepared, he might still be part of this country’s great military.

The fact was, Mr. David and his wife were like family. Rocket needed to watch out for them. Make sure that things worked out. And he knew Mr. David. He was a hothead. Especially when it came to his kid.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Rocket knew it wasn’t Mr. David he needed to talk to.