The Collector Page 11

  Unlike Carin. He had to give the woman credit. At eighteen months and still going strong, she was a true holdout to the normal apathy that accompanied a job of searching for things that might not exist.

  Right now, her face literally lit up with excitement, her blue eyes shining as she held up a file folder.

  “I found something,” she said.

  Of course you did, Terrence thought.

  But he put on his reading glasses and motioned her into his roomy cubical. He held out his hand for the folder.

  And for the first time since he’d committed himself to this basement office—well, cubical—Terrence McGee found himself caught off guard.

  He flipped through the pages, reading quickly. “Where did you get this?”

  Carin sat down at the chair beside his desk. Immediately, her legs started pumping up and down like pistons. “A source. In California.”

  Carin was thirty-five, brilliant and unmarried. She had a doctorate in neurobiology from Caltech and was completely dedicated to her work here at NISA.

  Her work and her younger brother. She had an autistic brother named Markie fifteen years her junior. She’d been caring for him ever since her parents had died in a car accident seven years ago.

  “This,” she said, tapping the file, “is an extremely reliable source.”

  Terrence allowed himself a small smile. She was practically hyperventilating.

  “The Eye of Athena,” she said, with something approaching reverence in her voice.

  It had been years since he’d even heard the name. Not since the death of Estelle Fegaris.

  Not many people knew of the artifact’s existence. Some even said it was a figment of Estelle’s imagination. She claimed to be a descendant of the Sybil at Delphi, a title belonging to one of many a prophetess who reportedly received her powers from Gaia, the goddess of the earth and the mother of Cronus and the Titans. The Eye of Athena was a necklace presumably worn by the Sybil and later by the Oracle at Delphi. According to Fegaris, the Eye magnified the powers of the prophetess who wore it, somewhat like a lens magnifies an image. Fegaris spoke of the piece as if it were a family heirloom.

  Fegaris had always been a controversial figure in her field, psychic archaeology. She tended to be a little too successful in discovering archaeological finds of great significance. When it became public knowledge that Fegaris herself claimed to have psychic abilities—powers she used in her work—her very credibility came under fire, psychic archaeology not exactly being in the mainstream. And then there was her partnership with Morgan Tyrell, the famed parapsychologist. Eventually, the top names in the field proclaimed her a fraud.

  Terrence knew better.

  Eventually, Fegaris had been marginalized by her contemporaries, but by then she had her own following. They called themselves Lunites, a reference to the Greek word feggari, meaning moon. Carin Barnes had been one of the group’s most fervent members.

  He knew in his heart the Eye was Carin’s raison d’être here at NISA. With the death of Fegaris, she needed their resources. Still, it wasn’t as if he could afford to turn down someone with her qualifications, even if she was a closet fanatic. And God bless her, looking over the file, he realized she just might have an honest-to-God lead.

  At the back of the file was a fax of a photograph. Not very good quality, he thought, squinting past his reading glasses. He took off the glasses and gave them a dirty look as he placed them on his desk. He hated getting old.

  “All right,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “What’s the story?”

  This was what Terrence always asked his people. He liked open-ended questions. In his organization, Carin was a “finder.” He wanted the finder to guide the discussion.

  Theirs was far from an exact science. In point of fact, it wasn’t science at all…even if most of the people who ended up in his basement cubicles had an alphabet of degrees behind their names.

  “It’s a bead from the necklace,” Carin said, pitched forward on her chair. “It has to be the Eye, Terrence. I can feel it in my gut. And here’s the punch line. They found it at a murder scene.”

  Carin’s blue eyes met his, her rare smile practically the “ta-da!” before lifting the veil to show her prize.

  “The murder victim, Terrence. She was a psychic.”

  From years of practice, he kept his expression neutral. Just lifted his hands as if to say, So what?

  “You’re kidding,” she said, visibly deflated by his lack of reaction.

  “From what the file says, Carin, your source hasn’t even examined the piece.”

  “Look at the photograph,” she said, jabbing her finger at it. “The distinctive cat’s-eye line down the center. The detectives from homicide even said it changed color, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Blue to red.”

  “And?” he asked, holding up the page.

  “Come on,” she said.

  He could see that Carin didn’t like to be challenged. She’d been an acolyte of Fegaris for too many years—one of those trowel-carrying neophytes willing to work for grub and a tent over her head just to be part of the expedition. Still, up until today, he couldn’t fault Carin’s work. She hadn’t made the Eye her focus at NISA. Quite the opposite. Besides, he couldn’t deny that one of the reasons he’d wanted her on board in the first place was the well-thought-out presentation she’d made about the existence of the artifact.

  Shuffling back to the grainy faxed photograph, Terrance had to admit he could feel a hitch in his pulse.

  He handed the file to Carin, meeting her gray-blue eyes. In many ways, she reminded him so much of himself. She was the kind of agent who went with her gut…and wasn’t often wrong.

  “So what do you propose to do?” he asked.

  “I want to go back there. To California. I want to see the stone firsthand.”

  Terrence tried to imagine what it would be like to let Carin loose on the local authorities, flashing her badge and talking the talk. But then again, why not? She’d worked harder than most. It might be nice to give her a taste of fieldwork before she started growing moss.

  Terrence asked, “Are you free for lunch?”

  “Of course,” she said, doing a poor job of hiding her surprise.

  He stood, getting his coat. Time to give Carin an education on the importance of subtlety—not the woman’s forte.

  He smiled. “I’m okay with any kind of food. Just as long as the place has good coffee. We’re going to needs lots of coffee.”

  13

  Seven wasn’t much of a drinker, not anymore. He figured he’d done enough partying as a teenager. His liver could use the break. These days, he indulged in the occasional beer. But he’d seen too many cops use alcohol like a tranquilizer, trying to wind down from a job that never let you forget.

  Tonight was different.

  By the time he and Erika made it back to the station, they had just enough time to arrange for Professor Murphy to examine the artifact the next day. After an hour of comparing notes, Erika had taken one look at Seven and come around the desk to close the file in front of him.

  “Whatever is sitting on that desk,” she told him, “trust me, it can wait till morning.” She handed him his jacket. “Tonight, you’re partying with me, cowboy.”

  The office had cleared out a good hour earlier. Only he and Erika had stayed behind to go over their notes on the Tran case. They were coming up on nine o’clock, and Seven thought Erika had a point. The words were beginning to blur.

  They’d ended up at Erika’s favorite bar, the House of Brews. It was an upscale sports bar: pool tables, jukebox and big-screen televisions within viewing range of every corner. The fireplace and couch were a homey touch. So were the paintings. Huge canvases of beautiful women staring soulfully at the diners, all done by the artist Noah.

  Seven and Erika settled into one of the booths at the back. He passed on his usual beer, going straight to a martini. Kettle One, dirty, two olives.

  H
e said after a while, “You were right.”

  “About so many things,” Erika said, putting down her cosmopolitan. “But what exactly are we talking about?”

  Erika had been on a cosmo kick ever since someone had given her the box set of Sex and the City. Seven thought it was kind of cute, the frou-frou drink thing. He didn’t often see the girlie side of his partner.

  “You’re right about Beth,” he said. “And Nick. I’m not helping them.”

  Erika stared ahead, as if she was thinking carefully about how to respond. Seven gave it a minute, eating one of the olives.

  On the big screen above the bar, the Angels were playing the New York Yankees. They were still called the L.A. Angels of Anaheim—the result of some lame lawsuit. Like they couldn’t figure out where the hell they were from? Last time Seven checked, home games were played right up the road in Anaheim. Whatever.

  The place was packed, almost everyone rooting for the Angels. They were ahead by five runs, but it was still early, only the top of the fourth.

  “Wow,” she finally said. She shook her head and picked up her cosmo. She pretended to drain the glass.

  “Wow?” he asked. “That’s it? That’s all you got?” He glanced up at the big screen. “Lately, you’ve practically run your own advice column on me and Beth.”

  She put down her drink and turned to give Seven her full attention. She was a beautiful woman. He tried to forget that sometimes. Tried to think of her only as his partner, the person who watched his back. But the fact was he remembered every inch of those curves. Even how her hair felt sliding between his fingers.

  He hadn’t slept with another woman since that night six months ago. Erika was right; he’d been raised Catholic. He knew about penance.

  She shook her head. “You’re really asking for my advice?”

  He made a show of looking around the booth. “You see anybody else sitting here?”

  She smiled. Never a good thing, that smile. He braced himself.

  “Okay,” she said. “Your darling Beth is using you. And here’s the sick part—you know it and you’re still falling in, toeing the line. Now, I’m of the opinion that a bit of that is okay. The whole leaning on the brother-in-law thing, why not? Hell, in some cultures, when a woman is widowed, the brother-in-law steps in and becomes her husband.”

  “For God’s sake, Erika—”

  “Hey,” she said, holding up a hand to silence him, “you asked.”

  He stuffed the last olive in his mouth and chewed.

  “You both love Ricky,” she said. “So you help each other through the crisis. Except, it’s run its course, right? Time to cut the cord…or tie it up tight.” She leaned over the table, meeting his gaze. “Which do you want, Seven?”

  He sat up straight. “You are way off.”

  She gave a tired sigh. “That’s just denial talking.”

  He didn’t mean to put the glass down with so much force, spilling half the martini. “She’s my fucking sister-in-law, okay?”

  Erika toasted him with the cosmo. “Excellent choice of words.”

  He forced himself to just shut up, let the anger drift away. “I’m only going to say this once, so I will be very clear. I do not want to sleep with Beth.”

  “Yeah? Well, you didn’t plan on getting into my pants, either, now did you, cowboy?”

  He raised his martini in a mock toast. “And what a great idea that turned out to be.”

  She put down the glass and gave him a mischievous smile. “Oh, I don’t know. At least we got it out of our systems.”

  He shook his head, but he couldn’t help cracking a smile right back at her. “You are a piece of work, Erika.”

  “Some might say a masterpiece.”

  “A cheeky masterpiece.”

  She made a face. “Who uses words like cheeky anymore?”

  “Who calls anybody cowboy?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Asshole. So much better. I’ll remember that for next time.”

  He finished the martini, acting as if she was full of shit. But he liked her honesty. And he thought maybe it was time for him to give some of it back.

  “Did I ever say I was sorry?” he asked quietly.

  She laughed. “Oops. Was I supposed to be the brokenhearted girl over the whole thing?” She rolled her eyes. “It was just sex, okay? And between you and me?” She leaned forward to say in a stage whisper, “You’re kind of the girlie one in the partnership.”

  He smiled. “Maybe you’re right. Because, lady, do you have a pair on you.”

  Suddenly, they both busted up laughing.

  She reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m just saying to be careful with Beth, okay?”

  He nodded. “I guess there’s a part of me that likes it. Taking care of things. Being the good son. All those years, it was always Ricky.” He met her gaze. “Maybe it’s my turn, you know?”

  Because they were all depending on him. He came from law enforcement. It had been up to him to navigate the system before it swallowed his brother whole. On advice of counsel, Ricky pleaded out. They’d given him fifteen to life. And Seven was there to make sure he’d been treated okay.

  Right then, Jeter hit a home run for the Yankees, sending the place into chaos. He could barely hear his cell phone when it went off with that special ring.

  “So, cowboy—I mean, asshole,” Erika said, nodding to his phone, “what are you going to do?”

  He waited, thinking about making a joke, that maybe he liked asshole better, after all. But he kept hearing his phone ring, thinking instead that Erika was right, it was more than time for him to let Beth stand on her own two feet.

  “Shit,” he said under his breath, picking up. Into the cell phone, he said, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Beth.”

  He stood and dropped a twenty on the table, avoiding Erika’s eyes. “Drinks are on me, okay?”

  She grabbed his hand before he could take off, giving him some final words of advice.

  “Denial. It’s a powerful emotion.” And when he didn’t respond, she gave his hand a squeeze and told him, “Take a cab. I’ll sober up here.”

  She watched him leave. It broke her heart to see him like this. Damn Beth. Damn Ricky and the whole Bushard clan.

  They’d done a number on Seven, that was for sure. And God knows Erika knew what families could do to a person.

  She sipped her drink, thinking about how close they’d come to really talking about that night. The fact was, she’d been more girlie about the whole thing than she ever let on.

  Seven was a peach. Dreamy hazel eyes, thick chestnut curls and a smile that could knock you down from ten feet away. And those shoulders—she could still remember the thrill of holding him in her arms, naked. She’d have to be dead not to find him attractive. Then there was the whole my-life-is-in-your-hands thing between partners. Those were powerful emotions.

  But what she needed was just that, a partner, not a lover. Not many guys had enough self-confidence to treat her as an equal. They just saw a pair of tits and a nice ass. But not Seven. Shit, he even let her drive.

  Besides, she’d never in her life had a decent relationship with a man. She wasn’t about to screw up what she had going with Seven. Not for sex.

  Suddenly, another drink magically appeared next to the one she’d almost finished. The waitress pointed out the guy sitting at the bar. He was tall, worked out. Nice, thick dark hair. Just her type.

  He gave a short wave and flashed a sexy grin.

  It happened all the time. Her mother used to say to her, Chiquita, eres muy sata.

  Hot stuff.

  Of course, she hated it. Hated that, no matter where she was or what she was doing, some guy would come on to her.

  Hated that maybe she wanted just that.

  For an instant, she thought of Seven listening to the ringer on his phone, trying his hardest not to pick up. Giving in.

  They weren’t so different, she and her partner. They both had bag
gage they weren’t ready to face.

  She finished her drink and picked up the other. She walked over to the guy at the bar and sat down.

  She thought he had nice eyes.

  “The name’s Adam,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Shaking it, she said, “Suzy.”

  She never gave her real name. She wanted it to be anonymous. She was a homicide detective. She didn’t think it was the city’s business what she did on her own time. And sometimes guys had weird ideas about screwing a cop.

  Like she’d told Seven, it was just sex.

  “Hello, Suzy.”

  He gave her the up and down, letting her know where they were going with this.

  “So, Adam. What do you do for a living?” she asked, lifting the drink and giving a playful smile.

  Denial, it was a powerful emotion.

  14

  Net High was a swanky über-club and restaurant owned by Sam Vi. The place had opened just last year, Little Saigon’s answer to the growing crowd of OC socialites salivating over “on-the-list” establishments.

  Unlike other clubs, the lounge-cum-cyber café wasn’t tucked away between a nail salon and a video store in one of the dozens of strip malls canvassing the area. The Net High was a stand-alone building designed to look like a Buddhist temple, a massive concrete structure complete with red plaster pillars and three imposing pagoda-style tile roofs.

  In David Gospel’s opinion, you shouldn’t mix your five-star cuisine with a boba bar and karaoke. The place was overdone: Asia on steroids. Sam even had those ridiculous revolving spotlights, usually reserved for a Hollywood premier, lighting up the night sky like the fucking bat signal in Gotham.

  Sam, who owned a string of cyber cafés, considered the Net High his crowning jewel. He even had a back entrance for his celebrity clientele, whoever the hell that could be.

  David hiked up the steps with Velvet on his arm. Tonight, she’d pulled back her hair in a classic French twist, looking elegant and refined in a little black Donna Karan dress he’d bought for her. They stepped past an enormous statue of Happy Buddha incongruously set before a trio of bent palms, the trunks lit up like Christmas with fiber-optic lighting.