The Collector Page 12

  The club reminded David of Sam—overreaching. The place didn’t know what it wanted to be, so it went for broke: cyber café, restaurant, boba bar and dance club. Hell, they served soursop martinis and bragged of a clear acrylic dance floor over a river of live koi. The Net High was a playpen for some uppity young asshole with too much power and money—Sam to a T.

  There were more than twenty cyber cafés in Little Saigon. Forget video arcades or students checking e-mail over a latte. This was the new Wild West. Here, computers allowed high-speed connection to a cyber world where “shooters” chased one another, gun in hand, ready to blow each other’s heads off.

  There was plenty of muscle and city ordinances to deal with the overload of testosterone. Shit, you practically had to give a urine sample to log on. Still, the regulations didn’t stop young men with twitchy thumbs. The main “saloon” of the Net High was exclusively designed for gaming.

  As the block of muscle euphemistically called a host led David and Velvet toward the back stairs, David glanced over to see a member of the Black Dragons—a local Vietnamese gang—empty the clip of his keyboard machine gun into his human target on the flat screen. Next to him, a Wally Girl, wearing low-rider jeans and a wifebeater shirt, a tattoo of a butterfly on her shoulder blade, watched while drinking a neon-pink boba tea. Through the drink’s fat straw, she sucked up one of the soft tapioca balls that sat at the bottom of the milky tea and chewed on the gelatinous ball in boredom.

  That was something else Sam had a piece of here, the gangs. He had started in a gang himself, but it hadn’t taken long for the kid to get into the home invasion racket. If they lived, the victims were so traumatized, they seldom contacted the police. By his twenties, Sam moved on to auto theft and extortion. He had a big piece of the local “security” in this town.

  Next came drugs and prostitution, working with the Wo Hop To Triad, the equivalent of the Chinese mafia in San Francisco and L.A. David suspected that the Net High was a cover for some serious money laundering.

  Only these days, Sam Vi was cleaning up his act, going legit. He needed to shed his black sheep image—he dreamed of making himself a brand-new man. All in the name of love.

  Sam Vi had recently announced his engagement to Trudy Hershberg, the newspaper heiress. He’d given her a rare blue diamond for a ring. Reports differed on how many carats, but sure as shit, the thing was worth a damn fortune.

  Not that David blamed the kid. Trudy H., as she was known in the tabloids, was sex on a stick. In David’s opinion, she was also way out of Sam’s league. Tall and willowy, with red hair that might actually be natural, she had a family name that could launch a thousand reality shows à la Paris Hilton, if that’s what she wanted.

  The thing was, Trudy H. was a celebutante and Sam Vi was a thug. David didn’t give him good odds. No way that family was opening the door to the likes of Sam.

  Then again, Sam could be Trudy’s F.U. to Mommy and Daddy. For all David knew, Sam might be producing her movie, or record deal, or maybe supplying her with some nice blow. David didn’t give a shit what was in it for Trudy H.

  But in Sam’s case, it walked and quacked like love. God knows Sam had a good thing going with the triad. And now he was willing to throw it all away for some skinny-assed white chick? David wished him luck.

  David knew he was part of Sam’s plan to make himself over for Trudy H. Along with several questionable holdings, Sam now had his own construction company. Recently, there’d been a lot of talk about sinking some real money into Little Saigon, the four-block radius at its heart being part of an ambitious growth project courtesy of the town’s “pro-development” mayor, Ruth Condum-Cox. If Gospel Enterprises bowed out of the project in favor of a local entrepreneur, that being Sam Vi, David could come in through the back door as a subcontractor. It could be a win-win for everyone.

  Only now he had the Mimi Tran case to deal with. Ruth was a personal friend and a past business partner, but even David’s leverage had limits. If he needed his hard-won collateral with the mayor to save his ass on the Tran situtation, then Sam and his dreams of becoming Little Saigon’s construction baron be damned. David had already arranged a lunch meeting with Ruth, a preemptive strike before the shit hit the fan on the Tran case.

  It was Mimi Tran who had brought David to Sam Vi. At first, David had had real hopes that Sam could deliver on some impressive promises. Sam bragged about connections to the illegal antiquities trade back home, something to do with the successive Chinese dynasties that ruled Vietnam, and relics hidden there. David bit, hook, line and sinker. The Eye of Athena wasn’t the only artifact mentioned in the thirteenth tablet. Not by a long shot. David had long ago traced his next step to Vietnam and the community here in Little Saigon.

  Unfortunately, David had seen squat from Sam. And now with Mimi dead, he was beginning to wonder if he ever would. The fact was, the only useful thing that little shit had ever done for David was introduce him to Velvet.

  David and Velvet were led to a corner booth in the Karaoke Kingdom, one of two private upstairs rooms—the other being a very hush-hush VIP lounge over the Lotus Blossom, Sam’s French-Vietnamese fusion restaurant. The Karaoke Kingdom was off-limits to regular patrons, tucked away from the ruckus of online gaming and DJs mixing hip-hop.

  The room was a sophisticated blend of Chinese and French colonial decor. Red paper shades covered chandeliers for decadent lighting. Rich upholstered furnishings circled tiny glass tables about the size of a Frisbee. Woven floor coverings and acoustical tiles further dampened the noise level. There was an impressive collection of contemporary Vietnamese art on the walls representing a dreamlike world of women painted in soft lines, the images almost poetic.

  On a small stage at the back, Sam Vi was singing Sinatra’s “My Way” in a raucous, off-key voice. There was nothing subtle or poetic about the punk. He was dressed in an Ozwald Boateng suit, à la Jaime Fox in his Oscar moment. At almost six feet, Sam actually pulled off the damn outfit, looking fit for the pages of GQ with his slicked-back hair. You could probably peel a papaya on that jaw.

  Wailing into the mike, Sam was surrounded by three Asian beauties in barely there black dresses and superhigh heels—Trudy H. nowhere in sight. The three girls practically wet their panties as they accompanied Sam on the karaoke machine like backup singers.

  Velvet placed her perfectly manicured hand on David’s, trying to settle him down.

  Jesus H. Christ.

  David knew making him wait was just as much a game for Sam as the boys playing Counter-Strike downstairs on their computer monitors. Forcing David to sit here and listen to that crap blaring from the speakers, Sam was letting David know who called the shots.

  David ordered drinks from a waitress dressed in a traditional ao dai, a long, four-paneled dress with tight sleeves and a high collar worn over flowing trousers. Velvet had told him the colors had special significance: white for the very young, pastels for the unmarried, richer colors for older women. At the Net High, black was the couleur de rigueur. The waitress wore a gauzy upper layer over lemon-yellow, with black trousers beneath.

  David watched the waitress leave with their drink orders, his fingers drumming on the tabletop. Velvet picked up his hand and kissed his knuckles, giving him a smile. Tonight, she wore only diamond stud earrings and a jade ring he’d given her. As far as he knew, she’d never taken that ring off. Sitting there in the soft light, she looked just as ethereal as the women in the paintings.

  After mangling another Sinatra song, Sam threw down the mike and jumped off the stage. He put his arms around two of his three honeys and walked back to David’s corner booth, acting as if he’d just noticed him waiting there.

  “David, my man, what can I do for you?”

  The women cleared out like trained dogs given a hand signal. Sam squeezed into the booth next to Velvet, putting his arm around her bare shoulders.

  David knew Velvet and Sam were distantly related, cousins of some sort, but it was hard to ima
gine any connection between the two. Velvet was elegant and educated. Like her name, she reminded David of something lush and sophisticated, the complete opposite of a snake like Sam.

  Sam glanced at David’s drink. “Let me guess,” he said. “Grey Goose martini. Shaken, not stirred,” he said in a fake English accent. He snapped his fingers. “Ready for a real drink?”

  Immediately, another waitress in traditional garb showed up carrying a tray and two glasses, along with a bowl of shiny eggs an exotic turquoise blue, and a can of sweetened condensed milk. There was also a bottle of Perrier. At tableside, she opened one of the eggs and emptied the yolk into a glass. Next she added condensed milk and Perrier. She mixed the ingredients with ice.

  “Sua hot ga,” Sam said, holding out the glass for David.

  “No thanks,” he answered, bypassing it to reach for his martini.

  Sam laughed, then practically chugged down half the egg drink. The waitress whisked away the second glass, leaving them alone in the room with Velvet. The only music playing on the speakers was a traditional Vietnamese strummed guitar.

  “You know why I’m here,” David finally said.

  Sam sat back, his arms resting on the cushions of the sofa. The look he gave David…talk about your inscrutable Asian! The punk just waited, appearing cool as you please as he stared down his aquiline nose.

  “A shame really, Mimi’s death. We have a saying in Vietnam.” He leaned toward David. “Better one drop of blood than a full pond of water. She will be missed by the Tran family.”

  “Well, she’s sure as hell going to be missed by me,” David said, losing his grip on his temper. “Listen to me. Someone broke into my vault. They stole a bead from the Eye.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Sam’s face, the change in expression so slight, David almost missed it.

  Suddenly, it came to him, the real possibility that Sam or one of his minions was in on it. Manipulating David. Fucking with him.

  “You don’t look very surprised, Sam.” Even as he spoke, the pieces fell into place for David. “But maybe there’s a reason for that? Maybe you know who took the bead?” Maybe the punk was involved.

  David leaned forward meanacingly. “For all your so-called big connections, you’ve delivered shit. Were you getting a little desperate, Sam? Did you think you could rob me and sell back my own collection? Is that it?”

  Sam sipped at the egg drink. He licked his bottom lip. “If only I was your problem.”

  David reached across the table and grabbed Sam’s hand before he could take another sip.

  Three hired muscles suddenly appeared, ready to wrestle David from the booth and throw him to the ground. Sam raised his hand to stop them.

  “David, my friend,” he said with a perfectly bleached smile. “Don’t lose faith so quickly.”

  Sam picked up a strand of Velvet’s hair and twirled it around his index finger. He pulled her toward him and kissed her ear. Velvet kept her eyes on David, silently pleading with him.

  “Mimi was unique,” Sam said smoothly. “She had the true gift. You told me yourself how, in her hands, the Eye glowed to life.”

  Glowed to life, David thought, remembering those feeble moments of hope when the metal trapped inside the milky blue crystal glimmered, giving the central stone of the Eye a pulse like a heartbeat. Yes, in Mimi’s hands, the Eye did gather some sort of light, but it was ever so slight. And now he was beginning to think it was just a parlor trick. Despite all his experience, had he been taken in?

  That which is invisible is always the most dangerous.

  Maybe Mimi was trying to warn him, trying to tell him in her own way that Sam was full of shit. That he had nothing.

  “She’ll be difficult to replace,” Sam continued, “but luckily for you, I found someone else.” And when David turned to glare at him, Sam said, “Take heart, David. I’ll show you your treasures soon enough.”

  That small assurance…

  David could feel his heart thumping inside his chest, almost as if it were trying to force out his doubts. He was falling face-first, right into that tiny glimmer of hope. And in Sam’s eyes, he could see that the little shit knew it.

  Returning the punk’s smile, David thought to himself that when this was over, when he truly had what he needed from Sam, the cops were going to have to use tweezers to pick up the pieces of this little prick.

  Sam dropped the lock of Velvet’s hair, his gaze still on David, baiting him. “You don’t have to trust me, David. Our little Velvet found her for me. Didn’t you, cousin?”

  David turned to her in surprise. She couldn’t even look at him.

  “When I heard about Mimi,” she whispered, staring at her drink on the table, “I thought you might need help.”

  David tried not to choke on his disgust. Velvet was supposed to have his best interests in mind. Jesus, he deserved her loyalty—he paid for it, didn’t he? But here she was, calling Sam first? Letting David walk into this setup?

  But then he remembered what Sam had said earlier: better a drop of blood than a pond of water. In Vietnam, family came first. Even distant relatives had a stranglehold.

  He waited until Velvet looked up to meet his gaze. He could see real fear in her eyes; fear of him or Sam, it was difficult to say.

  “As for the necklace—” Sam slid out from the booth and stood; he straightened his suit with a practiced hand. “There you have a big problem, my friend.”

  He leaned over the glass table, getting into David’s face. “A little bird told me the police have the missing bead from your necklace.” He came close enough to whisper in David’s ear, “Guess where they found it? In Mimi’s mouth. But maybe you knew that already?”

  David felt the seat fall out from under him. The room started to spin.

  Sam pulled away, taking a good look at David’s reaction. “Now, is there something you forgot to tell me? Maybe you went to see Mimi. Things weren’t happening fast enough. You lost your temper….”

  David recoiled in horror. “I didn’t kill Mimi, and you fucking know it. I needed her!”

  He patted David on the shoulder. “Try to stay out of jail, will you, David? You won’t be much use to me there.”

  David closed his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath. Oh, shit. Shit!

  Sam gave Velvet a peck on the cheek. He said, “Take him home, Velvet. Make him forget a little, will you?”

  15

  Beth jabbed an accusing finger at the documents on the kitchen table. “Look at that…that pile of shit!” She took a long drink from the wineglass. Judging from the heaviness around the vowels, it was far from her first.

  Seven picked up the moving papers. Scott’s family was looking for their blood money, having filed an unlawful death suit. Seven made a mental note to call Ricky’s lawyer tomorrow.

  “It’s okay, Beth. I got it.”

  She shook her head. The dark circles beneath her eyes and deep grooves around her mouth said it all: she was a woman defeated.

  Beth Allen Bushard had grown up in Newport Beach, the daughter of an orthodontist and a real estate agent. She had perfect blond hair and a year-round tan courtesy of the local tanning salon. She worked out with a trainer. She considered her Senior Presentation, for the National Charity League—the debutant ball—one of the biggest moments in her life, right after her marriage and the birth of her son.

  Seven still remembered the wedding—a Princess Di-type gown and five hundred of Beth and Ricky’s closest friends. Seven, the best man, had used a microphone to introduce the wedding party of no less than thirty as the bridesmaids and ushers stepped into the grand ballroom of Newport Beach’s most exclusive Yacht Club.

  Seven and Laurin had eloped straight out of high school. They’d had one of those quickie Vegas weddings with Elvis presiding. At the time, they’d thought it was a hoot. Of course, the marriage lasted about as long as the wedding.

  Beth was a communications major from USC and considered her sorority sisters family…family that s
cattered like rats on a sinking ship once it became clear that her husband had killed a man.

  She was a good wife and mother. And she was falling apart.

  “You shouldn’t have to do any of this.” She punched her fist into her thigh. “I shouldn’t have to do this.” She punched her thigh again, harder this time.

  Seven grabbed her hand before she could keep hitting herself.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She shook her head. He’d been saying the same thing for months and she’d stopped believing him.

  She looked up, her eyes swimming. “Nothing is ever going to be okay again and we both know it.”

  She reached for him. It was getting to be a regular thing, holding his brother’s wife and comforting her. At first, it had just been a reflex. He’d needed the holding as much as she did. But now, it started to feel strange, the relationship shifting in a way he hadn’t meant.

  He looked into Beth’s brown eyes, at her mascara, uncharacteristically smeared. She felt so frail in his arms, almost ethereal.

  He remembered Erika’s warning. Time to cut the cord…or tie it up tight.

  He thought about it, dealing with the possibility that Beth was looking for more than he could give her.

  Only, instead, something unexpected occurred.

  Right then, it wasn’t Beth’s face he saw, but another’s.

  Shining black hair juxtaposed against a porcelain complexion. Vibrant blue eyes. Freckles. Gia.

  He shut his eyes, closing off the image.

  “You hate this,” Beth said, seeing his reaction.

  He stepped away, shaken by what had just happened. He thought about that spark of static electricity when they’d touched.

  Something there…

  He focused back on Beth, feeling suddenly too sober. “We’ll get through this, Beth. As a family.”

  She bit her lip, looking embarrassed by her sudden show of emotions. She nodded. “Okay.”