The Collector Page 8

  Apparently, Mimi Tran had had a light lunch before dying.

  “Jellyfish,” Alice said, holding up a rubbery string with the tweezers.

  “Not the sort of thing you keep in the fridge from the local deli?” Seven asked.

  “I’m guessing not this time,” Alice said, pulling up a small, brown lump with her magic tweezers. “Escargot.”

  “Jellyfish and snails?” Erika made a face. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “This from a woman who has no doubt tickled her palate with the likes of calves’ brains and cow tongue?” Alice asked, making Seven wonder how many stomach contents from the local taqueria Alice had examined.

  “Calves’ brains.” Erika stuck out her tongue in disgust. “Mi abuelita made me eat them. But now tongue isn’t half-bad when it’s prepared right.”

  “Well, the Vietnamese love their French food,” Alice said. “You’d be surprised how many Vietnamese view the hundred-year French occupation with fondness. Go to any expensive Little Saigon restaurant or club and you’re going to hear French music or see pictures of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe hanging on the walls. Ever been to La Veranda?”

  Seven had heard of the place. It had the reputation of being one of the best restaurants in Little Saigon. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Marble pillars, sparkling fountains…looks like a plantation right out of the colonial past. They serve escargot and frog legs right alongside pickled daikon, nuoc mam and rice paper. But I think what the victim ate was less traditionally prepared, a more innovative kind of fusion.”

  “Who knew you were such a foodie, Alice?”

  “Everette and I have been members of the same gourmet club for years.”

  Seven tried to imagine. Maybe if you studied enough stomach contents, food became a hobby.

  “Three hours after eating, ninety-five percent of your stomach contents will end up in the small intestine,” Alice continued. “The process stops at the time of death. Given what I’m seeing here—” she nodded toward the plastic container “—I’d say a power lunch at some chi-chi restaurant just before she died. I’d look for something high-end. That was a real nice St. John she had on.”

  “Ah, come on, Alice,” Erika said. “We know you have a closetful of those. Isn’t Everette an anesthesiologist?”

  “With three kids to put through college,” Alice reminded her. Then, looking thoughtful, she added, “The victim was a psychic?”

  “Well-known, from what people in the area say,” Seven stated.

  Alice nodded. “Not that it’s relevant to the cause of death, but I found some unique cell damage in the prefrontal cortex of her brain.”

  “You want to dumb that down for my partner, Alice?” Erika said, managing to keep a straight face.

  “The prefrontal cortex, that’s the area just behind your forehead. It has the ability to control activity in other parts of the brain. Think of it as a kind of volume-control switch. When I examined the victim’s brain, I saw significant atrophy in the prefrontal cortex. The tissue samples I looked at under the microscope showed axonal damage.”

  “English, Alice,” Erika reminded her. “English.”

  “Cell damage, necrosis. The victim’s brain had an old injury.”

  Seven frowned. “Not that I believe in this stuff, but are you saying she was damaged goods? That she couldn’t have psychic ability because her brain was messed up?”

  Alice shook her head. “Quite the opposite. I’m saying our victim might have thought she was psychic because of the damage to her brain. There are studies that show religious beliefs reside in the temporal lobes, the part of the brain near your ears. When a temporal lobe is stimulated, the person can experience a presence associated with God or a spirit, depending on their personal beliefs. Some researchers in the area claim that humans are programmed for spiritual experiences.”

  “But in our victim, you said it was the prefrontal cortex that was damaged, not the temporal lobe,” Erika said, confused.

  “Exactly,” Alice declared, as if she’d just made her point. “The part that controls activity in the temporal lobe was damaged. It’s a leap, but I wonder, what if the injury in your victim’s brain caused the temporal lobe to become excited, giving her what she thought were psychic experiences?” When Erika and Seven stood in confused silence, Alice added, “There’s a condition called temporal lobe epilepsy. The seizures stimulate the temporal lobe.”

  “The part that experiences religion?” Seven asked.

  “Correct. During a seizure, the patient experiences smells and sees things that aren’t there—they hallucinate. She was a psychic, right? I wonder if the damage to her brain caused the temporal lobes to become excited, just like those of an epileptic. Your victim could very well believe she was having a psychic occurrence, when in fact she was having seizures.”

  Erika looked at Seven. Neither knew what to make of the new information.

  “But again, I digress,” Alice said. “You’ll be more interested in the cause of death.”

  “That seems pretty obvious,” Erika said.

  Alice smiled. Not something you saw every day, the coroner smiling.

  “So you would think—the cause of death, exsanguinations. But that’s where it gets interesting.”

  Alice leaned over the body, motioning the detectives closer. Like any good M.E., Alice didn’t have any problem with the dead.

  She lifted the torso. “Here, she was stabbed from behind. Probably while she was running away, given the angle.” She let the corpse settle back on the table, and glanced up. “We know from the defensive wounds on her hands that she tried to fight off her attacker. And the eyes, they were removed cleanly, using something very sharp. Have you found the murder weapon?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s a seven-inch blade. Very sharp. I’m thinking one of those Japanese chef’s knives.”

  “Weapon of opportunity?” Seven asked. “We’ll check the kitchen to see if anything is missing.”

  “I prefer the Santoku myself,” Alice said. “Those things are a dream for mincing and dicing.”

  Again, Seven held off a shudder, trying not to think about the coroner preparing food items. He glanced back at the Y incision, imagining Alice with a chef’s knife instead of her scalpel.

  “And here—” she pointed to the next wound, at the victim’s side “—here the knife didn’t penetrate as deeply. She managed to get away. But this one?” She pointed to the heart. “That would have been fatal.”

  “Would have?” Erika asked. “She looks pretty dead to me, Alice.”

  “Not the point. She didn’t die from her wounds.”

  Erika glanced at Seven, both remembering the words of the psychic, Gia Moon. She didn’t die the way you think.

  Again, Alice flashed that elusive smile. “Along with the damage to the brain, your victim had a heart condition. Probably undiagnosed. Happens a lot with women. She had a ninety percent occlusion to the left coronary artery, the main pump to the heart,” Alice explained. “For someone like that, if the heart starts beating faster, the blood flow is insufficient to feed the muscle. Basically, her heart stopped before she could bleed out.”

  Alice looked up at both detectives. “She had a heart attack. Given the circumstances, I’d say something scared your victim to death.”

  In the parking lot, Erika was carrying on like a hamster in distress.

  “It’s bullshit, Seven, and you know it. ‘She didn’t die the way you think,’” she said, repeating Gia Moon’s prediction. “If she didn’t do it, Gia Moon knows who did—and not because she had some woo-woo vision, like she wants us to believe. You ask me? She’s looking awfully good for the murder.”

  “You don’t think you’re jumping the gun just a little here, Erika? What do we really have on this psychic?”

  Erika crossed her arms and gave him that look—right between the eyes.

  “Of course.” She slapped her palm to her forehead as if
to say, What was I thinking? “She’s just a really good guesser. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong—”

  “And that name, Gia Moon. Come on! Sounds like a freaking X-Files episode.”

  “I admit the name is a little too cute.”

  “Cute? Did you know Gaia is one of several names used for the Earth Goddess?”

  “Okay, sure. But—”

  “Gia Moon. Earth—moon. She freaking made it up.”

  “So I have a cousin who her changed her name to Comedy, for God’s sake. Jesus, Erika. She’s a psychic. Maybe that’s what they do. Become Madam Zelda or Sunshine. She came down to the station. Why would she do that if she’s involved?” he asked. “She wants to get caught?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe she needs the attention? Or suffers from a guilty conscience? Only she tries to cover up with her hocus-pocus crap.”

  “Hocus-pocus crap?” He grabbed his partner’s wrist, showing the gold bracelet with its jet stone. “Sounds kind of harsh coming from a woman who carries an ass-your-watch-it.”

  “Azabache,” she corrected, talking about the amulet. “And it was a gift.” She twisted her hand away. “It’s just a silly superstition. This chick wants us to believe she’s in touch with the powers-that-be. That some demon killed Mimi Tran and now she’s next.”

  Erika stepped right up to him. It still surprised him how someone five foot two could look so intimidating. But Erika had it going on, the stance—the stare.

  “Are you tell me that you’re buying her story?”

  “You know how this goes down, Erika. Once you start believing you know who the perp is, that’s when the righteous work stops. You lead the evidence rather than letting the evidence lead you. So maybe I’m not ready to slap on the cuffs just yet.”

  He started toward the car, forcing her to do the same.

  Truth be told, he didn’t know what to make of Gia Moon. At first, sure, he’d chalked her up as another nutcase. It happened all the time at the station. A provocative case such as the Tran murder brought out the crazies like a full moon.

  But what his partner said was true. The stone in the bird’s mouth, the fact that she knew it changed color, the painting in the foyer. And now, the cause of death. She didn’t die like you think…It was a little close to the mark.

  Walking to the vehicle, he could still see Gia clearly in his head. He had a good memory for things like that, but this was different. He pictured her eyes, so blue in contrast to her sleek black hair. How alluring she looked in just a plain T-shirt and jeans. During the interview, she’d seemed almost resigned to the fact that no one would believe her. She was doing her duty, coming forward like a good psychic citizen…knowing all along she’d be ridiculed. He remembered how badly he’d wanted to tell her she was wrong, that no matter what, he’d give her a fair shot.

  He opened the car door and sat down on the hot passenger seat, waiting for Erika to start the engine. He just couldn’t imagine Gia involved in the bloodbath he’d seen…and maybe not for the reasons he’d given Erika.

  Because Seven had another reaction to Gia Moon. One he hoped his partner hadn’t tuned in to with her Latina sixth sense.

  He told himself he was vulnerable. Hell, the last few months, he didn’t know where his head was at—that night with Erika being a prime example of his lack of judgment.

  And that call from his ex, Laurin. The breakup of his marriage hadn’t exactly been a high point. Talking to Laurin only reminded him of past mistakes. Big ones.

  He hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t noticed the changes in Laurin. And maybe that’s why she left. He’d made her feel invisible, when another man made her feel loved.

  She’d left a note: I don’t love you anymore, Seven.

  Short and sweet.

  Maybe that’s when he’d felt the big slap across the face. That call from Laurin about her shiny new life. And here he was, stuck in a spot where time stood still, because his brother had changed the rules.

  Bad guy—good guy. Seven couldn’t tell anymore.

  “Look, the case is bizarre enough,” he told his partner as they made their way down Bolsa Avenue. “Let’s just play this one straight, okay? Cross our t’s and dot our i’s.”

  “Oh, sure. Sit around and wait for a suspect to fall into our laps? Or, God forbid, wait for someone else to die.” She kept her eyes on the road. “Come on, you haven’t thought about it? The whole serial killer scenario?”

  Like his partner, he stared straight ahead, watching Little Saigon pass in a wash of color. Red-tiled roofs, Vietnamese signs, painted shop windows in strip malls advertising supermarkets, nail salons and gift stores. A rice rocket—a Honda Civic tricked up with fancy spoiler and audio equipment—cruised past.

  A serial killer. Of course he’d thought about it. Everything about the death of Mimi Tran evoked the possibility of a twisted mind.

  “I’m betting our little Miss Moon knows more than she’s letting on,” Erika said. “Like that stuff about checking private collections and museums. She gave me an idea.”

  “Museums?” He shook his head. “I’m moving around the rabbit ears, Erika, but I’m still not getting any reception.”

  “Meaning,” she said, “we need to do a little research. You in for a drive, partner?”

  This, as she flipped on the turn signal and headed for the on-ramp for the 22 Freeway.

  He was thinking, Like I have a choice?

  He said, “Lead on, Drummer.”

  10

  In the opinion of David Gospel, there was nothing worse than an ungrateful child.

  You could put your kid in the best schools, read all the right books, make sure he had the very best of anything and everything. And still he turned rotten, like bad fruit.

  The best part? It was all Daddy’s fault. You hit him, you didn’t hit him. Too lenient, too strict. You didn’t spend enough time with little Johnny or maybe you were too controlling. Poor Johnny was overscheduled.

  You criticize any tiny thing he does—a story he wrote, or a stick-figure drawing—and you’re accused of ruining the poor little shit’s self-esteem.

  Whatever happened to resilience? Sure, David came from money, but his father had made damn sure his kids couldn’t touch a dime until they earned their own fortune. And Jesus, the crap the old man said to him? Nothing was ever good enough, right?

  That’s how you motivate a man. You let him know he needs to do better. Be better. You push.

  You didn’t get more if you didn’t ask for it.

  The day Owen was born, David started his grand plan. His boy—his firstborn son—was going to have a leg up on the poor muttons of this world. Sure as hell, he’d be better off than his father. That’s the way it was supposed to go. Each generation helped the next achieve greater success. That’s how you built a dynasty.

  Thousands of dollars in therapy later, they’d told him he’d raised a monster. There were no more therapy sessions, no more pills. Just something spoiled and depraved.

  He’d tried everything, even an exorcism, for Christ’s sake—Meredith’s idea. Owen was sick and Christ would save him.

  It had been both repulsive and beautiful, the exorcism, reminding David of the early years when he’d been active in secret societies—the reenactments in particular. When Owen was old enough, eight or nine, David had even taken him along, still maintaining hope for his ambitions for his son. There’d been a moment during the exorcism ceremony with the priest when Owen had turned to look straight at David, as if remembering their special times together.

  He could still hear the strange music of his son’s screams and the soft chorus of the priest’s murmured prayers during the exorcism. He’d watched as Owen pulled out fistfuls of hair and clawed at his eyes until he’d had to be restrained. The boy had panted for breath like a creature giving birth, and when the final crisis came, he’d arched his back at an impossbile anlge to howl at the ceiling. The sight had been
exquisite, so lovely, in fact, that for one instant, the doubts had come: That beauty, the perfection of the moment, could it be an act?

  David recalled Meredith, with tears streaming down her face, holding Owen afterward, saying her baby had been saved.

  And Owen did seem different. Enough that David had eventually bought in to Meredith’s “Jesus Saves!” theory.

  Just in case, he’d sent Owen away for missionary work. For five years, Owen helped build schoolhouses in Kenya, taught English in the Amazon jungle and traveled up and down the Ganges. He’d gone to places like Darfur, lawless places where people died of hunger in the street or were shot. Why not give the kid a little perspective? Let him see how the other half lives?

  Rocket had been his insurance. And now it was Rocket’s job to fix whatever he’d fucked up.

  David looked at Meredith seated across the room, her skinny elbows digging into the custom-made Mitchell Gold couch. Meredith had picked out each and every item in the house with an interior decorator. That queer had practically cost David his left nut, he’d been so expensive.

  Meredith didn’t believe in anything ostentatious—not anymore. She’d give every fucking penny he earned away if she could.

  But David didn’t see any reason to change just because God apparently saved his kid. He wasn’t building his kingdom in some make-believe heaven. With interests throughout Orange County, he’d made damn sure his charitable donations worked for him. Like now, with Condum-Cox. His campaign contributions to the current mayor were about to pay off, big time.

  And this house…It was one of thirty-two exclusive homes on Bay Island, right down the street from Roy Rogers and Dale Evans’s old place. Not to mention what was once the John Wayne estate. David Gospel could afford the best.

  He’d never believed that the-meek-shall-inherit-the-earth crap of his wife’s. If David believed in a god, it was himself. He had the power.

  At first, it was all about the money. Hell, why not? Money was an easy way to keep score. And he’d enjoyed the gauntlet his father had thrown down to his three sons. Be better….