Cameron Cruise - The Collector

“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?