The Collector

Going back to the center, she drew another line. In capital letters, she wrote “BLACK ARTS.”

“The bird?” he asked.

“It wasn’t exactly a scene from a Disney movie, now was it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You ever see Snow White?” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “That queen.”

He drew his own line and wrote “Fucking Bizarre.”

She smiled. “That, too.”

“Maybe we look for someone who thinks Mimi Tran shouldn’t be dispensing doom and gloom.”

“She gives some really bad mojo to a client. They begin to think they can erase the prophecy by getting rid of Tran.”

“As good a motive as any,” he said.

Erika drew another line and put a big question mark at the end. “The bead inside the bird’s beak. It was weird. When I held it up to different light sources, incandescent or fluorescent, it changed color. Like somebody turned on a switch, blue to red. No blurry transition, like those mood rings in the seventies. And then there was this sharp white line down the center, making it look like a cat’s eye.”

“Remember the symbols on the wall?” Over her question mark he wrote “All-seeing Eye.”

Erika cocked her head. “Could be.”

Hurriedly, he drew another line radiating out from the question mark, now in the mode. “And those wooden idols on the desk, they looked old. Museum quality. Maybe the bead is some sort of artifact?” He wrote the word as he said it, in capital letters.

“Something looted from an archeological site? Maybe sold by dealers on the black market?”

“Like the Getty.”

Just recently, the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles had hit the headlines. And not in a good way. There’d been quite a brouhaha concerning the Italian government’s claim that the Getty’s newest collection of masterpieces had been looted from ancient ruins and laundered—just like drug money. Most controversial were pieces like the Morgantina Apollo. The black market made it almost impossible to ascertain the history of these important pieces because, by necessity, the laundering process destroyed evidence about the origins of the artifact.

Museums like the Getty were credited with stimulating the illegal trade in antiquities. In an unprecedented move, the Italian government had filed criminal charges against one of the curators, claiming collusion with the dealers who’d sold the museum the collection.

Seven reached for his notebook and flipped to the hand-drawn symbols he’d copied from the crime-scene walls. He turned the notebook for Erika to look at.

“So there’s eyes painted on the wall, and the bead has a cat’s eye thing going.”

“And the victim is missing her eyes. Maybe it’s not so complicated,” he said. “Putting it in her mouth like that. Drawing the image with blood on the wall. Could be a warning of some kind. She was in on this looting deal and double-crossed someone?”

“Maybe.” Erika took a sip of her latte, looking out toward the street. “Ever heard of the evil eye?”

He finished his coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trash can, making the rim shot. “The evil eye? Come on. I thought you said you didn’t believe in that stuff?”

She shrugged. “But I grew up with that stuff. From the day I was born, I didn’t go out in public without my azabache,” she said, holding up her wrist. She wore a gold bracelet from which hung a piece of jet.

Seven knew she wore the bracelet out of nostalgia. It had been a gift from her mother. Erika explained about how el mal de ojo, or the evil eye, was usually transmitted inadvertently by someone who was envious or jealous. The story would go that a mother would take her new baby into town and a childless woman would say something like, “Oh, what a pretty baby.” Next thing you know, the kid has a fever or is vomiting. An azabache, or piece of jet, protected its wearer from the evil eye.

“Look,” Erika said, dead serious, “lots of cultures believe in this stuff. But the fact is, in this case the only person who needs to believe is the perp.”

He shook his head. “I think I’ll go with what’s behind door number two.” Seven drew another line on the paper radiating out from the central dot.

He wrote Greed and underlined the word twice.

“So it’s just some sort of camouflage, the bird and the bead?” She looked at the diagram, the lines radiating out from the center, letting it sink in.

She smiled and tapped the word. “Greed. I like it.”

He glanced at his watch. “You think it’s safe to go back to the station? Take a look at what’s on the victim’s PDA?”

She stood, grabbing the notebook and her purse. “Are you kidding? Dr. Ruth is long gone. It’s lunchtime. Prime fund-raising hours. By the way, how did it go yesterday with Beth and Nick?”

He shrugged, knowing she would eventually get to that. “How does it always go? She took a Xanax and I took Nick to Taco Bell. I stayed a couple of hours, put them both to bed.”

Out in the parking lot, he opened the door to the Crown Vic and got in. He kept waiting for the lecture, knowing it was there on the tip of her tongue. But Erika just started the car.

He looked over at her profile. He could see she was trying hard not to say anything. She made no move to back out of the parking space, just let the engine run.

“I can feel the disapproval beaming back at me from across the car, Obi-Wan,” he said.

She pressed her lips together, as if maybe she’d hold back. But then she let out this sigh and turned to him. “I’m sorry, but it’s been over eight months. How long are you going to sacrifice yourself on the altar of Ricky’s sins?”

“God, you Catholics. The drama.” He stared out the window, having nothing new to add to the debate.

But Erika was a bulldog. “First, your French-Canadian self is just as Catholic as me—practicing or not—so don’t be throwing my religion in my face. Look, I know you have Nick to think about. But here’s the thing. So does Beth. That boy should be her primary concern.”

Her tone said it all. As long as he was holding Beth’s hand through the crisis, she wouldn’t step up.

Erika gripped the steering wheel, her jaw set. She looked to be bracing herself.

“Okay,” she said, plunging in. “I’m going to say it. It’s a mistake but here goes. Beth wants in your pants and she’s not stopping until she has you, ring on the finger and all.” His partner turned to look at him. “Face it, Seven. She wants to replace one brother with the other.”

“Give me a break,” he said, completely disgusted by the idea. “Her life is falling apart. Hooking up with me is about the last thing she needs right now.”

Erika shook her head. “You don’t know women, Seven.”

“Oh, so because my marriage goes south—a marriage that I was way, way too young to take on—I’m a total loser when it comes to women?”

“And don’t we sound a tad defensive? What’s the matter, partner?” she asked. “Are you worried that because you fucked up once you don’t deserve to be happy? Is that what your life is about for the next twenty years, while Ricky does time? Stick around and fix your brother’s mess?”

Before he could respond—and dammit, he wanted to—Erika’s cell interrupted. She picked up with a frown.

After a minute, she glanced over to Seven with a look of surprise. He braced himself. It took a lot to surprise Erika.

“You are not going to believe this.” She slapped the phone shut and put the car into Reverse. She pulled out of the parking space. “That was Pham. We’ve got a live one.”

Again, that radar between partners. “A witness?”

Erika peeled out. “In the flesh.”