Immortal Eyes (PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mystery Book 2) Page 13

  “Hello? Remember it’s my day off?”

  He gave me a ‘get real’ look. “I can’t believe you still believe you can have a day off. Cases occur any time of any day. Your dedication is expected 24/7. In addition, being my personal assistant is not a job. It’s a privilege.”

  I sighed in resignation.

  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” he questioned.

  “Nothing,” I said. “And I’m very curious how that shrink at Belmarsh would describe your personality, assuming you were with me when I had a chat with Dr. Arlington.”

  “He’d say I’m a model case of a normal, healthy individual with streaks of exceptional intelligence and a gentle heart.”

  “So, what kind of lead is Mickelson after?” I ditched the discussion about hits personality.

  “At this moment, it’s premature to discuss the matter. Not enough information,” he said to my dismay.

  I tried to be positive. No, I mean, nonchalant, at least. But assuming from Archangel’s next words, it looked like I suck with keeping a poker face.

  “Now you look like you need some ketchup. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you.” I flooded my plate with the ketchup offered. Now it tasted much better.

  “For dinner, we’ll hit a KFC. Their chicken should taste the same all over the world,” Archangel suggested—no, it was a statement.

  “Hey, you’re the Kelly, aren’t you?” The waitress was standing by our table before I was even aware of her approaching.

  Before I could deny her words profusely, she continued. “You know what, Kelly, I really liked it when you breathed fire at the rude reporters.”

  “Oh…”

  “And guess what? I’m glad you’re now in a relationship with this hot rocker. Look at him, he’s so sexy!” She did a little finger wave to Archangel, who waved back, smiling like an angel. So unlike him.

  “N-n-n…” I choked on my lunch with ketchup. Lots of ketchup.

  With a conspiratorial smile, she whispered into my ear. “I know you’ve shagged every member of Iron Dragon and KISS. Still, this bloke here’s the hottest rocker I’ve ever seen. And I mean, atta girl!”

  Before I could respond, she held out an open sketchbook and a Sharpie to Archangel. “Hello, I saw your pictures in Kerrang! And I really, really liked your latest song ‘Insanity,’ you know. Hope you’re enjoying London. Can I have your autograph please?”

  My jaw dropped down. I had no idea how this could be happening. There were so many things that were not right on many levels.

  First off, Archangel was a private investigator, not a rocker; I knew there was some misunderstanding between her and us—I mean, not in the meaning of us “us,” but the usual kind of “us.” Not to mention, I was not in any kind of a relationship with him, at least not in the way she meant it. I’d never slept with any band member of Iron Dragon or KISS. On top of all that, the bloke I was with usually preferred wearing women’s clothes to men’s attire.

  Besides that, did I mention I hadn’t even admitted that I was “the Kelly”?

  I puckered my lips like a suffocating goldfish. There was some serious misunderstanding!

  “Of course, be my guest.” By my side, Archangel had this enigmatic but gentle smile pasted on his face that could let him pass as a Mr. Nice Guy Rocker for the uninformed public as he took the sketchbook and pen.

  To Mabel: Michael A.A., XOXO was what he scribbled.

  I mean, what did he think he was?

  A.A.? Excuse me? What was it supposed to mean? American Airlines?

  When she glanced at the sketchbook with the signature, she finally realized the bloke with long hair was not who she thought he was.

  “Oh…” Obviously, confusion and awkwardness were banging on her door. But she said, “Um, Michael, thank you very much.” Even if she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. Moreover, she was polite enough to manage to appear to be happy.

  “No problem,” Archangel said. “Cheers.”

  There were so many things that went oh-so-wrong and were full of misunderstandings. I was tempted to clarify with the two of them, but to my shock, I was smiling.

  “You see?” Archangel opened his mouth when the waitress disappeared into the pub. “I said I’m a kind, gentle-hearted guy.”

  “I know. Maybe you can try being Mr. Nice Guy more often back home.”

  “Smartass, you try being Ms. Nice Lady more often.” He stuck out his tongue.

  “Mr. Archangel, I’m impressed with your maturity,” I replied, trying my best to sound indifferent.

  Altogether, I was glad and even a bit proud of him. It had begun with a misunderstanding. Still, it was possible he had, in fact, made the waitress’s day.

  At least he had made my day somehow…

  I realized I actually loved England. After all the bitter and jaw-clenching memories, for the first time in three years, I could admit it. I’d always been in love with England. Even with the load of bad food and bad press experiences, I’d never actually hated the country.

  It was a genuine, honest feeling of mine.

  I was finally convinced that my relationship with Warren was, no, I mean, has been so over. I wouldn’t be waiting for his call anymore.

  It was a change I was aware of since day one of my divorce. A change I should have already been accustomed to.

  Slow learner? Yes, I am.

  And speaking of learning, at that moment, I had yet to learn about the persistence of British tabloids and people in general.

  “Blood on hands? No, that’s actually ketchup – Lady Dragon Returns to London” was pasted as the headline of the next morning paper, along with pictures of Archangel and me munching on ketchup-laden food. In addition, according to Henderson, this vague headline was featured on a TV show hosted by a British comedian back home.

  This indicated the world was a peaceful and perfect place if all the “news” they could come up with consisted of ordinary Americans getting themselves featured in foreign media.

  This was nothing but a minor nuisance I could shake off and move on from.

  At that time, it seemed that way.

  Chapter 20

  One thing I’m sure about with every serial killers with notorieties is this: I despise of them.

  Whatever motives they had, they’re nothing but a bunch of lowlife scum. And I meant all of them.

  Not just because of what they’d committed. Killing several to tens of innocent people is trivial, considering the thousands of so-called innocent people who died in war-stricken areas all over the world.

  I am aware that killing Homo sapiens was generally regarded as a serious offence.

  And they took more offence in serial murders—topping them with severed body parts and dismemberment. That was sure to engross and enrage everybody.

  Surely, they’d try to catch the killer. Stop the killing. Bring justice.

  And all that shit.

  What was most disgusting with notorious serial killers was their stupidity of getting caught. Which meant they were all idiots. Smart criminals didn’t get caught. Brilliant criminals were simply awesome. They did whatever they wanted and the people weren’t even aware of crimes taking place.

  So they caught and executed Ted Bundy.

  Why?

  Because our Ted was oh-so-dumb.

  Failure to pull over for a routine traffic stop? Come on! That was the stupidest reason to be arrested after killing dozens of women.

  I had no intention of following the path of the predecessors.

  I wouldn’t be caught. I knew I wouldn’t get caught.

  I generally didn’t commit other offences.

  I didn’t steal. I didn’t resort to violence over minor conflicts. I was an ordinary member of the community. You had to spare violence for special occasions.

  I had no interest in animal cruelty.

  In my opinion, animal cruelty was for losers who were not able to catch their prey of choice. Or, who couldn’t make up t
heir minds.

  What was the point of torturing and killing innocent, defenseless animals when you could kill humans?

  Ridiculous, huh? Hell, the world was full of crap.

  Practice with irrelevant killing, letting the community know about your little pastime, and get your ass hauled behind bars.

  Then you’d end up with a situation where you had no choice but to give up. Or capital G-I-V-E-U-P.

  That was the saddest scenario—no, the worst-case scenario.

  As for myself, I was confident.

  Local police forces in multiple states were totally at a loss. So was the FBI.

  So I was relaxed.

  Maybe way too calm for my own good… and hers.

  She came into my world all of a sudden. It seemed as if she appeared out of nowhere.

  “Hello.” She smiled.

  For her age, she sounded extraordinarily mature.

  We exchanged some pleasantries, which was fine with me.

  Then she started asking me disturbing questions…

  Like, where were you on this particular night/day? The dates she’d mentioned matched exactly when I did something unanswerable.

  Besides that, she started taking about her “friends.” Who happened to be my “friends” as well. Only those friends were not breathing anymore. Then she dropped the name “Sam.”

  My heart started pounding.

  I knew it was not quite right.

  I didn’t believe in unnecessary violence.

  However, there wasn’t much I could do besides resorting to it.

  That was the only way I could silence her.

  Giving it up was by no means my option.

  Everything had just begun.

  I had a super important project to accomplish.

  Chapter 21

  KALORAMA GIRL GOES MISSING, FBI JOINS SEARCH

  Kalorama Triangle, Washington DC— The FBI has joined the search for the missing girl last seen leaving her residence to “take a stroll” two days ago.

  FBI agents were seen Tuesday night conducting an extensive search in the neighborhood surrounding a condo in Kalorama Triangle where Karen Andrews, eight years old, lives.

  Karen was last seen leaving the condo complex at around 11:00 a.m., Saturday. Police dogs searching for the girl lost scent of her on the way leading to several bus stops and two metro stations.

  She was reported as telling several staff at her condo that she was going to take a stroll because it was such a sunny, beautiful, lovely Saturday.

  Karen, an all-time honor student in her sophomore year at a local public high school, is described as friendly, outgoing, impeccably intelligent, and responsible. She often visited museums and libraries by herself.

  Also, she often visits prestigious universities across the country following invitations from them.

  There is currently no person of interest in the case, and police are still treating it as a missing person.

  Family and friends say it is unlikely that Karen ran away. Her Twitter and Instagram accounts also have not been used since Saturday, leading authorities to believe she did not plan her disappearance.

  She lives with her mother and stepfather. Police have questioned her father and former stepfathers about her whereabouts, but none of them had recent contact with her.

  It is also reported that she was best friends with Alice Sinclair, a neighbor who had fallen victim to the serial murderer the ‘Eyeball Snatcher.’ Police say they are interviewing faculty and friends at school for any clues into her whereabouts.

  According to the FBI, it is premature to determine if Karen’s disappearance is related to the serial murders.

  Karen Andrews is described as four-feet tall with blonde hair. She was last seen wearing a green Juicy brand hoodie, pink T-shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of Sketchers. She was carrying a black and hot pink Hello Kitty purse.

  Anyone with information on the child’s whereabouts is being urged to call the Metropolitan Police or the FBI.

  *

  I sighed.

  When we returned from London, the status of Karen was MIA for days. I had a stomach-churning feeling that her disappearance had something to do with the serial murder. And in the middle of this catastrophe, what Michael Archangel was working on was billiards.

  “Will you stop exhaling like an old vacuum cleaner about to blow up? I can’t concentrate with that kind of noise,” Archangel complained, squinting his heavily lined eyes at colorful balls on the pool table.

  “Can’t concentrate? All you can say is you can’t concentrate while aiming at friggin’ balls with a friggin’ stick while Karen might be in friggin’ danger?” I retorted. “She’s been missing for days! Remember? She’s only a girl who happens to be just a teensy tiny bit of an early bloomer. Can you imagine how scary and lonely it is for an eight-year-old to be stranded away from home, school, friends, and her beloved family to a complete unknown world? Maybe she’s hungry. Maybe she’s crying her eyes out. Maybe she’s…”

  I stopped. I couldn’t continue my little speech. I didn’t have the heart to say she might be dead. A mere thought of the worst-case scenario scared the bejeezus out of me.

  “Chill,” he said coolly. “Karen is a smart kid, maybe a bit too smart for her own good. I don’t think she’s in danger. Oh, and why don’t you go to the bathroom and wash your potty mouth before the British tabloids get wind of your latest rant and start having a field day?”

  “Excuse me? When you’ve got an eight-year-old going MIA, it’s generally considered a helluva crisis. Has it ever occurred to you that she went to nail Eyeball Snatcher and—?”

  “I get your point, but I have some logical reasons to suspect she has disappeared on her own will. For starters, she was desperate to avoid going to the summer camp. Secondly, Karen doesn’t fit the typical victims’ profile Eyeball Snatcher has picked up so far. None of her physical features—including her age, body shape, build, hair color, eye color—go with the killer’s type. Also, the MO has gotten bloodier, violent, and more dramatized as the killer’s obtained more experience in killing.

  “Remember the latest murder of Dr. Stewart? The crime scene was gruesome, nothing short of a bloodbath. There was no attempt to hide, conceal, or cover up the violent atrocity. These factors are strong indicators that the killer’s ready to show off, and a newly killed corpse would be shown off to the public. It is broadly understood that most serial killers tend to seek more attention as the body count surges. So it’s good news that we have no news about Karen, if that makes a difference.”

  He shot the white ball with the pool stick. Colorful balls labeled with numbers 1 to 15 scattered and one by one, jumped into the pockets on the table. Only the white ball remained on the table. Okay, I was no expert of pool games. All that pool-related jargons was Greek to me.

  “Are you sure Karen’s safe?” I asked. “That’s why you’re toying with colored balls in this game room instead of seriously solving Karen’s disappearance and the serial murders in the office or the field?” It’s a free country and Archangel had a game room adjacent to the office; he has every right to play pool, except it didn’t seem right.

  “For your information, sometimes the best possible option is just to wait.”

  “Wow, news flash.” I rolled my eyes.

  For me, his reply sounded like a big groundless excuse. The more relaxed he seemed, the jitterier I became. It felt as if he didn’t seem to care about Karen’s safety because there was not much he could do to save her at that moment.

  He put the stick on the pool table and ambled into the office. I followed him.

  “In addition, there’s someone else who supports my point of view.” With a snap of his wrist, he switched on the flat screen TV with the remote and a recorded program started running. On the screen, a very old woman with a Russian accent was talking to a middle-aged woman. With teary eyes and a blotchy face, this middle-aged woman seemed hopelessly upset. She was telling the agitated woman that her bel
oved daughter was alive and safe and she should not torment herself anymore.

  “Dahling, I am sensing her vibe. Shee iiz alive, and shee iiz not hurt.”

  “It’s a psychic show,” I pointed out, “and it looks like one of the phony psychic shows.”

  “It’s a psychic show, but not the phony, crappy stuff. The old lady is Tasha the psychic, and she’s talking with Karen’s mother. Rest assured, as this old lady’s saying, Karen’s safe,” my employer said proudly.

  “Oh, my God, you’re truly insane. Give me the phone number of your psychiatrist. I’m calling the doctor.”

  “Forget it, Kelly. I’m 100 percent sane and healthy. And don’t judge people solely based on their occupation. I know more than 99 percent of so called psychics are frauds, but then again, Tasha happens to be one of the real ones.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, since, indeed, I was very unsure.

  “Yeah. There were times I collaborated with her. Okay, so at first, I thought she was just a fraud when I met her in the past,” he admitted. “It’s hard to provide logical explanations about the legitimacy of psychic skills, but everything she said turned out to be correct, and she wasn’t the one responsible for the crime. Some events do occur with no justifiable reasons.”

  I was getting jittery. Eyeball Snatcher was yet to be captured, and Karen’s whereabouts and whatever or whoever was responsible for her disappearance remained unknown. I didn’t like the current situation that an eyeball-snatching freak was walking freely while an eight-year-old girl was missing.

  “Feds and the local police are fully covering the candle gathering tonight. And we’ll be there.”

  “Okay.” I gulped and hoped I didn’t make of a noise.

  I knew Archangel wasn’t the kind of a person who attended the vigil just to be courteous and pray that Karen was safe and returned unharmed. Not that he was a heartless jerk. It was just that he was super-practical and seized the opportunity to nail the killer and close the case, but he refused to take any action otherwise. It was a mystery how a guy who went to gym on a regular basis and conducted all sorts of physical exercises could be so lazy. The world was indeed full of mysteries.