Immortal Eyes (PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mystery Book 2) Page 9

  “Did you ask her what she had done with the Picasso pieces?”

  “Of course I did. But she wouldn’t tell me anything. I think she had given them to that man.” Then she added, “I know what I’m saying has no credibility on an account that it’s based only on my gut instinct; however, a lot changed when this mystery man appeared in her life.”

  “Do you know anything about her new beau? Any personal information?” Archangel suggested.

  “Unfortunately, not much.” Karen shook her head sadly. “She told me very little about him. All I know is she called him Sam. I wish I had at least asked her his full name, but she was pretty cryptic about him.”

  “Even if you asked, she might have preferred not to discuss Sam-topics with anyone,” I said to her. “When a woman decides to hide something about her significant other from her friends and family, she clams up no matter what you say. Don’t beat yourself up for that, please.”

  “Thanks for kind words, Kelly. I might be overreacting, but I knew something was fishy about Sam. You guys saw her collection, right? Now everything’s either red or pink. She used to have a fabulous collection in many beautiful colors, but now it’s ruined. Most of her masterpieces were gone shortly after meeting Sam, just because they were not pink, orange, or red.”

  “You think her change in art taste and her behavior with her collection are the result of the involvement with Sam, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it’s more like an understanding than a thought.”

  “And you believe Sam killed Alice in a very brutal manner.”

  “That’s correct. I suppose my theory fits very well with the killer’s modus operandi. I’ve read that psychopaths tend to be skilled mind readers and manipulators, completely lacking humane feelings such as remorse, sympathy, or compassion, making them monsters dangerous to society. In addition, in many cases of psycho-killings, the methods of killing have great visual impacts, just like the series of Eyeball Snatcher murders. Besides that, the color red can symbolize blood and the round things are capable of standing for eyeballs. If we consider the possibility of Sam manipulating Alice into collecting artworks that did not match her previous preference, he would be an ace suspect.”

  Listening to Karen’s explanation, I was truly amazed. Her argument was not only coherent but convincing. And from physical a standpoint, she was only a child.

  “You know what?” Archangel said. “There are two other victims aside from Alice, and so far, there’s no evidence the three of them knew each other. How do you explain the involvement of Sam with those two other women?”

  “Well,” Karen struggled for words for a moment. “So right now, I have no strong evidence to support my theory that Sam is responsible for the gruesome killing of three innocent women. However, that doesn’t prove my theory wrong. And I’m positive you’ll thank me later for giving you this info. I can almost see a ‘Thank You’ note from you.”

  “Tell me what supports your confidence of your theory?” probed Archangel.

  “A woman’s intuition.”

  Following Karen’s bold statement, Archangel opened his mouth, as if to object, but words failed to come out.

  I applauded Karen, who showed me her appreciation with a curtsey and a wide grin.

  “Excuse me? As my assistant, you’re supposed to be on my side, aren’t you?” my employer grunted.

  “Sorry, but it’s nice to see you, instead of me, coming up wordless for a change.”

  Arms crossed, he humphed. “A woman’s institution? You insist that you know the Eyeball Snatcher is this mysterious Sam whose identity is completely under the veil, not to mention we don’t even know if he really exists, just because of your woman’s intuition?” He uncrossed his arms and wiggled the fingers. With a pause for the emphasis, he said, “Get real, for crying out loud.”

  “Just because you don’t know the details about Sam right now does not necessarily mean he doesn’t exist. Just like the quote that says, ‘And yet it moves,’ by Galileo Galilei,” Karen stated defiantly. “In addition, I have a woman’s intuition; meanwhile, you don’t.”

  “I know,” Archangel spat. “Thank you very much for your reminder.”

  I rolled my eyes. Michael Archangel often drove the people around him crazy, but it never occurred the other way around, except by an eight-year-old. I was amused.

  Archangel stood. “Thanks for the snack. Forget Sam and do your school homework, okay?”

  “I already finished my homework at school. It was too easy. Actually, I’ve even helped my friends with their homework.” Karen snorted. “It’s fine even if you don’t take my information seriously. I can look for Sam myself. I’ll find a way to conduct my own investigation.”

  “No, you will not,” Archangel retorted. “As we know, whoever killed Alice is a blood-thirsty murderer. Even in the rarest case that your theory turns out to be right, the last thing you want to experience is bumping into him. That kind of event is most likely to cause serious consequences, such as your death.”

  “Compared to that dreadful summer camp where my stepfather is making a little scheme to send me off to this coming summer, getting myself killed sounds like a very good alternative.” Karen pouted.

  “All right, I got your point.” Archangel sighed. “I will communicate with the FBI about Sam and the influence he had over Alice’s changing taste in artwork. For crying out loud, leave the investigation to the professionals, okay?”

  “You need to check out the artists of her new collections. Did you see the painting of what remotely appears to be a sunset? That’s the first piece she acquired after meeting Sam; that was her favorite,” Karen added. “Sam might have painted it.”

  Archangel’s eyebrows twitched. “Let’s go and talk to Henderson,” he told me. Then he turned to Karen. “Can you come with us?”

  “Absolutely.” She grinned.

  “By the way, why did you say you have a woman’s intuition when you have a much more compelling explanation?” Archangel asked, walking.

  Karen shrugged. “I was having a woman’s intuition moment.”

  He didn’t seem to be convinced, but didn’t press it further.

  We caught Henderson as he was just coming out of room 1313. He stepped back into the room with us. Listening to Archangel’s explanation about the paintings, along with Karen’s footnotes, he made sure to proceed with further analysis in order to learn more about them and their creators.

  When things were settled, Henderson promised Karen he was going to catch whoever killed her BFF.

  After seeing Henderson and the forensic guys leaving, Karen sighed deeply.

  “I can’t believe she’s not coming back.”

  “I know.” I hugged her. She certainly needed a big hug.

  “No way, you don’t know. It’s impossible to know other people’s feelings,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “At least I can imagine, because I believe I’ve had a similar experience,” I said.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “My former husband was imprisoned for the sentence of one hundred and five years. I know he’s not dead, but at the same time, I’m positive he’s not coming back.”

  “The one who ran away with a Brazilian dancer? What has he done?” Karen’s eyes widened.

  “He committed fraud. A big one which could be described as a massive fraud in a manner of a Ponzi scheme. He swindled hundreds of billions in GBP and Euro.”

  “Gosh.” She furrowed her eyebrows. “Your dad ran away from you and your mom for another woman and your ex-husband has done the same thing and is a fraud, and…”

  She looked up at Archangel standing tall by our side and glanced at me. “No offense, Kelly, but you have rotten luck with men. No, rotten is an understatement. Doomed sounds like a more appropriate term.”

  “Thanks for your acknowledgement.”

  “Speaking of doomed, my life is as doomed as it can be.” She sighed again. “Now that Alice is not able to take
me on a journey in the Mediterranean, my summer’s screwed.”

  “Mingling with kids of your age might give you good insights for pediatric behaviors,” Archangel chimed in.

  “No way!” spat Karen. “I wouldn’t be this miserable if I’m to attend a normal camp. I agree with you in that mingling with regular kids might be fun. But trust me, spending over ten grand for a stupid six-week summer camp where yours truly has to deal with superficially well-behaved, but oh-so-mean inside, snobby kids is sacrilege! I can come up with better ways to spend that much money, like donating it to a research fund of some rare and deadly disease, running a soup kitchen for the homeless, or visiting Disney World. At the camp, they make us play tennis daily for six freaking weeks for Pete’s sake!”

  I made a sympathetic noise. I’m not a sporty person. I loathe to sweat—to the point that I won’t even wear a sweatshirt. Or sweatpants. I’ve never quite grasped the humor or meaning in jumping around like a meth-crazed baboon without a good reason. Besides that, this camp she was likely to be sent to sounded like the one I had spent a day of summer at when I was nine. Instead of building tents, kids stayed at a fancy yet boring lodge, and the counselors forced us to learn tennis.

  “Tennis is fun. I played tennis while in college,” Archangel told Karen. “I even considered becoming a pro until I heard I’d have to pee in front of the anti-doping agency’s personnel on a regular basis, sometimes more than once a month.”

  “Icky. One more reason they should display tennis rackets at the Museum of Medieval Tortures,” she muttered. “By the way, Mr. Archangel, I can’t believe you still manage to wear heels after twisting your ankle probably a million times.”

  “Okay, so I’ve had my share of sprains and strains, but luckily, my body comes with a quick repair system.” Archangel snorted. “Anyway, tennis is a good method to observe physics in a real-life manner.”

  “So is riding Splash Mountain. And there’s Epcot, which comes with great rides that let us not only observe but experience physics as well, with so much fun.” Karen made her point. “In addition, at this particular camp of horror, they make us ride horses, kayak, play basketball, hike eighty miles, and an assortment of other stupid stuff. In three days, I’m gonna be part of the living dead.”

  It sounded more and more like the same camping program where I was sent to when I was nine. Except I didn’t suffer all that much, considering I got kicked out real fast.

  “Did you tell to your mom that you don’t want to go to the camp?” I asked her.

  “Absolutely.” She nodded multiple times. “But she wouldn’t listen. Despite my thorough research about this particular program, she smiles and tells me, ‘Darling, you can’t judge a book by the cover.’ You know, I’m not a very sporty kind of a girl. Besides that, what’s wrong with being a little chubby? According to research, people with some body fat outlive oh-so-thin people in cases of critical situations, such as going through surgery to remove cancer.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your body shape.” I hugged her again. “I know some lady in Scotland who loves smart little girls like you. What do you say about making an arrangement with her?”

  Escaping from my hug, she smiled. “Thanks for your offer, but I’m an independent girl. In addition, I only have one more summer after this before I’m off to college. I need to learn to cope with difficulties on my own.”

  “Okay.” Handing my card to her, I said, “Call me anytime if you change your plan, or you need help for your summer.”

  “Thank you.” She cocked her head while scribbling her cell phone number on a piece of paper. “But I suppose the most crucial part is planting a horrible memory of sending me to the torture camp to Mom and the current stepfather. You know, I’d better prepare for the worst in case Mom stays with him for a while. Hopefully, I can come up with creative ways to be kicked out of the camp; if not, I’ll do some research about Campers from Hell on the web to help my imagination kick in.”

  “Campers from Hell?” I parroted.

  “It’s a website dedicated to kids being kicked out of camps. You can read lots of interesting episodes.”

  “Oh, really…”

  I wondered if an episode starring myself was featured in that website.

  Before I had been sent off to my first and last ever camp, I went to the mall and brought hundreds of silkworm cocoons from a mall cart. Those shiny, white cocoons looked somewhat cute, and the guy manning the cart told me I could use the cocoons for skin care. I figured they would do as nice-to-meet-you gifts. I couldn’t come up with a good way to skip camp, so making it as least miserable as possible was in my best interest. I thought handing out gifts to all the girls in the dorm would help. So I handed a dozen of them to everyone, all girls aged between seven and ten.

  On the second morning, hundreds of white, hideous, giant moths flew out of bags, including but not limited to mine. The result was a total apocalypse. The girls cried, shrieked, screamed, and ran amok in the corridor, trying to avoid touching the hideous moths. Someone started throwing whatever objects she could take hold of in an attempt to stop the menacing moths. Instantly, everyone was throwing any movable objects within reach into the air, knocking out the counselors who were trying to calm us down by screaming, “CALM DOWN!” at the top of their lungs. Someone engaged the fire alarm. Others sprinkled fire extinguisher powder all over the place, while girls screamed things like “Bomb!” and “It’s a terror attack!” This was pre-911 terror attack era.

  Pretty soon, the whole dorm resembled a post-apocalyptic world. Girls of that age could easily get oh-so-uncontrollable. Who could have guessed those little innocent-looking ovals would produce those scary, huge moths the size of an orangutan’s hands? And if I recall it right, the guy at the mall cart said they were dehydrated and non-living. It was the first time I saw people from local fire department, police department, the FBI, the CIA, and Homeland Security gathered at one place. In addition, helicopters from TV stations were swirling all over.

  “By the way…” Karen’s voice took me back to the present. She squinted, as if to see something far away, while she was silent for a moment. “Mr. Archangel, you want to be extra careful with your footings, okay?” She was looking at Archangel’s feet with a concerned frown. “You don’t wanna end up with a broken leg. So watch your step.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? One moment you’re talking about the ways to get away from the camping, and then the next moment you’re talking about my leg.”

  “Never mind, it’s nothing. Sometimes my mind wonders off topic.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been injury-free for years. Not to mention, I’ve never broken a bone in my life.” Archangel’s mouth quirked up into a half smile. “Anyway, Karen, don’t wonder yourself into the investigation. Leave it to the feds. Is that clear?”

  “Of course.” She flashed a cocky smile.

  I had seen a smile like that before.

  Diva, one of my stepsisters in my early teenage days, had a smile like that when she promised her dad—the head of orthopedics department at a prestigious medical school—she wouldn’t have sex until she was sixty. Later, she confessed she was three-months pregnant only two and a half months following the conversation.

  Chapter 14

  “Darling, you need a new man!” Mom exclaimed on the other end of the phone. From a little castle in the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland, to be specific. She said I needed a new man mainly because it was the mantra she had been telling me since the moment I had had my first divorce. She had the longest—approximately 6669.1 miles—umbilical cord in the world.

  That night following the encounter with Karen, I made a phone call to her, just in case Karen changed her mind and actually decided to visit Scotland in the summer. As a former kid who totally loathed going to summer camp, I wanted to do something to help her.

  Mom was more than happy about the prospect of having a brilliant little girl visit her, and she assured me she and Count Geoffrey Feath
eringhead, a.k.a. husband number nine and my faux-dad number eight, were so looking forward to having a young and bright visitor from the new world. Yes, she actually said the words “new world.”

  I thanked her for their generosity, and that was when she blurted out the above comment about yours truly needing a new man.

  I had no lucid memory of the biological father, except for the long blond hair beautifully blowing in the wind. Presumably, the owner of the blond hair was the woman with whom he had bolted to Las Vegas. According to Mom, my biological father, a struggling actor whom she had met in Hollywood, had run away with a show girl. I would describe her attitude toward the husband number one as pretty much laidback. Despite having been left with a baby, she still called my biological father the “Winning Ticket,” mainly because she had won that trip to California at a local gas station lottery in Japan. I grew up in the U.S. suburbs until graduating from high school. Thanks to having an exotic and tricky surname, I got picked on a lot while in school.

  “You truly, absolutely need a new man,” she emphasized.

  “Excuse me, Mom, but rescuing a young girl from a summer camp she doesn’t want to go to has nothing to do with my love life, you know.” And just like every time, I added, “I don’t need a new man. Thank you very much.”

  “Yes, you do, Kelly. What if your child wants to go camping? You can’t possibly ruin your kid’s summer just because of your lifetime ban from camping. That’s exactly where a new surname with a new man comes very handy. Especially when a surname like Kinki is hard to forget.”

  “We should have changed our surname into one of your ex-husband’s,” I pointed out. “Besides that, I didn’t want to go to that camp in the first place. I’ve never been the athletic-type. So that stupid tennis camp was totally out of question.”

  It was the second faux-dad’s fault. He was a former pro-athlete turned executive of a sports related company and the worst faux-dad for me. That SOB tried to remake me into a mini-athlete. Good thing Mom divorced him as soon as I came back from the broken summer camp. He’d paid the price by paying for the damage to the dormitory of the camp.