The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

Here I was. Completely stuck with
the same old situation.

Just like
caught in one of those potholes scattered in my not-so-clear cognition.

As always,
someone’s mischief was airing on TV. Which reminded me of Eyeball Snatcher
cases.

Here was the
big question: Did I kill those women?—It was the stupidest question I’ve ever
asked myself. I should know if I killed people.

Then again, the
thoughts of brutally killed women were haunting me. Keeping me awake all day
and all night.

With what
courage and conscience left in me—if any—I had searched throughout my house and
music studio for any traces of killing those women. There was nothing. No
eyeball, no blood, not even stray hairs that I was not familiar with.

It was the
fifth time in a row that I ransacked my own place.

—What the hell
is going on?

I asked myself,
to the reflection in the mirror, who blankly looked me back without giving out an
answer.

The next thing I
knew, the bastard in the mirror had multiplied into a thousand. Each one
smirking like an idiot in fragmented pieces of metal and glass.

My fist felt
numb and warm. Blood trickled down my fingers to the floor.

Where am I
headed for?—I had no idea.

Who am I?—Has
anyone truly figured out who they are?

I chuckled at myself.

I was having a
midlife crisis.

I licked my
damaged fist.

It tasted like
salt, iron, and desperation.

One thing was
sure: I had to find Dragon Lady.

Whatever it
takes.

The trip to London went deceptively
smooth and trouble-free. Archangel’s lecture went very well. No reporter was tagging
along us, no ridiculously long queuing (including the queuing at immigration
checkpoint at Heathrow; Archangel chose to wear a men’s suit in charcoal gray
to fly across the pond, sans makeup) not even outrageously exotic food
containing things like insects, human breast milk, and sheep’s testicles was
served at restaurants. Actually, it even seemed like Archangel practically
belonged to the city. Partly because he had opted to wear men’s fashion. As if
he was in disguise or some occult alter ego had suddenly surfaced.

It was our fourth
day in London. So far, I had found out that I could take a stroll in the town
on my own without having eggs thrown at. No one seemed to remember me. Kelly
the Bitch-slash-Dragon Lady, was long gone. Ditching Blahnik shoes and
Chloé
dresses, then jumping into a
Zara dress and shoes from SALE shelves at Neiman Marcus (their SALE shelves are
the best places to buy nice things for price ranges of Macy’s) seemed to help
me blend into the crowd. Anyway, after all those years, I was officially nobody
and I liked it. Very much.

When I got an
unexpected call from Mickelson asking for Archangel to assist with a new case,
I was having the best food in London (a.k.a. breakfast) at the café of the
hotel we were staying. It was supposed to be a vacation day for me, but it
seemed like murderers didn’t care about that even in Britain.

I paid for the
unfinished breakfast, left the café, and hit the elevator up to the swimming pool
on the top floor. I knew Archangel was there on the account that he had earlier
texted me about his whereabouts.

When I walked in to
the poolside, he was in the lap pool, swimming in free style. He noticed me and
came out of the water, and I had a seriously hard time ripping my eyes off him.

I’d never regarded
Michael Archangel to be an eligible male but believe me, with broad shoulders, Herculean
chest, six-pack abs, and full of toned muscles, his body was purrrrfect. I
needed a helluva lot of restraint to keep myself from drooling. In front of me
stood Michael Archangel, wearing nothing other than black swim trunks. Mom was
right. My employer is an alpha male, at least in physical features department.
Except that I had no idea as to how she had figured out the presence of his …
equipment
.
And frankly, I didn’t want to know.  

“Hey,” he said.

For a couple of
heartbeats—maybe several of them, my mind wandered off, thinking:
Gosh, I
want to jump his bone right now…
and
Get a grip, Kelly, having a crush on
your employer is so awkward!
 It was like this moment of having an
angel and a demon sitting on each of your shoulder spatting at each other.
Words failed to come out of me. I was standing there like a total moron.

“Earth to Kelly,”
Archangel looked down at me with a look that implied he knew what I was
thinking. “Don’t tell me you’re hallucinating.” Droplets of water trickled from
a knotted bun of his long hair, down to the shoulders and further to the south.

“Hallucinating? Oh
no, it’s just…well, you know…looks like I zoned out a little. Maybe it’s just a
jet lag. Yes, it’s only a jet lag. How strange! I used to fly across all over
the world never having difficulties adjusting to local time and now I’m having
it for the first time. I mean, a jetlag. It’s been years since I’d last flown
over the pond anyway.” Thank God I was wearing a padded bra that worked
perfectly to conceal my fully erected nipples.

A slight smile
surfaced around his lips. “So what’s going on?”

I told him about
the new case and suggested that I would follow him to the crime scene. To my
astonishment, he said that it was still a holiday for me, and it was completely
up to me whether or not to tag along with him to the crime scene. So, I did
exactly what a respectable and professional personal assistant with a high
self-esteem would do. I thanked him and took a day off to visit a certain
maximum security prison, instead of following my employer to a university
hospital where he’s summoned to provide an insight to a sudden death of a
hotshot surgeon.

Of course, I didn’t
tell Archangel about my plan for the day, mainly because he didn’t ask. Also, I’d
hauled my employer (now showered, dry, clothed, and no makeup) into a taxi to
get to the crime scene before heading off for Her Majesty’s Prison in Belmarsh
myself.

After sending him
off in a black cab, I blew out a deep sigh.

Touching my still
burning cheeks, I recalled how he looked into my face when leaving. “Kelly, are
you feverish or something?” he said.

“No, I’m fine. I
guess I’m fine. Do I look like feverish?” I babbled.

“Oh yeah, your
cheeks are all flaming red. Anyway, it’s okay as far as you don’t have a slapped
cheek disease. You know how the airlines hate having passengers with contagious
diseases.”

I fanned myself
with a hand. “You know, it’s so hot today, isn’t it?”

He raised one
eyebrow. It was cold and raining. “They’ve got a nice pool, why don’t you take
a dip?”

I told him I
didn’t pack a swimsuit.

“What a shame.” Making
a tsk-tsk sound, he said. “You could really use some cooling down in the water.”

Before I could say
anything, he got into the taxi. And with a cocky grin, he said “Take your time,
enjoy the day.” And he left.

As if he knew
exactly what I was thinking.

In my mind, the
image of Archangel’s Calvin-Klein-men’s-underwear-ads worthy body was still vivid
as life. I couldn’t shake it off my retina and I still had some residual
appetite to shag him. (And I mean,
shag
as in UK meanings.)

Oh my God. I’m lusting
after my boss.
I shuddered at the thought. Could it get any worse? Fancying
Michael Archangel was wrong on every level. Mixing up your job with romantic
interests is never good. It’s asking for a trouble. Besides, the job security
set aside, I found it how-low-can-you-go-low to lust after a guy who wears
short skirts and high heels and red lipstick on a regular basis.

Seriously, I was
disturbed.

Maybe Mom was
right and I needed a new man. Maybe it was sexual deprivation that I was so
aroused with a mere sight of his barely-clothed body. Perhaps it was just
another episode of stupid hormones messing with my head.

I sighed again,
recalling the last time I had a sex. It felt like a lifetime ago. Not that I’d
had that much of it before that. The scariest part was my obsession with sexual
thoughts was so strong and haunting. I was afraid someday my promise that I was
completely
fini
with men was going to be blown away.

Really, I needed
to get a grip.

Sitting on a hard plastic bench
chair, I waited in the prison’s waiting room. Lots of butterflies, perhaps at
least a million of them, were going gung ho in my stomach. There was an old
man, young woman, a shrieking baby and a bored-looking toddler—probably some inmates’
family, in the same room. Thanks to reserving a meeting time much earlier than
the mandatory 48-hour notice, I didn’t have to spend much time in the waiting
room.

I followed after a
male security officer clad in a uniform. He was probably in his twenties and
walked briskly. He didn’t talk much, but his big back and bulky shoulder were
all screaming “an ex-soldier.”

On my way to the
meeting room, butterflies were still going tornado in my stomach. Actually, calling
the prison was a product of a pure impulse. I started wondering why I bothered
to come here. Warren had ditched me, and I knew I had to move on. But at the
same time, I had to see him behind the bars to move on. I needed a closure. And
I truly needed to stop being the dump-
ee
and grow up into a dump-
er
.

The security
officer took me to the visits room. I thanked him. With a twitch of his mouth
that remotely resembled a smile, he went out of the visits room, probably to
the waiting room in order to help other visitors.

In the room, a
large, long table and a dozen chairs that resembled exam chairs at doctor’s
office minus the wheels were lined up. The interior of the room was depressing.
Greenish gray floors, ivory ceilings and walls, and the thick plexiglass panel between
the inmates and visitors. Also, opaque screens made of mysterious material separated
the inmates’ area into cubicles.

I sat on one of the
chairs. Warren was already there, seated behind the plexiglass panel.

“Hello, sweetie.”

As soon as I took
the handset, he greeted me. He was smiling. As if it was his living room and I
was his guest. Except he had handcuffs on his wrists with a chain that led to
the ankle cuffs, and a security staff was monitoring from the far side of the
room. In addition, there were at least a hundred security cameras ready to
catch any suspicious movements.

“Hi, Warren.” I
smiled, trying to hide the nervousness and awkwardness. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain, I
guess. Though I miss a glass of nice
Romanée-Conti
now and then.”

Romanée-Conti
? Excuse me?—
I couldn’t believe he said that.

“Oh… sorry about
that.” I said. After all, he was having some inconvenience.

“Don’t be.” He
broke into a wide grin, “How have you been?” He sounded as if he genuinely
cared.

“I’m good. Thanks
for asking.”

“My lawyer told me
that now you’re in law-enforcementish field.”

“Sort of. I’m a
personal assistant to a private investigator who consults law enforcement.”

“I’m impressed.” His
grin became wider. “And I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

That’s how the
conversation started. Then we had a small talk about nothing, like current hot
celebrities and weather forecasts. It was a little disturbing that he seemed to
be happy for a man serving 300-plus years in prison. Then I asked him if he’d
ever talked to fellow inmates who killed multiple persons. “Yes,” was his
answer.  

“Have you ever met
someone who takes a particular body parts of the victims from the crime scenes?”

“You mean a
fetish? Oh yes, I have.” He nodded. “We have one chap here who’s called
foot-fetish. Rumor is that he cut off one leg each from three women he had
killed and kept the feet in his fridge. What a creep.”

“Did you have a
chance to ask him the reason for that?”

“No.” He shook his
head. “I was curious, but my fellow chaps advised me to stay away from this creep.
The last chap who asked that question to him ended up dying from a septic shock
after getting a toe bitten off. So I don’t talk to him that much, just saying
hello once in a while, and that’s about it.”

“You’re making it
up, about the part involving biting a toe off, right?”

“I wish I was.”
Warren grimaced. “But this is no joke.”

“So, did this
foot-fetish guy cut his victims’ feet in order to keep them to himself?”

“Not to mention that
he ate the feet as food. Don’t tell me you’re dating a fetish guy.”

“No I’m not.” I
shook my head.

“So it’s about
your job. You’re going after a fetish, don’t you?”

“Sort of.”

“Stay away from
this fetish.” He said, and he was shivering. “They’re crazy and disgusting. They’re
sure to give you real nightmares. And on top of all, they often end up killing
other people oh-so-brutally. I still like you very much, Kelly. I don’t want no
harm in your way.”

“Thank you.” I
said, and I meant it.

“You are welcome.”
His voice had the same confidence and authority from the old days he used to be
the King of the City. 

“Kelly, can I ask
you a favor?” He said a little sheepishly.

“I don’t know.” I replied
with a caution.

“You remember
Marquis de Basilico in Nice? You’ve got to go see him and ask for his assistance,
so that I can get the hell out of here. He owes me big time as I’ve once removed
a scandal for him.”

“Are you kidding?”
I chuckled. I thought he was joking though it didn’t come out with good natured
humor.

“What do you mean?”
He cocked his head to his right. And man, his beady eyes were dead serious.

“Excuse me,” I
said. “But Marquis de Basilico has been dead for a long time.”

Not to mention his
family had sued Warren for swindling millions in Euros from the deceased.

“Has he?” Warren
furrowed his eyebrows. I noticed that he now had frown lines that never existed
when we were together, and realized that he had spent enough time for Botox
effects to completely wear off.

“Yes, he has. We
went to his funeral.”

“Oopsie.” He
muttered sadly. “Recently, my memory’s not good.”

“I’ll communicate
with an officer about your problem.”

“Tell the psychiatrist
instead. He’s got more authority.”

“Okay. By the way,
Warren, why are you here?”

I said, and I was
a little taken aback that I dared to ask that.

I was fully aware
of the reason he was there. But the words popped out anyway. For a prisoner
with 300-plus more years to go, he seemed…laid back. I didn’t know what I was
expecting from him, but I knew laid back wasn’t something I was looking for.

Because I’ve
stupidly committed a serious crime as in a series of massive frauds—
that
was the answer I hoped to hear.

“Of course I know!”
He spat. “I was framed to spend the rest of my life here in this hellhole because
many people got jealous of me. What a bunch of losers!”

“But you swindled
billions out of the so-called investors.” I pointed out. “You were supposed to manage
their money in order to make profits and distribute it back to the investors, but
you were just spending their money buying luxurious cruisers, expensive art
pieces, and living a high-flying jet-setting life.”

“Rubbish,” he
snorted. “I was managing the money as well as possible. I’m no sorcerer and I
don’t have a magical wand. I can’t even read a crystal ball. The stock market
is a tricky thingie no one can ever predict what really happens the next. Sometimes
we win and make profits and sometimes we just lose, that’s the downside of
investment. Wanna keep your nest egg safe and nice? There’s this wonderful
system called savings account, or else, they coulda stuck to so-called
defensive
stocks such as megabanks and mega-insurance companies.”

“I get your point about
the part that your clients’ own greed had led to losing a big sum of money. Still,
thinking back what you have done and facing what you have actually committed
wouldn’t be a bad idea, I guess.”

“Honey, you’re
tiring me out. Can’t you be more sympathetic? I’m a poor old man stuck here for
the crime I’ve never committed. I’m innocent. What little you can do here is
entertaining me, rather than trying to force me into a guilt trip with your
preach.”

Without a word, I
stood up.

“Besides that, you’re
no more innocent than me. You stayed in hotels like Mandarin Oriental with me, spending
thousands of Benjamins every night. You wore Harry Winston diamonds, you were riding
the same bloody ridiculously expensive cruisers all the time with me. How come
you and my other wives get to stay outta here while I suffer? I don’t get it.
Life is so unfair.” He was panting.

I took a deep
breath. “I believe it was your advice to cooperate with the authority if
something ever happens to you, and that we were divorced when they started to
investigate you. And I still appreciate it.”

“I didn’t mean it
that way. At that time, I was paranoid and afraid of an assassination. Anyway,
it’s nice to hear from you that you still appreciate me.”

“Of course, I
appreciate you very much.” I sat down again. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother
coming all the way from America.”

“Does that mean
you still care for me?” He said sheepishly.

“I don’t know.” I caught
myself saying. According to my initial plan, I was supposed to say
“Hell no,
shame on you! Guess what? I’m sooo over you.”
But I couldn’t.

“I was just hoping
to share my guilt and remorse over your crime. I still feel terrible that I was
a part responsible for your crime, like you said, I was living an extravagant
life with you. I know I can’t change the past and I really hate that I was a
part of your spending spree, but right now, I’m trying to find ways to make
amends for my mistake. I believe that admitting to what you’ve done at least
will help you feel better.”

“I don’t get it. I
haven’t committed anything shameful and I’m telling you, my memory’s hazy. There’s
not much to recall, you know. How can I admit and feel bad about something I
don’t remember committing?” He snorted. “But it was classy of you to donate
your share of divorce settlement to charity instead of using it as some kind of
seed money.” He took a deep breath. “And I guess that’s what kept you out of
the prison unlike myself. Hell, I can’t believe they’ve overlooked that I’ve
raised massive funds for all those charities and all those craps. Life’s
unfair.”

“I know,” I said.
“I know.”

We exchanged
take-cares.

“Kelly,” Warren called
out as I stood up to leave the room. “I believe you will make positive
differences in your new life.”

I thanked him and
walked off.