The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (18 page)

The day started slow.

As soon as I left
Archangel’s office, I went to Dupont Circle to visit one art gallery after
another, on an attempt to find any information regarding Sam. Within a couple
of hours, I had widened my search to my neighborhood. Without a clue, or
rather, more information that I can handle, I ended up at Tyson’s Corner.  

Considering the
enormous collection at her home, late Alice Sinclair, the second victim of
Eyeball Snatcher, had presumably frequented those galleries. Each gallery had a
variety of artwork by Sam, Samantha, Samentha, Samuel, Samuela, Samurai, Sammy…just
to name a few. After hours of hanging around the galleries, I couldn’t come up
with any useful information that had remotely matched the description of Sam,
the secret lover of late Alice’s.

I gave out a sigh.

I was clueless
after hours of investigation. I really hated to admit, but Michael Archangel’s
comment that legwork on my part will most likely to end up a waste of time,
energy and good shoes.

At 1:45PM, I had
two options: One; buy grocery and return to the office as if it was just a long
grocery shopping trip, or Two; think of something creative to ID and catch the
killer, hopefully within minutes. Oh, there was Option Three; return to the
office, confiding in to my employer that after all, he was right and I was so
wrong, so I could enjoy today’s daily dose of snicker.

It was a tricky
situation.

After all, the
name “Sam” was pretty much worthless as a clue. Assuming it was a first name, there
are practically countless number of people with the first name “Sam” all over
the world. Not to mention that there was a possibility that “Sam” is a part of
a surname.

Oh-la-la.
I
thought. A nasty cloud of depression was beginning to hover all over my head.
Stay
positive, Kelly.
I told myself. I had to keep my-cup-is-half-full attitude
instead of grim my-cup-is-half-empty-and-it’s-drying-away one.

For starter, I
congratulated myself for keeping the ugly purple Pimp car. I might not be
Sherlock Holmes, but I’ve got my own ride to conduct my own investigation. Albeit
its gas mileage was terrible, the car was safe to drive in heavy traffic;
people tend to drive extra-carefully around my Pimp car for the fear it might
be a gangsta vehicle. Add that three-salami and Mozzarella calzone at Luciano’s
tasted just divine. I’ve got a vehicle and a calzone, what else do I need? (OK,
so I treated myself with a cannoli. I intended to skip dessert, but the Italian
pastry shot me with a charm gun from the next table, tempting me out of my
will. The cannoli temptation was simply irresistible. Just like an Italian
gigolo.)

Only thing I
needed was more information to make “Sam” work.

I thought. And I
thought a lot.

And I had
the
moment.
The moment metaphorically described with a brightly shining light bulb suddenly
appearing on your head out of nowhere.

Probably this Sam
had interacted with other victims as well as Alice Sinclair?

I thought about
other victims; Leonie Ganong and Dr. Julia Stewart. It’s possible that the
killer had interacted with them.

The moment this
thought hit on me, my mind was set. I decided to pay a visit to late Dr. Julia
Stewart’s home. She seemed to be a person who bought artwork pieces. And she was
close to her family. Probably, I could talk to her family, friends, or
neighbors and if I get lucky, they might remember something important.

I went straight to
the parking lot, got into my purple Caddy and started the car.

It was nice to
have a destination for a change.

I sped past large upscale shopping
malls, high-rise condos, mansions in prime location, small to moderate strip
malls, a large park, small to moderate parks, woods, houses, more woods and
houses.

I exited Capital
Beltway and passed by a tiny roadside Hallmark shop. Then I realized that I was
empty-handed.

Where are my
manners? I had to buy flowers.

I needed to bring flowers
as a condolences gift. That’s the protocol. I had to show my respect for the
deceased. And indeed, I truly wanted to offer my deepest condolences to her
loved ones. I was aware that nothing could revive her or fix the situation, but
I was compelled to do whatever I could do to console her family. Slowing down, I
made a mental note to find a florist.

Then my cell phone
chirped. I muttered a curse. My guess was that Michael Archangel was calling to
check on my progress, or rather lack thereof.

I pulled over to
the roadside. Caller ID said Blocked Number. Hmm, it didn’t seem like a call
from my employer.

I took the call
anyway. “Hello?”

After a couple
heartbeats of silence, I heard “Hi. Is that you, Kelly?”

“Hello?” I said
inquisitively. The voice on the other end of the line sounded like that of a
young girl’s. I wasn’t expecting a phone call from a young girl.

“Who’s there?” I
said.

“You don’t
remember me? Ouch, that hurrrts.”

“Is it a prank
call?” I said, seriously considering hanging up.

“Don’t hang up!” As
if she could feel what I was thinking, the person on the other end said rather
desperately. Then added “please?”

I sucked in air. Now
I remembered that I was familiar with her voice. Throw in Archangel’s word that
it was possible that Karen was still alive. As much as I wanted to believe that
she was still alive, I wasn’t really sure if I could cope with the cold reality
if my gut instinct turned out to be wrong.

“Who’s there?” I asked
again. It was more like a whisper than a question.

“It’s Karen.” She
said.

“Prove it,” I
said. I wasn’t 100% positive if I was truly hearing what I believed I was
hearing. I might have been hallucinating what I wanted to hear. I couldn’t
ditch the suspicion that it was a prank call from some naughty kid who had
randomly pushed the dials and somehow reached me.

She gave a
resigned sigh. “We met at my apartment. You came with Mr. Archangel regarding
this Eyeball Snatcher cases on an account that my BFF and neighbor Alice
Sinclair had fallen victim to that serial killing. Mr. Archangel had on
beautiful high heels. Your shoes were okay though a tad bit boring. Oh, and don’t
tell me you forgot that you ate Neiman Marcus Exclusive chocolate coated potato
crisps in the kitchen.”

I gulped the air. Being
one of those people who never on blog, Facebook, Twitter, or even Instagram,
there was no way that a total stranger had knowledge about my personal
activities. The tone of voice, the way she talked, it was definitely her. Add being
smartass to the list that indicated it was Karen.

“Holy fuck,” I gasped.
Then my voice raised an octave. “Pardon my French. Do you happen to be calling
from afterlife, such as heaven?”

“No. I’m not dead,
yet. How about chilling a little, Kelly?”

“Chill? Hello? That’s
asking a lot. How am I supposed to chill myself when I’m talking to someone
calling completely out of the realm of reality?”

“Kelly,” she gave out
a sigh. “Has it ever occurred to you that you may be having a real conversation
with a live person who happens to be someone who regards you as a friend?”

“So…” I gulped. “Are
you still alive?”

“Hello? I’ve been
trying to let you know that I’m alive in the past couple of minutes. Not to
mention that all parts of me are still attached to my body, including but not
limited to the eyeballs.”

I opened my mouth
to say something intelligible, only to find that words failed to come. So I shut
my mouth, and opened it again, hoping something comes out. I repeated the
procedure several times.

“Wow,” was the
best I had managed to say. Unbelievable was an understatement. “So, Karen,
where are you? What have you been doing? Are you okay? Or, are you hurt? Oh
gawd, I’ve been so worried sick about you!”

Without answering
any of my rapid-fire questions, she said. “Listen, Kelly. I need your help.”

“What can I do?”

“We need to talk.”

“So we’re talking.
Tell me everything, I’m all ears.”

“No, I mean, we
need to talk in person. Would you please come and see me?”

There was
something
über-
serious in her words.

“I will,” I said. “I’m more than happy to
see you. Where can we meet up?”

“Before talking about it, Kelly, I need you
to promise something.”

“What’s that?”

“Please promise that you’re not gonna tell
anyone that I called you or that you’ll be meeting up with me?” She said in a
form that sounded more like a question. “I still want to keep our meeting a
secret. A private meeting, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh…” I furrowed my eyebrows. “So, you
haven’t called your mom yet?”  

“No,” she said. I could see her shaking
head on the other end. “Don’t tell me that I need to call her or the police. I’m
just not ready for that. I need a moral support from you.”

“Oh my God!” I screeched, “You are
pregnant!” Assuming from the context, it was obvious that she had gone missing
at her own will, throw in her super-superior IQ and voila, I couldn’t imagine
any other reasons that drove her to take such a teenager-ish desperate measure.

“No way!” She shot back. “Kelly, I can’t
believe you said that. How old do you think I am? I’m eight, not freaking
eighteen! I haven’t even had my first sex! Believe me, if I were pregnant, I
would be filing a miracle report to Vatican rather than talking to you.”

“So, you’re not pregnant. All right, how
nice. What a relief…”

“Exactly. I’m not pregnant.” She added
rather sheepishly. “Will you come?”

“Of course, I will.” I said. “But you’ve got
lots of explaining to do.”

“I guess so,” she sighed. “I can’t believe
my stupidity.”

“Hey, don’t beat
yourself over the past. What’s happened has happened.” I said as reassuringly
as imaginary possible.

Karen’s sudden
getaway reminded me of Bart, one of my past brothers-in-law with somewhat
questionable academic performances. When he was in fifth grade, he faked his
own kidnapping to stop his dad from meeting his teacher at a pre-summer-vacation
parent-teacher conference, causing a hell of a panic and a massive manhunt
involving the police and the FBI. Later, he was found safe in a weekend house within
10 miles of our home address. He was playing Gameboy when the police discovered
him. He wanted to keep his crappy grades a secret but apparently, his tactics
didn’t work well. He ended up spending that summer in an intensive studying
camp without Gameboy or Play Station.

I continued, “Karen,
I’m glad that you called and you’re well enough to make a phone call. I can
imagine it was not easy just taking the first step by breaking silence, but you
did it anyway and I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks for kind
words. That’s nice to hear.” She tried to chuckle but it ended up more like a
gagging sound.

“We’ll meet and
then we’ll talk. Take it easy, Karen. Everything will be alright.” Though I
wasn’t all that sure how to make things alright.

“Okay. I really
hope something magical would happen.” She mattered nervously. “So, please pinky
swear that you are coming all by yourself without telling a soul.”

Yep, pinky swear. Trust
me.”

“Don’t even think
about fessing up to your boyfriend.”

“Don’t worry, I
wouldn’t tell a soul. Besides that, I don’t have a boyfriend in the first
place. Anyway, my lips are zipped and the key’s thrown away.” I zipped my lips
and threw away the imaginary key. “So, where can I meet you?”

She gave a shallow
sigh. “A little shop called
Rhapsody in Pink
. I’ll meet you there. Remember
Kelly, you’re coming here all on your own.” She gave me an address and after a pause,
she added. “Kelly, I really hope to see you soon. And remember, if you ever
break our promise and tell anyone that I called you before meeting me, I won’t
be able to meet you no more, much less talk.”

I sensed desperation
from her last words.

“What’s that
supposed to mean? Karen?”

I tried to
clarify, but the line was dead.

Reciting the address Karen had
given me over and over like the alphabet song, I made a U-turn and drove the
way back to the shop in Kendall Avenue. The destination was close. As in five
minute drive close. Good thing I was already so close to Karen.  

Anyway, things were
turning out pretty well. It looked like I was making a huge progress.

Okay, so it was more
like pure luck that I got a phone call from Karen, rather than the fruit of my
hard work. Then again, as they’ve been saying “All is well that ends well”
since Shakespeare era, finding out Karen to be alive and well was even better
than catching the killer. Now that Karen was not in danger, visiting Dr. Julia
Stewart’s family could wait.

I thought about
calling Archangel to give him an update of my latest progress. After all, his
theory that Karen should be still alive turned out to be right.

After some serious
debating with myself, I chose not to call him. Yet.

Obviously, Karen was
serious when she said that she needed to speak to me in private. I knew she’s
not a dumb kid who enjoys getting herself and others in trouble. It seemed like
there was a good reason for her demanding of privacy. I didn’t want to ruin our
mutual trust by prematurely bringing in Archangel before finding more about the
situation.

I drove three more
blocks on the broad street, turned left and drove into a residential area.

Low-rise
apartments and moderate to large houses were lined up in quiet streets, peppered
with occasional small shops and cafés. I couldn’t help wondering how Karen had
ended up here. The neighborhood didn’t seem to be bad or dangerous, but it was
far from her home.

Driving slowly, I
scanned each building for ads and/or signs of my destination. In the middle of the
third street, I found our rendezvous point.

It was on the
ground floor of a red brick three-story building. A small yet eye-catching hot
pink billboard that said
Rhapsody in Pink
in white letters was hard to
miss. Also,
Antiques, Arts & Crafts, Psychic Reading
written on the
window with glittering stickers facing the street was hard to miss as well.

The building didn’t
come with parking spots for visitors so I rolled past the store, turned left,
rolled into the corner of the street. I parked my car. Then I jogged to my
destination.

There was the OPEN
sign sticker on the glass and wrought iron door. From the outside, the shop’s
décor was shabby pop. Numerous stickers and banners were on the door and the
window facing the street, making the place somewhat mysterious.

I took a deep
breath and pushed open the door. Wrought iron bells hanging from the door
hinges of matching materials jingled as I walked in.

Inside, there was
a guy tending the shop all by himself.

“Hello, there,” he
greeted.

He was a Caucasian
in late-twenties to early-thirties. Average height and slim body. He was
wearing a light blue fleece top and a pair of khakis. He had green eyes and freckles
on pale skin, and he was kind of cute. His rose-colored lips curved into a shy
smile.

“Hello.” Anxious to
see Karen, I cast glances around the place.

“May I help you?” He
said, fumbling with cuff buttons of his fleece shirt.

“Actually, I’m supposed
to meet up with a friend here.”

“So you must be
Kelly!” His smile widened. “I know her and I was expecting you.”

“Uh…really? Wow.” I
said, a little bit baffled with the situation. “And you are?”

“I’m Alan, Alan Hamilton,”
he said, “Nice to meet you.” Smiling, he continued, “Karen just called and told
me everything. And I believe she’s coming here in five minutes or so. Have a
seat?” He gestured for a white wooden stool.

“Thanks, but I
prefer to look around the shop, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,
help yourself at home,” he nodded, went to the door and flipped the “OPEN” sign
to “CLOSED.” “Let’s make it private here. Rhapsody’s reserved just for you and
Karen.”

I ambled to a glass
showcase. “So Alan, what brought you and Karen to know each other?”

 “Actually, she
is a frequent customer here. She likes the kinds of goods I have here at this
little shop, not to mention that she likes my psychic reading as well. Such a charming
little girl, you know? So intelligent and sensitive.”

“I know. Then
again, she’s got her share of
naiveté
, disappearing and reappearing like this, scaring the wits
out of me. Seeing news and all, I couldn’t help but thinking of the worst case
scenario.” I sighed. “So Alan, you knew where she’s been staying all these
days?”

“No way! Of course not.” Hands up in the air, he winced. “I’m
a law-abiding citizen. If I knew of her whereabouts, I would have talked her
into coming out and reported to the authority. She didn’t give me details but
mentioned she was staying with a relative or something like that. When she
makes up her mind, nobody can make her change it.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “As much as I’m so relieved and happy
that she’s well and alive, I can’t help wondering what drove her to take such
an extreme action. She’s not a running-away-from-home kind of girl, you know.”

“Hmm…” tilting his head to side, he said. “Maybe that’s
because we’re seeing at only superficial aspects of her as a little girl. But
as we know, she is a mature, intelligent lady trapped in a little girl’s body.”

He had a point.

“I suppose you’re right.” I said, looking up at the shelves
full of little goods with relatively big price tags.
“Absolutely, she is…”
As I was about to continue my share of insight on humanity, my eyes got stuck on
a painting in the corner of the shop and I stopped.

“Good God…” as I approached
to the wall hanging the subject that caught my attention, I gasped.

“This one has a
character, doesn’t it?” With the tip of his fingers, Alan fondly stroked the
frame of the painting.

In my mind, I was
trying to make some intelligible reply, but words just failed to come out of my
mouth. At a complete loss for words, I was gaping at the painting like a total
idiot. Obviously, it came with something more significant than
a character
.

The first thing it
grabbed my attention was the color scheme—the whole picture was painted in a
couple shades of pink. And the touch of the picture looked similar to the ones
I’ve seen before. The motif of the picture was the sun and the sky. It was hard
to tell if the sun was rising, setting, or just floating in the sky. On top of
all that, this painting had the same signature “Sam”, just like the ones I’ve
seen lately at Alice Sinclair’s condo.

I blinked. Couldn’t
believe what my eyes were seeing.

Then I muttered, “Jesus
H…”

There was
something else that I had noticed about the painting beside from the
similarities in color and signature with the paintings I saw at Alice
Sinclair’s place.

The sun was the
main motif in the full 30 x 40 inch canvas. With a close look, I could see that
the sun was indeed composed of numerous small circular dots in strong shades of
shocking pink. Add the fact that each small dot had another circular dot in the
center painted in a different shade of pink. In addition, the sky surrounding
the sun was painted in gazillion circular dots as well. Like—some kind of fake Paul
Signac paintings. Only it came with more obsession. Whole lot of more
obsession.

I’m no expert in
art or symbolism, but I knew that all the dots in this painting represented
eyeballs.

Actually, this was
not a painting of the landscape. A painting of crazy number of eyeballs was
more like it.

Suddenly, I started
to feel sick. So sick that I was afraid my lunch would come back from my
stomach saying hello with a stinking smirk.

“This is called
Rhapsody
in Pink
,” Alan told me, still stroking the frame of the picture. “I named
this shop after this piece of art.”

“Oh…I see,” I gasped,
opening and closing my mouth, trying my best not to blurt out “
Rhapsody in
Pink
? You’ve got to be kidding me,
Obsession in Pink
sounds more
like it.”

I cleared my
throat. “By the way, Alan, do you happen to know the person who created this
piece of…art?” I have managed to say that even though it seemed more
appropriate to call that piece
crap
instead of
art
.

“Of course,” he
flashed a smile. “I personally know the artist who had created this piece of
work. So tell me, Kelly, what do you think about this painting?”

“Well, it’s
interesting.” I said. Although “disgusting” was closer to what I had in my mind,
I didn’t want to offend Alan. One of the keys to having an amicable discussion
about artwork is to avoid dissing particular art pieces or creators. So in this
case, “interesting” was the all-purpose term. In addition, I really needed to
dig as much information as possible about this painting and the creator, not to
mention I still had to meet up with Karen here.

It was apparent
that whoever has painted this picture
Rhapsody in Pink
was obsessed with
eyeballs. (I mean, what kind of a person minus obsession is capable of painting
infinite eyeballs without getting sick?)

On top of all,
eyeball-obsession fits perfect with the murderer’s profile.

“So, Alan,” I
said. “Can you tell me more about this painter …Sam? The signature says ‘Sam’,
right?”

“Right,” Alan
nodded. “His name is Sam Deuchars.”

“Wow. Can you tell
me more about him?”
His home address, for example.
“I’m completely captivated
by this piece.”

“Oh, really?” he
gave a lopsided grin.

“Yes. So, you know
where this Sam Deuchars person lives?”

“Of course I know.
He lives in Maine.”

“In Maine?” I
parroted. Isn’t Maine a bit too far from here? Think of the inconvenience
commuting from Maine to the DC vicinity just to commit brutal murders.

“I know,” he
nodded. “But he often visits this area. Also, he has a vacation home in a town
close to West Virginia border as well. A beautiful house in a deep forest.
Three-hour drive distance from here. And guess what? He’s still staying at his
vacation home. So you can visit him and say hi, you can even take a look at his
newest creations.”

“Wow, that’s a
must-go place for me, I guess,” I said, except I was not all that keen about
paying a visit to this Sam Deuchars’s place. Even if I was armed with powerful
weapons like a machine gun and lots and lots of bullets, I couldn’t face the
possibility of finding more bodies missing the eyeballs.

Alan gave out a
light chuckle. “You and Karen must be good friends, you know. A soul mate,
maybe. She said exactly the same thing when she first saw the picture.”

“Seriously?” I
said. “Speaking of Karen, isn’t she a bit late? She should have reached here
already, I guess.” Almost a half hour has passed since I have reached this
store.

“Let’s not make a
fuss, Kelly. She’s fine. It’s only that Karen sometimes operates in a way that’s
different from that of ordinary people’s.” He said.

I sensed something
weird about his remark but before I had the chance to clarify, my phone
chirped.

“Oh, it must be
Karen.” I fished the phone out of my purse, only to see the ID of incoming call
as Archangel, not Karen.

Excusing myself
from Alan, I pushed the talk button and stood up. “Hi, Mr. Archangel? How are
you?”

“Where the hell
are you? What do you think you’re doing?” Archangel demanded. “I’ve made it
crystal clear that you keep calling in with me regularly. It’s been more than
six hours since you went out.”

I walked to the
entrance/exit door. “Guess what, Mr. Archangel?” I interrupted him in his
mid-rant. “I came across a lead. No, not just a lead, make it two.”

“A lead? Come on. With
a lead or whatever, come back to the office.” Archangel commanded. “Immediately.”

Oh-oh, he was in a
perky mood. In addition, I sensed something out of ordinary in his voice. What
was that? Agitation? Maybe. Which was notable, since he tended to be so
unbiased to the level I sometimes find myself wondering if he lacks something
in feelings department; such as empathy.

“But I found Sam.”
I protested. “He’s a painter based in Maine and he has a vacation home in West
Virginia. I’m sure he’s the real Eyeball Snatcher. You should really see…”

“I said come back
to the office. Right. Now.” He interrupted in my mid-speech.

“But Mr.
Archangel,” I protested. “That doesn’t sound like a very good idea on the
account…” I didn’t get to finish my little speech.

I heard a muffled
Zzz…eeiipp…
and
that was it.

“On the account of
what?” was the last of words I heard from Michael Archangel.

Instead of
shrieking for help over the phone, I mumbled something like “eww—”

Then I collapsed
on the ground.

I guess I might
have heard Archangel yelling my name from the distance, but that might have
been a dream.

It was true that
pride is an ugly monster. Had I not been so occupied with it, I might have
noticed someone Tasing me from behind.