The Collector

This scintillating piece of good cheer was provided by Detective Harold Pham, a new face to the family protection unit. Pham was half American, half Vietnamese, and liked playing Johnny on the spot. Given the audience, he wasn’t likely to miss his shot.

Condum-Cox jumped on it. “We need to follow up on just that sort of thing. What else do we have?”

Seven looked at the chief, wondering how long he was going to let the game of Let’s Play Detective roll along. Since when did the mayor’s office lead an investigation?

“No weapon, no motive…nada,” Erika said, flipping through the file. “The autopsy is scheduled for later today.”

Condum-Cox frowned—or at least she made an attempt. Not much got past the Botox. “Autopsy? But I thought the cause of death was obvious. She was stabbed, right?”

“Multiple times. But we still need the medical examiner to confirm she bled out,” the chief said.

Condum-Cox nodded. Suddenly, she stiffened. She turned a wide-eyed stare on Seven, as if just realizing something.

“Detective Bushard, your brother was recently convicted of murder.”

It wasn’t a question.

Seven felt himself flush. “He pled guilty to second degree, yes, your honor.”

Seven could see the gears turning in the mayor’s head. A lead detective with a colorful background like Seven’s wouldn’t help her cause, not if she wanted to keep the networks off their backs.

The look she gave the chief was priceless.

“Detective Bushard and Detective Cabral are our most seasoned investigators. They have a top-notch record,” the chief said, coming late to Seven’s defense.

Not to mention they were the only two detectives in homicide for the city of Westminster—with a caseload that made Seven more than once wish he could clone himself.

Of course, none of that mattered at the moment. The long hours he’d put in; the tremendous responsibility he’d shackled on like a ball and chain, costing him his marriage. Hell, what was personal happiness compared to bad publicity for the city? He could almost hear fifteen years on the force being flushed down the crapper.

“Chief, I hate to interrupt, but—” Erika tapped her watch “—Detective Bushard and I have an interview with a vital witness for the Tran murder.” She glanced anxiously at Seven. “No promises, but this could be the break we need.”

Suddenly, all worries of a 60 Minutes segment vanished from the mayor’s porcelain face. “Well, goodness gracious.” Condum-Cox attempted a smile. “Proceed, of course.”

Seven grabbed his jacket, following Erika’s lead. “This might take a while.”

“Not a problem,” the mayor said. She waved them off, turning to the chief and the crestfallen Pham, who would be staying behind.

Outside, the sun felt warm on Seven’s face. “So,” he asked Erika, knowing full well she’d just bailed his ass. “What’s our hot date?”

She pulled on her Christian Dior sunglasses. They weren’t even fakes. She said spending money on shit like that made her feel rich.

“Starbucks.” Looking more like a starlet than a homicide detective, she headed for the car, a tan Crown Victoria. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a latte.”

Erika ordered a vanilla latte—nonfat, decaf, sugar-free.

“What’s the point?” Seven asked, grabbing his double espresso from the barista.

“A girl’s gotta watch her figure.”

“Right,” he said, holding the door open so that they could sit outside. “What are you, a size two?”

“Puhleeze!” She sat down at one of the cement benches. “Size four. That size two shit is for anorexic models with boob jobs.” She leaned forward, showing a hint of cleavage exposed by her button-down shirt beneath her jacket.

She cocked a single brow and lowered her voice to theatrical huskiness. “These babies are real.”

“No kidding?” He held back a smile, trying not to give her the satisfaction of cracking up.

She winked. “I figured you’d know the difference, cowboy.”

This time he did laugh. Ricky had been a plastic surgeon in Newport Beach before the AMA suspended his license. He’d had stories. The fact was, a boob job here was about as ubiquitous as a Lexus or a Mercedes on the 405 Freeway.

Seven took a sip of his espresso. “What’s going to happen when there’s no secret-weapon witness that we conveniently had to interview? Urgently? The chief is going to chew your ass.”

She rolled her eyes. “Give the man some credit. The chief knows what’s up. Dr. Rrrruth—” she rolled the German R “—may pull the strings, but that doesn’t mean the chief has to like it.”

Seven shook a finger at her. “You know, for someone who rocketed up the ranks by strategic ass-kissing, you sure don’t know what’s good for your career.”

“The key is strategic. I’m no Pham.” She wrapped her hands around the latte. “The sad fact is, he’d actually be a good cop if he wasn’t so busy climbing over bodies to score points.”

Seven took a minute, focused on the espresso, waiting for the levity to dissipate. Eventually, he told her, “I wish you hadn’t put it on the line like that with the mayor.”

Again, she gave a roll of her eyes. Erika had an arsenal of facial expressions, like a sexy raised brow or a killer smile. “But I did, so let’s forget it, okay? Now, help me come up with something the chief will like.”

He’d been thinking about the case all night, unable to get that image of Mimi Tran out of his head. He and Erika had been going over their notes from the witness interviews, the mother and daughter who had found the body, as well as neighbors. That’s when, like some celebrity evading her paparazzi, the mayor had made her entrance, the chief in tow.

“It’s a blank slate right now,” Seven said.

“Yeah?”

Erika grabbed a notebook from her purse, one of those mailbag types that could carry the kitchen sink if she needed. He’d seen smaller suitcases.

“Blank slate,” she said, slapping down a pen on the notebook for good measure. “At your service.”

He shook his head and picked up the pen. That was the problem with him and Erika: their curious meeting of the minds. They were a good fit.

He gave her a hard stare. “I wasn’t kidding. I don’t want you going down with the ship, okay?”

Which was exactly what would happen. He wasn’t fooling anyone. Since Ricky hit the six o’clock news, Seven’s own life had gone upside down. And he wasn’t near getting his act together. Now, murder and the mayor had landed on his doorstep for good measure.

“I said forget it. Now here—” she placed a dot at the center of the page and wrote “Tran” over it like a label “—is our murder victim.”

She drew several lines radiating outward and labeled the first one “occupation—psychic.”

“We start with Mimi Tran’s client list.” She drew several more lines radiating from there, each presumably representing possible clients and suspects. “We have her laptop and her PDA.”

“There was also a desk calendar back at the crime scene.”

“Exactomundo.” Erika tapped the page. “So we find out who saw her last and why.”