The Collector. Cameron Cruise

choice as a life partner, someone who could reign supreme among the pseudo society of Orange County, the famed OC.

      Well, he couldn’t have been more wrong. And God, did he hate her for it.

      He picked up the martini and ceremoniously placed it in front of his teetotaler wife. “You drink it,” he said, leaning forward menacingly. “You’re going to need it, darling.”

      It was all he had to say. Almost a silent boo! Meredith jumped to her sensible Cole Haan loafers and slid the martini glass back onto the tray. She sloshed vodka over the sides of the glass the whole way to the door.

      “My wife,” he said, almost laughing out loud. How many other things had she fucked up in his life?

      He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted to the core. He needed to regroup, call Rocket, his right-hand man, and get him back on the job with Owen. David didn’t have the luxury to sit here and feel sorry for himself.

      He stood and punched the code into the remote once again. He walked back inside the vault as the door whooshed open. Maybe he’d always known Owen wasn’t cured. That it was all an act, Owen showing up from his travels abroad all repentant and asking for another chance.

      With a sigh, David braced himself over the opened drawer, staring at the tablet and necklace housed there with such loving care, realizing that he’d need to start over now that Mimi was dead. Which meant calling Sam.

      “Shit.”

      He was about to close the drawer, lock up tight and take Meredith up on that martini, when something caught his eye. The pattern of the beads circling the Eye, the central crystal…he hadn’t realized it before.

      He looked closer now, his heart stopping, just stopping.

      There, at the back of the necklace. Was a bead missing?

      He looked closer, counting quickly. He knew exactly how many beads should be circling the Eye: twelve. Only, no matter how many times he counted, he came up one short.

      Shit. Shit!

      He couldn’t catch his breath. He thought of Mimi Tran’s last prediction. All that crap about the danger of invisible things or something like that. He hadn’t paid the least attention, focused only on that slight glimmer of life she could bring to the Eye when she held it.

      Like a blind man, he patted the black velvet liner, as if indeed the missing bead had somehow become invisible. It had to still be there, safe and waiting.

      The floor seemed to drop out from under him. His knees hit the carpet as he grabbed for the open drawer to stop himself from careening face-first to the ground. His chest felt tight and hard and heavy, like cement. He thought he might be having a heart attack.

      That which is invisible is always the most dangerous.

      Those had been Mimi’s last words to him, he was almost certain of it. Like all of her prophecies, it was cryptic, something that would require careful interpretation.

      That’s what he’d paid Mimi to do. See the future. Help him in his quest to find that precious path to immortality.

      Only, Mimi was dead now and a precious piece of the Eye was missing. Soon enough, the police would come a-knocking, a deadly distraction when he needed all his concentration.

      The fact was, David Gospel didn’t fear anything as mundane as the police arriving with a search warrant.

      If only….

      5

      The precinct in Westminster wasn’t much. After the clock tower and its Tudor splendor—a tribute to the city’s English namesake—the landscape degraded into utilitarian government offices. Seven and Erika worked for the Crimes Against Persons unit.

      With a population just under ninety thousand—nearly forty percent Asian—the city averaged two murders a year. Seven and Erika were the only homicide-robbery detectives. Given the city’s budget, they didn’t have the luxury of limiting their caseload to murders like Mimi Tran’s. Homicide-robbery shared space with family protection and the gang enforcement unit, the idea being that, during major investigations, everyone came together to work as a team.

      Which didn’t usually include the mayor. Unless, of course, the case landed on the front page, with the potential of being there for a nice, long stay.

      Currently, the post of mayor was held by a woman with the unfortunate name of Ruth Condum-Cox—Dr. Ruth (with a nice long roll of the R, just like the sex therapist and talk-show personality), but only when she wasn’t around to hear that quaint little sobriquet.

      Seven had often thought that if your name was Condum, you should probably have the presence of mind to steer clear of a man named Cox. But not Dr. Ruth. She’d taken it to the next level and hyphenated.

      But then what did he know? Memorable name like that? It might just work on a campaign poster.

      Ruth Condum-Cox had a face that said she should lay off the plastic surgery. Hard to tell her real age, but she was simulating her late fifties pretty well. She’d made her money in real estate and favored power suits. She’d run on a tough-on-crime platform, giving her more than a few friends on the force, including the chief of police. Chief Flagler now hovered over Seven, acting like the Tran case was one hot potato he wanted served on someone else’s plate.

      “The last thing we need is to let a case like this put Westminster on the map,” Condum-Cox said, jabbing her finger at the newspaper. “Look what Scott Petersen did to Modesto, for Christ’s sake. Not to mention Michael Jackson and that fiasco. Jesus, the overtime alone will kill us.”

      Seven looked over at Erika. Day two into the Tran investigation and they were already getting heat from the brass to wrap things up?

      “Mimi Tran had no gang affiliations that we know of.”

      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