The Collector. Cameron Cruise

copied from the crime-scene walls. He turned the notebook for Erika to look at.

      “So there’s eyes painted on the wall, and the bead has a cat’s eye thing going.”

      “And the victim is missing her eyes. Maybe it’s not so complicated,” he said. “Putting it in her mouth like that. Drawing the image with blood on the wall. Could be a warning of some kind. She was in on this looting deal and double-crossed someone?”

      “Maybe.” Erika took a sip of her latte, looking out toward the street. “Ever heard of the evil eye?”

      He finished his coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trash can, making the rim shot. “The evil eye? Come on. I thought you said you didn’t believe in that stuff?”

      She shrugged. “But I grew up with that stuff. From the day I was born, I didn’t go out in public without my azabache,” she said, holding up her wrist. She wore a gold bracelet from which hung a piece of jet.

      Seven knew she wore the bracelet out of nostalgia. It had been a gift from her mother. Erika explained about how el mal de ojo, or the evil eye, was usually transmitted inadvertently by someone who was envious or jealous. The story would go that a mother would take her new baby into town and a childless woman would say something like, “Oh, what a pretty baby.” Next thing you know, the kid has a fever or is vomiting. An azabache, or piece of jet, protected its wearer from the evil eye.

      “Look,” Erika said, dead serious, “lots of cultures believe in this stuff. But the fact is, in this case the only person who needs to believe is the perp.”

      He shook his head. “I think I’ll go with what’s behind door number two.” Seven drew another line on the paper radiating out from the central dot.

      He wrote Greed and underlined the word twice.

      “So it’s just some sort of camouflage, the bird and the bead?” She looked at the diagram, the lines radiating out from the center, letting it sink in.

      She smiled and tapped the word. “Greed. I like it.”

      He glanced at his watch. “You think it’s safe to go back to the station? Take a look at what’s on the victim’s PDA?”

      She stood, grabbing the notebook and her purse. “Are you kidding? Dr. Ruth is long gone. It’s lunchtime. Prime fund-raising hours. By the way, how did it go yesterday with Beth and Nick?”

      He shrugged, knowing she would eventually get to that. “How does it always go? She took a Xanax and I took Nick to Taco Bell. I stayed a couple of hours, put them both to bed.”

      Out in the parking lot, he opened the door to the Crown Vic and got in. He kept waiting for the lecture, knowing it was there on the tip of her tongue. But Erika just started the car.

      He looked over at her profile. He could see she was trying hard not to say anything. She made no move to back out of the parking space, just let the engine run.

      “I can feel the disapproval beaming back at me from across the car, Obi-Wan,” he said.

      She pressed her lips together, as if maybe she’d hold back. But then she let out this sigh and turned to him. “I’m sorry, but it’s been over eight months. How long are you going to sacrifice yourself on the altar of Ricky’s sins?”

      “God, you Catholics. The drama.” He stared out the window, having nothing new to add to the debate.

      But Erika was a bulldog. “First, your French-Canadian self is just as Catholic as me—practicing or not—so don’t be throwing my religion in my face. Look, I know you have Nick to think about. But here’s the thing. So does Beth. That boy should be her primary concern.”

      Her tone said it all. As long as he was holding Beth’s hand through the crisis, she wouldn’t step up.

      Erika gripped the steering wheel, her jaw set. She looked to be bracing herself.

      “Okay,” she said, plunging in. “I’m going to say it. It’s a mistake but here goes. Beth wants in your pants and she’s not stopping until she has you, ring on the finger and all.” His partner turned to look at him. “Face it, Seven. She wants to replace one brother with the other.”

      “Give me a break,” he said, completely disgusted by the idea. “Her life is falling apart. Hooking up with me is about the last thing she needs right now.”

      Erika shook her head. “You don’t know women, Seven.”

      “Oh, so because my marriage goes south—a marriage that I was way, way too young to take on—I’m a total loser when it comes to women?”

      “And don’t we sound a tad defensive? What’s the matter, partner?” she asked. “Are you worried that because you fucked up once you don’t deserve to be happy? Is that what your life is about for the next twenty years, while Ricky does time? Stick around and fix your brother’s mess?”

      Before he could respond—and dammit, he wanted to—Erika’s cell interrupted. She picked up with a frown.

      After a minute, she glanced over to Seven with a look of surprise. He braced himself. It took a lot to surprise Erika.

      “You are not going to believe this.” She slapped the phone shut and put the car into Reverse. She pulled out of the parking space. “That was Pham. We’ve got a live one.”

      Again, that radar between partners. “A witness?”

      Erika peeled out. “In the flesh.”

      6

      Most days, Paul Rocket had a kick-ass job. He’d wake up to Pink Floyd’s The Wall pulsing on the Bose sound system and do a set of push-ups right there on the cabin floor. Afterward, he’d head into the galley and blend up a protein drink. He liked Ultra Megaman. That shit put on muscle like nobody’s business.

      Rocket wasn’t into steroids. He’d seen too many guys go nuts on the stuff. Why the hell take the risk when he could get the same results with diet and exercise? Hell, he’d read just about every book printed on nutrition. Not to mention the stuff on the Internet.

      Oh, yeah, Rocket was living the life. He’d watch the sunrise on the deck of his fifty-five-foot schooner, dialed in to CNN on his laptop while powering down his drink. The sun sparkling on the water in Newport Harbor—now that was something. Imagine, Paul Rocket—ex-Special Forces, ex-mercenary—enjoying this slice of paradise. Afterward, he’d hit the gym. He had a membership at Gold’s. All courtesy of Mr. David.

      Mr. David was a great man. Travel, money…hell, anything Rocket ever wanted, he just had to ask.

      Like he said, most days, Paul Rocket had a kick-ass job.

      Today wasn’t one of those days.

      He stepped into the art gallery and looked around at the bizarre shit hanging on the walls. The black-and-white photographs showed a bunch of naked bodies twined together so that you couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended. Looked like a bunch of dudes, too. People actually paid money for this crap?

      As he crossed the open room, men and women scurried out of his way like so many rats. At six foot four and 265 pounds, Rocket was used to that. His father had been a huge Samoan asshole who’d left his mom when Rocket was only five and his younger brother still in diapers. But at least he’d passed on his gene pool. Rocket had a tattoo of a cobra on the back of his shaved head but he preferred Armani suits and Bruno Magli shoes. People didn’t expect that, a man like Rocket dressing with class.

      He looked around at all the rich boys and girls. This was the OC. To these folks, Rocket was an alien life form.

      The thing was, today Rocket wasn’t the muscle. He was the babysitter.

      He saw Owen leaning over some babe in the corner of the room. This one was skinny and blond and could barely stand despite the noon hour. Shit, was that dress made of red rubber? And there was Owen, getting an eyeful.