by Lotta Smith
He led us inside the second victim’s residence. It was a gorgeous, four-bedroom property with marble flooring and modern designer furniture. The interior décor was mostly finished with soft gold and different shades of blues. With numerous pieces of contemporary art embellishing each room, the place looked more like a gallery than a residence. If only somebody removed cheap-looking junks scattering the collection, the condo might have looked like a small museum. Maybe she had intended to mix and match, but it didn’t seem to be working nicely.
She appeared to be into warm colors. Most of her collection was in either red, pink, or a mixture of those colors. One of her red paintings of the sunset caught my eyes. Obviously, it was one of the junks, but it looked much cheaper and poorly composed, even by junk standards.
On the mantelpiece, there was a photograph of Alice Sinclair smiling with a handsome man in his early forties. They were standing on the pier at Hilton Hawaiian Village. The vast blue ocean spread behind them, with Diamond Head in the far back. Alice looked happy, carefree, and radiant.
That made her premature death seem even more painful and tragic, but at the same time, learning that she had her happy moments had a somewhat soothing effect, but you can never estimate, much less understand, a total stranger’s life just by peeking at it from the outside. Then again, Alice Sinclair seemed to have lived in a posh apartment without much inconvenience, and she was surrounded by artwork she liked.
I recalled the no-frills, minimalist rental apartment where Leonie Ganong, the Eyeball Snatcher’s first victim, had lived and the cute dollhouse of Dr. Julia Stewart’s. Compared to them, the grandeur of this upscale condo was something exceptional. The bathroom alone seemed to be able to accommodate Leonie Ganong’s entire apartment.
They lived entirely different lives in entirely different settings. Their personal, financial, and professional lives were not even remotely related. Then again, all of them ended up dead, having their eyeballs taken from their bodies while they were still alive. So perhaps differences in their lifestyles meant little or nothing.
Looking around the living room, Archangel said, “I suppose she had a regular cleaning service, but the cleaner hasn’t come here for a while. What’s the explanation for that?”
As he mentioned, the place was kept exquisitely clean and spotless, just like his place following his cleaner’s visit every Tuesday. It was obvious that Alice Sinclair had a cleaning service on a regular basis. The only thing indicating this room has been left untouched was scattered petals of dead flowers in a Baccarat vase placed in the center of the low table.
“The cleaner took two weeks off in order to attend her sister’s wedding in El Salvador,” replied Henderson. “This condo has a number of staff, such as the doorman and concierge people, but none of them thought twice about her absence, because as a travel writer, she often traveled for long periods of time. Those factors contributed to the delayed timespan to identify the victim. Everyone, including her immediate family, had assumed she was traveling somewhere exotic or luxurious. In addition, she had already completed and submitted columns and articles for the next three months, so there were no editors or publishers giving her calls, desperate to catch her.”
“How was the split from her ex?” Archangel inquired.
“According to her family and the ex-hubby, it was an amicable divorce. Indeed, the person smiling with her in the photo is our guy.” Henderson indicated the photo from Hawaii. “He was in Singapore at the time of her death, and her body was abandoned in a forest in Maryland, making a solid alibi. I know that doesn’t exclude the possibility of ex-hubby hiring a contract killer, but he has no plausible reason to kill her. They have no kids, so no custody war or child support to pay for. And he’s not receiving Alice’s life insurance upon her death. Not to mention, generally, contract killers don’t take eyeballs out of the targets. Catches too much attention.”
“I see.” Archangel cast a glance at a red pumpkin sculpture covered with black eyeballish polka-dot patterns, a piece by Yayoi Kusama. “Considering he gave this up without a fight, I guess he wasn’t passionate about patterns that incur images of eyeballs.”
“I suppose I got your point,” said Henderson. “I talked to her divorce attorney, and she told me that the divorce was amicable, even from financial aspects. No fighting over asset division.”
“Some people don’t care for art, even when the work they detest scores big bucks,” Archangel commented. “By the way, was she engaged in some kind of religious or spiritual group that worship eyeballs?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You want to check it out,” Archangel said matter-of-factly. “Look, just about every piece of her collection features multiple round shapes. It might be just that she had a peculiar attraction to round shapes, but at the same time, eyeballs are round.”
“Will do.” Henderson nodded.
There were large bay windows that offered stunning views of Rock Creek Park. I pictured her enjoying afternoon tea, taking in the stunning vista while comfortably sitting at the Italian leather sofa set with a low glass top table.
“Do you see anything in common between her and the other victims so far?” asked Henderson, rather desperately.
“Other than all of them are women of average build with dark hair and relatively big, dark eyes, ages around thirty, and having their eyeballs poked out while alive?” said Archangel.
“Yes. Other things.”
“That’s hard to tell.” Archangel frowned.
“So, the killer’s randomly picking victims who share this physical profile?”
“It seems random to us, but the killer should have his or her own reason and/or method for choosing the victims. It’s not yet clear what this killer does to the eyeballs, though. Anyway, there should be something that links all three women, something we haven’t recognized yet.”
“All right. Personally, I have no fucking idea what those women had in common.” Henderson cursed, shaking his head. “Leonie Ganong was a single, sexy dancer who lived in Maryland, working hard and seeing multiple men for cash. Julia Stewart was a doctor and a pregnant wife in suburban Virginia, and Alice Sinclair was a DC based rich divorcee with a glamorous job.”
“Yeah, but they had something in common,” said Archangel. “The problem is we’re not aware of this special something.”
Chapter 12
After a careful investigation of the place, we left while Henderson stayed with the forensic photographers and the officers.
Just outside the door, a very young girl—age around eight, dark-blonde hair in a ponytail, a little on the chubby side, and big hazel eyes that sparkled with brightness and curiosity—stood. She was leaning on the wall with crossed legs, like a mini-teenager waiting for someone while pretending not to be waiting for anyone.
“I like your shoes,” she commented.
“Thank you,” I replied, smiling. We were the only ones walking down the corridor, and I was the only woman, so I assumed she complimented my footwear. It’s a girl thing. Usually, we complement each other’s footwear, right?
“Not yours.” She shook her head, indicating to Archangel’s shoes with her hand. “I was talking about his shoes.”
“Oh…” I took a glance at Archangel’s footwear. They were red platform shoes with shiny studs embedded on the back of the heels while mine consisted of a boring pair of black chunky-heeled pumps from the comfort shoes shelves at Macy’s.
“Thanks, Fashionista.” Archangel gleamed at the kid in a pink Juicy Couture hoody, a white V-neck tee from Calvin Klein Kids, a pair of black jeans from True Religion, and a pair of black Sketchers with shiny studs on the toes.
Then she turned to me. “You know, the best statement a woman can make begins with the shoes she puts on her feet.” She added, “No offence.”
“None taken,” I said, though I did a mental eye-rolling. Telling her I was so past the ‘making a fashion statement’ phase after all those hooker shoes from my time with I
ron Dragon and the days of Manolos and Jimmy Choo shoes when I was Mrs. Estevez was easy and tempting, but I opted out. I couldn’t come up with suitable words to replace hooker, prostitute, or ho.
“For your information, my shoes are comfortable and affordable, you know,” I added, fully aware she’d take me as one of those sagging old grandmother who’s been around since the Stone Age.
“I’ll keep that in my mind for when I hit old age and start having arthritis,” she said with such earnestness that I couldn’t help but laugh.
“What’s so funny?” She furrowed her eyebrows.
“Well, in general, a girl of your age considers yourself to be immortal and age-resistant.”
“Well, the thing is, I’m not a usual child, which is a blessing and a curse.” Looking up at Archangel, she asked nervously, “Has anything happened to Alice?”
“What makes you say so?” he questioned, squatting to lower his eye level to match hers.
“First, you’re Michael Archangel, the giant, brilliant detective who wears women’s clothes and helps law enforcement. Second, that means you people do not visit her just for fun or drop in to say hi. And third, I haven’t seen her for ages, even though she’d totally promised we’d go to Sicily in June. She also told me she wouldn’t be going on the road until then. Basically, we’re a team.”
“And you are?” Archangel asked.
“My current name is Karen Zwerg Tycon Andrews, meaning I’m likely to have some minor changes with my last names when my mother splits from her current husband and remarries a new guy.” As she introduced herself, she sounded more like a fifty-year-old lady than a child. “I’m the BFF of Alice and her next door neighbor. So, what happened to her?”
Archangel crossed his arms, not saying anything.
“Oh, my God, it must be bad. Is she missing, or worse yet…?” She furrowed her eyebrows.
“I didn’t say anything,” Archangel muttered.
“Sometimes, silence and gestures are more telling than millions of words,” she retorted. “Did you know crossing your arms indicates your reluctance to communicate?”
Standing as tall as physically possible, she asked, “So how bad is the situation?”
“Have you ever heard of a saying, ‘Don’t ask a question with an answer you don’t want to know?’?”
“Come on.” She snorted. “If you think you can get away by treating me like your typical, ordinary baby girl, then you are dead wrong. Okay, so physically, I’m merely an eight-year-old child, but—”
“And legally, you’re an eight-year-old child, period. End of discussion,” Archangel interrupted her and rose up.
But she didn’t give up without putting up a fight.
“I’m in my sophomore year of high school, have an IQ of 200, and multiple pediatric psychiatry specialists have certified that I have a mind that is more mature than most adults. I can cope with most things adults conceal from ordinary kids of my age.”
“That doesn’t mean you have the same legal rights as an adult. Wait until your twenty-first birthday. Besides that, most adults are a bunch of idiots and jerks, which casts agnosticism to the hypothesis that you are genius.”
Turning on his heels, he took long strides. “Goodbye, Fashionista. Go home and have some cookies and milk.”
“I can’t believe you treated her like that! I’m very disappointed,” I hissed, following his back. “Can’t you be a little nicer to her? As the BFF, she deserves to know things that she’ll eventually learn from the six o’clock news.”
He replied with a snort.
“I’m not a child. I’m even going to the prom! All right,” she yelled from behind. “I’ll Tweet that Michael Archangel is a truly crappy detective! And I’ll write you’re not only a freak but a jerk too! I’m gonna trash you on every SNS, comment sections in news, and gossip sites.”
Archangel the crappy detective continued power walking.
“I’ll also write that you totally ignored someone who’s about to offer invaluable information just because she is a minor! Being a minor doesn’t mean the information he or she carries is worthless, but this supposedly top detective so doesn’t understand. Come on, he deserves to be called a narrow-minded cross-dresser rather than a badass detective!”
Archangel stopped and turned back, and I worried he would bitch-slap the little girl. With pouted lips and pink cheeks, her initial façade of a bored teenager had completely fallen away.
“Tell me about the invaluable information you know,” Archangel said. With tight jaw and bulging veins in his neck, he didn’t look happy, but his voice was calm.
“Has she been…” she started in a quivering voice, stopped for a moment, but managed to continue, “Murdered?”
“Yes,” Archangel replied through gritted teeth. “And there’s no place for misidentification of the corpse. Multiple forensic evidence has confirmed the body was hers.”
Without a word, she buried her face in her hands.
“I told you not to ask a question with an answer you don’t want to know.” Archangel extended his hand and patted her head.
“I know.” Her voice was shaky and muffled. “And I knew you two are here for that Eyeball Snatcher case investigation. I saw you, Mr. Archangel, going into that poor doctor’s house in the evening news. But I still had hope Alice was alive until I find out the truth…just like Schrödinger’s cat paradox. The cat can exist as being alive and dead all at once.”
She raised her head and tried to smile, but big, fat tears ran down her cheeks.
I handed her tissues.
“Thank you, Miss…” She quietly blew her nose.
“It’s Kelly,” I said. “You can call me Kelly.”
“Thanks, Kelly.” She sniffed.
“Unfortunately, her death is a solid fact. There’s no blurry, gray zone like she is dead and alive at the same time,” Archangel said. “I’m sorry.”
“What a shame.” She sighed, her shoulder slumping. “She was the best babysitter in this district, and she taught me French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, and Mandarin. We talked about everything including our love lives.”
“Love lives as in plural? I’m impressed.” Following her comment, Archangel arched an eyebrow.
“Hello, I’m a high school student; I have a love life. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Archangel said. “Now let’s talk about Alice’s love life.”
Chapter 13
“It was about a month ago that she met this new guy. The timing was about the same as the finalization of her divorce,” Karen told us as soon as she led us in to her parents’ kitchen. She preferred to speak in private.
Just like her neighbor’s place, the Andrews’s kitchen was kept clean and spotless, indicating they had regular housekeeping services. Karen served us each a disposable cup of milk and chocolate-coated potato crisps from Neiman Marcus.
Karen said, “She was so excited. Initially, I was happy to see her moving on. In this neighborhood, Alice is widely considered to be a happy divorcee with a handsome settlement, but things were not that simple. Not only had Anthony totally deceived her, he ran away to NYC with his new lover, who happened to be a man.”
“Ouch.” I winced. “That would have hurt.”
“Indeed. The worst part was she still loved him after everything. So when she first mentioned she is seeing this new guy, the first thing I checked with her was his sexual orientation. I wasn’t real sure if that was appropriate to do, and I’m still unsure. Maybe if I’d behaved like I wasn’t really interested, she might have gotten more talkative.”
Then she asked me with a serious face. “By the way, Kelly, have you had similar experiences?”
“Well…” I was a little taken aback with her sudden interest in my personal life, but decided to go with the truth. “Not exactly the same, but my ex ran away with a Brazilian dancer and deceived me big time.”
“Oh.” Karen sucked in air. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked it. Sometim
es I tend to get too nosy. My bad, I apologize.”
“It’s okay.” I managed to smile. I half expected Archangel to make some remark to rub salt into the injury, but he was busy savoring his snack. “Actually, it wasn’t my first experience of a man running away with other woman. When I was little, my biological father ran away with a burlesque dancer in Las Vegas.”
“I’ve had a similar experience, except mine went to Miami to become a burlesque dancer.” Karen nodded sympathetically. “Let’s get back to Alice’s new beau. When I asked her about his sexuality, she said she hadn’t yet checked that out, but felt something very spiritual with him. That’s when I saw the red flag. You know, back in the old era, followers of the Manson family thought Charles Manson was spiritual, right?”
“Good point. Besides that quote by Alice, were there any other things that you found disturbing about this man?” Archangel interjected.
“Her taste in artwork had changed.” Karen fumed. “Did you see the sorry excuse of garbage that insists on being called art in her room? I know sometimes, things bought at weekend arts-and-crafts fairs score very big later, with some of those creators attaining success, and some purchases initially regarded as mediocre turn out to be a missing Renoir or some kind of a masterpiece. But come on, those were nothing more than just pieces of crap. And I say they’re crap as in capital C-R-A-P.”
“Okay, so she started buying those worthless items after meeting that guy?” Archangel raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“Yes. It’s fine when she buys pieces of cheapo crap just for fun, but seeing very valuable pieces like small but authentic Picasso sketches and Mucha lithographs disappearing one by one whenever she got a new worthless thingie, it’s a completely different story. Maybe it was none of my business, but I was disturbed. I can’t help it when I see injustice.”
