Immortal Eyes (PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mystery Book 2)

by Lotta Smith

  Sitting on a hard plastic bench chair, I waited in the prison’s waiting room. Lots of butterflies, perhaps at least a million of them, were going gung-ho in my stomach. There was an old man, young woman, a shrieking baby, and a bored-looking toddler—probably some inmates’ family—in the same room. Thanks to reserving a meeting time much earlier than the mandatory forty-eight-hour notice, I didn’t have to spend much time in the waiting room.

  I followed after a male security officer clad in a uniform. He was probably in his twenties and walked briskly. He didn’t talk much, but his big back and bulky shoulders were all screaming “ex-soldier.”

  On my way to the meeting room, butterflies were still spinning a tornado in my stomach. Actually, calling the prison was a product of pure impulse. I started wondering why I bothered to come here. Warren had ditched me, and I knew I had to move on. But at the same time, I had to see him behind bars to move on. I needed closure. And I truly needed to stop being the dumpee and grow into a dumper.

  The security officer took me to the visiting room, and I thanked him. With a twitch of his mouth that remotely resembled a smile, he left, probably returning to the waiting room to help other visitors.

  In the room, a large, long table and a dozen chairs that resembled exam chairs at a doctor’s office, minus the wheels, were lined up. The interior of the room was depressing, containing greenish-gray floors, ivory ceilings and walls, and the thick Plexiglas panel between the inmates and visitors. Also, opaque screens made of mysterious material separated the inmates’ area into cubicles.

  I sat on one of the chairs. Warren was already there, seated behind the Plexiglas panel.

  As soon as I took the handset, he greeted me. “Hello, sweetie.”

  He was smiling, as if this were his living room and I was his guest. Except he had handcuffs on his wrists with a chain that led to ankle cuffs, and a security staff was monitoring from the far side of the room. In addition, there were at least a hundred security cameras ready to catch any suspicious movements.

  “Hi, Warren.” I smiled, trying to hide the nervousness and awkwardness. “How are you?”

  “Can’t complain, I guess. Though I miss a glass of nice Romanée-Conti now and then.”

  Romanée-Conti? Excuse me? I couldn’t believe he said that.

  “Oh… sorry about that,” I said. After all, he was having some inconvenience.

  “Don’t be.” He broke into a wide grin. “How have you been?” He sounded as if he genuinely cared.

  “I’m good. Thanks for asking.”

  “My lawyer told me you’re now in the law-enforcement field.”

  “Sort of. I’m a personal assistant to a private investigator who consults law enforcement.”

  “I’m impressed.” His grin became wider. “And I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you.”

  That’s how the conversation started. Then we had a small talk about nothing, like current hot celebrities and weather forecasts. It was a little disturbing that he seemed to be happy for a man serving one hundred plus years in prison. Then I asked him if he’d ever talked to fellow inmates who killed multiple persons. “Yes,” was his answer.

  “Have you ever met someone who takes particular body parts of the victims from the crime scenes?”

  “You mean a fetish? Oh yes, I have. We have one chap here who’s called foot-fetish. Rumor is he cut off one leg each from three women he killed and kept the feet in his fridge. What a creep.”

  “Did you have a chance to ask him the reason for that?”

  “No, I was curious, but my fellow chaps advised me to stay away from that creep. The last chap who asked that question to him ended up dying from septic shock after getting a toe bitten off. So I don’t talk to him that much, just saying hello once in a while, and that’s about it.”

  “You’re making it up, the part involving biting a toe off, right?”

  “I wish I was.” Warren grimaced. “But this is no joke.”

  “So, did this foot-fetish guy cut his victims’ feet in order to keep them to himself?”

  “He ate the feet as food. Don’t tell me you’re dating a fetish guy.”

  “No, I’m not.” I shook my head.

  “So it’s about your job. You’re going after a fetish, aren’t you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Stay away from this fetish,” he said, shivering. “They’re crazy and disgusting. They’re sure to give you real nightmares. And on top of all that, they often end up killing other people oh-so-brutally. I still like you very much, Kelly. I don’t want any harm to come your way.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it.

  “You are welcome.” His voice had the same confidence and authority from the old days when he used to be the king of the city.

  “Kelly, can I ask you a favor?” he asked a little sheepishly.

  “I don’t know,” I replied with caution.

  “You remember Marquis de Basilico in Nice? You’ve got to go see him and ask for his assistance, so that I can get the hell out of here. He owes me big time as I’d once removed a scandal for him.”

  “Are you kidding?” I chuckled. I thought he was joking, though it didn’t come out with good-natured humor.

  “What do you mean?” He cocked his head, and man, his beady eyes were dead serious.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “But Marquis de Basilico has been dead for a long time.”

  Not to mention his family had sued Warren for swindling millions in Euros from the deceased.

  “Has he?” Warren furrowed his eyebrows. I noticed he now had frown lines that never existed when we were together, and realized he had spent enough time for Botox effects to completely wear off.

  “Yes, he has. We went to his funeral.”

  “Oopsie,” he muttered sadly. “Recently, my memory’s not good.”

  “I’ll communicate with an officer about your problem.”

  “Tell the psychiatrist instead. He’s got more authority.”

  “Okay. By the way, Warren, why are you here?” I asked, a little taken aback that I dared to.

  I was fully aware of the reason he was there. But the words popped out anyway. For a prisoner with one hundred plus more years to go, he seemed…laid back. I didn’t know what I was expecting from him, but I knew laid back wasn’t something I was looking for.

  Because I’ve stupidly committed a serious crime, as in a series of massive frauds—that was the answer I hoped to hear.

  “Of course I know!” He spat. “I was framed to spend the rest of my life here in this hellhole because many people got jealous of me. What a bunch of losers!”

  “But you swindled a total of fifty billion pounds out of the so-called investors,” I pointed out. “You were supposed to manage their money in order to make profits and distribute it back to the investors, but you were just spending their money, buying luxurious cruisers, expensive art pieces, and living a high-flying, jet-setting life.”

  “Rubbish.” He snorted. “I was managing the money as well as possible. I’m no sorcerer, and I don’t have a magical wand. I can’t even read a crystal ball. The stock market is a tricky thing, no one can ever predict what’s going to happen next. Sometimes we win and make profits, and sometimes we just lose; that’s the downside of investment. Wanna keep your nest egg safe and nice? There’s this wonderful system called a savings account, or else, they coulda stuck to so-called defensive stocks, such as megabanks and mega-insurance companies.”

  “I get your point about the part your clients’ own greed had led to losing a big sum of money. Still, thinking about what you have done and facing what you have actually committed wouldn’t be a bad idea, I guess.”

  “Honey, you’re tiring me out. Can’t you be more sympathetic? I’m a poor old man stuck here for a crime I never committed. I’m innocent. What little you can do here is entertain me, rather than trying to force me into a guilt trip with your preaching.”

  Without a word, I stood.
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br />   “Besides that, you’re no more innocent than me. You stayed in hotels like Mandarin Oriental with me, spending thousands of Benjamins every night. You wore Harry Winston diamonds, you were riding the same bloody ridiculously expensive cruisers all the time with me. How come you and my other wives get to stay outta here while I suffer? I don’t get it. Life is so unfair.” He was panting.

  I took a deep breath. “I believe it was your advice to cooperate with the authorities if something ever happens to you, and we were divorced when they started to investigate you. And I still appreciate it.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. At that time, I was paranoid and afraid of an assassination. Anyway, it’s nice to hear from you that you still appreciate me.”

  “Of course I appreciate you very much.” I sat down again. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother coming all the way from America.”

  “Does that mean you still care for me?” he asked sheepishly.

  “I don’t know,” I caught myself saying. According to my initial plan, I was supposed to say, “Hell no, shame on you! Guess what? I’m sooo over you.” But I couldn’t.

  “I was just hoping to share my guilt and remorse over your crime. I still feel terrible that I was partly responsible. Like you said, I was living an extravagant life with you. I know I can’t change the past, and I really hate that I was a part of your spending spree, but right now, I’m trying to find ways to make amends for my mistake. I believe that admitting to what you’ve done at least will help you feel better.”

  “I don’t get it. I haven’t committed anything shameful, and I’m telling you, my memory’s hazy. There’s not much to recall, you know. How can I admit and feel bad about something I don’t remember committing?” He snorted. “But it was classy of you to donate your share of the divorce settlement to charity instead of using it as some kind of seed money.” He took a deep breath. “And I guess that’s what kept you out of prison unlike myself. Hell, I can’t believe they’ve overlooked that I’ve raised massive funds for all those charities and all that crap. Life’s unfair.”

  “I know,” I said, “I know.”

  We exchanged take-cares.

  “Kelly,” Warren called out as I stood to leave. “I believe you will make positive differences in your new life.”

  I thanked him and walked off.

  Chapter 18

  As soon as I left the visiting room, the same security officer who brought me in asked me to come and meet the resident psychiatrist. I followed him to the doctor’s office. As much as the doctor wanted to speak to me, I needed to speak to that doctor. After all, I’d promised Warren to talk to the shrink.

  The psychiatrist named Dr. Ted Arlington burst out laughing when I told him about Warren’s memory loss.

  “Don’t get me wrong, ma’am, I’m not laughing at you,” he said. “But that’s what he tells every visitor, including his lawyer-slash-current-wife.”

  The young psychiatrist, who looked like one of One Direction chuckled.

  His statement about Warren lying was nothing new to me, but the part about his current wife was very new to me.

  “His current wife? If I recall right, he’s separated from Maria-Diana.” Frowning, I realized I was referring to her as a person with a name, instead of a Brazilian dancer.

  “Oh no, I meant he’s gotten married after he came here.”

  “Wh…” I lost my word.

  “You didn’t know? And Ms. Kinki, your relationship to this inmate is…?” He pronounced my surname as “kinky.”

  “I’m one of his former wives,” I told him. “And I’d appreciate it if you called me Kelly.”

  “Oh, now I remember! You’re Kelly and you used to be…” He wondered off before finishing the sentence. Then again, his enthusiasm to finish the sentence was obvious, for he suddenly had a fit of cough that barely concealed not-so-nice words he intended to utter.

  “You want to say the b-word,” I mentioned.

  “Oh no, that’s not what I was thinking.” He shook his head. “I was intending to say a fire-breather with Iron Dragon. I really liked your performance by the way. I went to the Wembley Stadium gig, you know. I loved it, simply loved it.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “By the way, did you get to talk to Dragon members?” The psychiatrist was earnest and excited.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my Gawd!” the doctor shrieked, his eyes wide open and gleaming. “So, what was Mickey Saturn like? Is he like, like, that enigmatic and cool always?”

  “Oh, Mickey the guitarist? Yes, he is enigmatic and cool. Not to mention being one of the most talented guitarists in this universe.”

  “Wow! So, how’s Nick like? Tom the drummer? And of course, Vince? Can you tell me a bit about them? No, I mean, everything about them!”

  I did a mental eye roll. Okay, he was a fan of the band. A hardcore Dragonhead, I guessed. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I sensed something was not very appropriate. Perhaps it had something to do with us being in the prison and he was supposed to be a professional psychiatrist, not an overexcited Iron Dragon fan.

  I told him, “They’re awesome. Just like you’re thinking of them.”

  “Cool,” he muttered longingly. “About your performance, I especially liked your dancing when they covered Motley Crue’s ‘Ten Seconds to Love.’”

  “Um…thanks,” I mumbled. That part he mentioned was where I did supposedly sexy dancing in fishnet stockings and lingerie with fellow female performers, playing our roles as lesbian strippers. Whether to be flattered or offended by his comment, I didn’t know.

  “Well, speaking of love,” the doctor continued, leaning in. “Did you encounter any…you know, romantic situations with any of the Dragon members?”

  Hell no, I thought. Also, I’m thinking of suing your ass for sexual harassment. But I managed to flash an enigmatic smile. “You know, Doctor, since I have signed the confidentiality clause, I really cannot talk about that topic. I’m sorry.”

  Also, I didn’t have the heart to tell him about the intimate six hours that Nick Valentine the bassist and I had spent together. Both of us were fully clothed and we talked about gardening, his passion de jour at the time, over Assam tea and cucumber sandwiches. In addition, he had once been chosen as one of the sexiest musicians alive. With his good looks, musical talent, and attitude, he had it all. Throw in the fact that, as the lead composer, he had rights for most of Iron Dragon’s hit songs. Royalty from karaoke alone was presumed to be large enough to run a small nation, such as Belgium.

  “Oh, I understand.” A conspiratorial smile was pasted on his face, like he knew it all and was keeping this as a dirty little secret between the two of us.

  “You know, they’re rockers after all.” I shrugged nonchalantly to Dr. Arlington, who was nodding like a broken bobblehead.

  It was my attempt to avoid a scandal.

  In the world of rock ‘n’ roll, being quoted as a good guy who’s stoic for his music and his life was generally frowned upon. They preferred to be called womanizing, bat-eating, Satan-worshipping kind of bastards. I couldn’t possibly tell Dr. Arlington the truth.

  After feeding the psychiatrist with enough entertainment for the day, I asked, “So, about Warren’s new marriage, can you tell me a bit about it?” Partly, I wanted to change the subject.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” He stopped nodding like a bobblehead and furrowed his thick, sort-of-bushy eyebrows.

  “I recall you mentioned she’s a lawyer.”

  “Yes, Warren married his new lawyer.” Then he added sympathetically, “Sorry if that hurts you.”

  “I’m okay. Thank you for the information,” I said. “Surely that was a shocker, but it’s better to know it than not. It makes good closure.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking it with a positive attitude.” Finally, he was sounding like a psychiatrist. “And it looks like you’re living a good life. Like you finally found someone who truly und
erstands and cares for you.”

  “You think so?” I decided he wasn’t such a good psychiatrist anyway. “One thing I don’t really understand is why a lawyer married him. He’s a pathological liar, he has no money, and even if he had money, it would have to be used to pay off his former clients.”

  “I’ve no concrete evidence. My guess is the old fart is a bloody good talker. I sometimes get envious, imagining like: Hey, what if I can smooth-talk like him? I might be able to convince Taylor Swift into marrying me.”

  I wanted to start singing, “Ooh, like never, never, never…”

  Instead, I suggested, “So, in short, his mental status is pretty good, albeit crooked?” I pretended I didn’t catch his comment about Taylor.

  “That’s correct. As you say crooked, he lies like breathing, which makes his claim his memory’s ailing a downright lie. Even we, supposedly psychiatric professionals, often get conned by him, only to find out later, and it’s kind of like Clusterfuck! Pardon my French.”

  “Your French’s nothing compared to the colorful expletives I’m thinking about right now.” But I couldn’t help chuckling.

  “Besides that about his supposedly ailing memory, what else did he tell you?” He took up a pen, clutching a yellow legal pad.

  I told him about the foot-fetish murderer Warren had told me about. The doctor compulsively wrote every word I said on his note pad, saying he was working on a book about personality disorders and compulsive lying.

  “Get out!” He gave a hearty laugh. “It’s impossible for Warren to speak to that foot-collecting murderer. First off, it’s been almost fifteen years since the killer died of cancer. So maybe he has heard about this man from other inmates, but I’m skeptical. Anyway, he’s doing quite fine, if you interpret lying happily in a jail as fine. Hopefully, now you understand what I wanted to tell you about his lying problem.”

  “I suppose so.” I managed to smile, suppressing my urge to pull out my hair and shriek like a hysterical toddler.

  Lovely. Just lovely. Things kept going more and more intriguing as the more lies of Warren’s got revealed. “Do you think it’s possible for him to feel guilt or remorse, if any at all?”