The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1)

by Lotta Smith

  “Hey,” he said.

  For a couple of heartbeats—maybe several of them, my mind wandered off, thinking: Gosh, I want to jump his bone right now…and Get a grip, Kelly, having a crush on your employer is so awkward! It was like this moment of having an angel and a demon sitting on each of your shoulder spatting at each other. Words failed to come out of me. I was standing there like a total moron.

  “Earth to Kelly,” Archangel looked down at me with a look that implied he knew what I was thinking. “Don’t tell me you’re hallucinating.” Droplets of water trickled from a knotted bun of his long hair, down to the shoulders and further to the south.

  “Hallucinating? Oh no, it’s just…well, you know…looks like I zoned out a little. Maybe it’s just a jet lag. Yes, it’s only a jet lag. How strange! I used to fly across all over the world never having difficulties adjusting to local time and now I’m having it for the first time. I mean, a jetlag. It’s been years since I’d last flown over the pond anyway.” Thank God I was wearing a padded bra that worked perfectly to conceal my fully erected nipples.

  A slight smile surfaced around his lips. “So what’s going on?”

  I told him about the new case and suggested that I would follow him to the crime scene. To my astonishment, he said that it was still a holiday for me, and it was completely up to me whether or not to tag along with him to the crime scene. So, I did exactly what a respectable and professional personal assistant with a high self-esteem would do. I thanked him and took a day off to visit a certain maximum security prison, instead of following my employer to a university hospital where he’s summoned to provide an insight to a sudden death of a hotshot surgeon.

  Of course, I didn’t tell Archangel about my plan for the day, mainly because he didn’t ask. Also, I’d hauled my employer (now showered, dry, clothed, and no makeup) into a taxi to get to the crime scene before heading off for Her Majesty’s Prison in Belmarsh myself.

  After sending him off in a black cab, I blew out a deep sigh.

  Touching my still burning cheeks, I recalled how he looked into my face when leaving. “Kelly, are you feverish or something?” he said.

  “No, I’m fine. I guess I’m fine. Do I look like feverish?” I babbled.

  “Oh yeah, your cheeks are all flaming red. Anyway, it’s okay as far as you don’t have a slapped cheek disease. You know how the airlines hate having passengers with contagious diseases.”

  I fanned myself with a hand. “You know, it’s so hot today, isn’t it?”

  He raised one eyebrow. It was cold and raining. “They’ve got a nice pool, why don’t you take a dip?”

  I told him I didn’t pack a swimsuit.

  “What a shame.” Making a tsk-tsk sound, he said. “You could really use some cooling down in the water.”

  Before I could say anything, he got into the taxi. And with a cocky grin, he said “Take your time, enjoy the day.” And he left.

  As if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

  In my mind, the image of Archangel’s Calvin-Klein-men’s-underwear-ads worthy body was still vivid as life. I couldn’t shake it off my retina and I still had some residual appetite to shag him. (And I mean, shag as in UK meanings.)

  Oh my God. I’m lusting after my boss. I shuddered at the thought. Could it get any worse? Fancying Michael Archangel was wrong on every level. Mixing up your job with romantic interests is never good. It’s asking for a trouble. Besides, the job security set aside, I found it how-low-can-you-go-low to lust after a guy who wears short skirts and high heels and red lipstick on a regular basis.

  Seriously, I was disturbed.

  Maybe Mom was right and I needed a new man. Maybe it was sexual deprivation that I was so aroused with a mere sight of his barely-clothed body. Perhaps it was just another episode of stupid hormones messing with my head.

  I sighed again, recalling the last time I had a sex. It felt like a lifetime ago. Not that I’d had that much of it before that. The scariest part was my obsession with sexual thoughts was so strong and haunting. I was afraid someday my promise that I was completely fini with men was going to be blown away.

  Really, I needed to get a grip.

  Chapter 17

  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 48-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 shoulder were all screaming “an ex-soldier.”

  On my way to the meeting room, butterflies were still going tornado in my stomach. Actually, calling the prison was a product of a 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 the bars to move on. I needed a closure. And I truly needed to stop being the dump-ee and grow up into a dump-er.

  The security officer took me to the visits room. I thanked him. With a twitch of his mouth that remotely resembled a smile, he went out of the visits room, probably to the waiting room in order to help other visitors.

  In the room, a large, long table and a dozen chairs that resembled exam chairs at doctor’s office minus the wheels were lined up. The interior of the room was depressing. Greenish gray floors, ivory ceilings and walls, and the thick plexiglass 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 plexiglass panel.

  “Hello, sweetie.”

  As soon as I took the handset, he greeted me. He was smiling. As if it was his living room and I was his guest. Except he had handcuffs on his wrists with a chain that led to the 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 that now you’re in law-enforcementish 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 300-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 a particular body parts of the victims from the crime scenes?”

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

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

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

  “You’re making it up, about 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?”

  “Not to mention that 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, don’t you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Stay away from this fetish.” He said, and he was shivering. “They’re crazy and disgusting. They’re sure to give you real nightmares. And on top of all, they often end up killing other people oh-so-brutally. I still like you very much, Kelly. I don’t want no harm in 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 he used to be the King of the City.

  “Kelly, can I ask you a favor?” He said a little sheepishly.

  “I don’t know.” I replied with a 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’ve 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 to his right. 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 that he now had frown lines that never existed when we were together, and realized that 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 said, and I was a little taken aback that I dared to ask that.

  I was fully aware of the reason he was there. But the words popped out anyway. For a prisoner with 300-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 billions 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 thingie no one can ever predict what really happens the 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 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 that your clients’ own greed had led to losing a big sum of money. Still, thinking back 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 the crime I’ve never committed. I’m innocent. What little you can do here is entertaining me, rather than trying to force me into a guilt trip with your preach.”

  Without a word, I stood up.

  “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 authority if something ever happens to you, and that 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 said 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 a part responsible for your crime, 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 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 the prison unlike myself. Hell, I can’t believe they’ve overlooked that I’ve raised massive funds for all those charities and all those craps. Life’s unfair.”

  “I know,” I said. “I know.”

  We exchanged take-cares.

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

  I thanked him and walked off.

  Chapter 18

  As soon as I went out of the visits room, the same security officer who brought me here 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 looks like one of One Direction chuckled.

  His quote 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 that I was referring 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 appreciate it if you call me simply as Kelly.”

  “Oh, now I remem
ber! 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.” I nodded.

  “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 of 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 is a fan of the band. A hard-core Dragonhead, I guess. 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.