And that call from his ex, Laurin. The breakup of his marriage hadn’t exactly been a high point. Talking to Laurin only reminded him of past mistakes. Big ones.
He hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t noticed the changes in Laurin. And maybe that’s why she left. He’d made her feel invisible, when another man made her feel loved.
She’d left a note: I don’t love you anymore, Seven.
Short and sweet.
Maybe that’s when he’d felt the big slap across the face. That call from Laurin about her shiny new life. And here he was, stuck in a spot where time stood still, because his brother had changed the rules.
Bad guy—good guy. Seven couldn’t tell anymore.
“Look, the case is bizarre enough,” he told his partner as they made their way down Bolsa Avenue. “Let’s just play this one straight, okay? Cross our t’s and dot our i’s.”
“Oh, sure. Sit around and wait for a suspect to fall into our laps? Or, God forbid, wait for someone else to die.” She kept her eyes on the road. “Come on, you haven’t thought about it? The whole serial killer scenario?”
Like his partner, he stared straight ahead, watching Little Saigon pass in a wash of color. Red-tiled roofs, Vietnamese signs, painted shop windows in strip malls advertising supermarkets, nail salons and gift stores. A rice rocket—a Honda Civic tricked up with fancy spoiler and audio equipment—cruised past.
A serial killer. Of course he’d thought about it. Everything about the death of Mimi Tran evoked the possibility of a twisted mind.
“I’m betting our little Miss Moon knows more than she’s letting on,” Erika said. “Like that stuff about checking private collections and museums. She gave me an idea.”
“Museums?” He shook his head. “I’m moving around the rabbit ears, Erika, but I’m still not getting any reception.”
“Meaning,” she said, “we need to do a little research. You in for a drive, partner?”
This, as she flipped on the turn signal and headed for the on-ramp for the 22 Freeway.
He was thinking, Like I have a choice?
He said, “Lead on, Drummer.”
10
In the opinion of David Gospel, there was nothing worse than an ungrateful child.
You could put your kid in the best schools, read all the right books, make sure he had the very best of anything and everything. And still he turned rotten, like bad fruit.
The best part? It was all Daddy’s fault. You hit him, you didn’t hit him. Too lenient, too strict. You didn’t spend enough time with little Johnny or maybe you were too controlling. Poor Johnny was overscheduled.
You criticize any tiny thing he does—a story he wrote, or a stick-figure drawing—and you’re accused of ruining the poor little shit’s self-esteem.
Whatever happened to resilience? Sure, David came from money, but his father had made damn sure his kids couldn’t touch a dime until they earned their own fortune. And Jesus, the crap the old man said to him? Nothing was ever good enough, right?
That’s how you motivate a man. You let him know he needs to do better. Be better. You push.
You didn’t get more if you didn’t ask for it.
The day Owen was born, David started his grand plan. His boy—his firstborn son—was going to have a leg up on the poor muttons of this world. Sure as hell, he’d be better off than his father. That’s the way it was supposed to go. Each generation helped the next achieve greater success. That’s how you built a dynasty.
Thousands of dollars in therapy later, they’d told him he’d raised a monster. There were no more therapy sessions, no more pills. Just something spoiled and depraved.
He’d tried everything, even an exorcism, for Christ’s sake—Meredith’s idea. Owen was sick and Christ would save him.
It had been both repulsive and beautiful, the exorcism, reminding David of the early years when he’d been active in secret societies—the reenactments in particular. When Owen was old enough, eight or nine, David had even taken him along, still maintaining hope for his ambitions for his son. There’d been a moment during the exorcism ceremony with the priest when Owen had turned to look straight at David, as if remembering their special times together.
He could still hear the strange music of his son’s screams and the soft chorus of the priest’s murmured prayers during the exorcism. He’d watched as Owen pulled out fistfuls of hair and clawed at his eyes until he’d had to be restrained. The boy had panted for breath like a creature giving birth, and when the final crisis came, he’d arched his back at an impossbile anlge to howl at the ceiling. The sight had been exquisite, so lovely, in fact, that for one instant, the doubts had come: That beauty, the perfection of the moment, could it be an act?
David recalled Meredith, with tears streaming down her face, holding Owen afterward, saying her baby had been saved.
And Owen did seem different. Enough that David had eventually bought in to Meredith’s “Jesus Saves!” theory.
Just in case, he’d sent Owen away for missionary work. For five years, Owen helped build schoolhouses in Kenya, taught English in the Amazon jungle and traveled up and down the Ganges. He’d gone to places like Darfur, lawless places where people died of hunger in the street or were shot. Why not give the kid a little perspective? Let him see how the other half lives?
Rocket had been his insurance. And now it was Rocket’s job to fix whatever he’d fucked up.
David looked at Meredith seated across the room, her skinny elbows digging into the custom-made Mitchell Gold couch. Meredith had picked out each and every item in the house with an interior decorator. That queer had practically cost David his left nut, he’d been so expensive.
Meredith didn’t believe in anything ostentatious—not anymore. She’d give every fucking penny he earned away if she could.
But David didn’t see any reason to change just because God apparently saved his kid. He wasn’t building his kingdom in some make-believe heaven. With interests throughout Orange County, he’d made damn sure his charitable donations worked for him. Like now, with Condum-Cox. His campaign contributions to the current mayor were about to pay off, big time.
And this house…It was one of thirty-two exclusive homes on Bay Island, right down the street from Roy Rogers and Dale Evans’s old place. Not to mention what was once the John Wayne estate. David Gospel could afford the best.
He’d never believed that the-meek-shall-inherit-the-earth crap of his wife’s. If David believed in a god, it was himself. He had the power.
At first, it was all about the money. Hell, why not? Money was an easy way to keep score. And he’d enjoyed the gauntlet his father had thrown down to his three sons. Be better….
Only, as it turned out, the money thing hadn’t been much of a challenge. David’s marriage had given him money to play with. Soon enough, he’d moved into politics. Not as a candidate, no way. Who the hell wanted some asshole looking into his tax returns? He was the puppeteer, pulling the strings behind the screen.
The amazing part? That, too, hadn’t taken long to conquer. The whole thing turned into just another rubber-chicken dinner, with some blowhard sucking up the oxygen in the room.
That’s when David started his collection.
He’d learned pretty early on he had the power to make and break lives. The people who worked for him owed him their livelihood, and they were fucking grateful for it.
So