“Old school or not,” Erika said, “business wasn’t hurting. Did you get a load of that Beemer in the garage?” She gave a wistful sigh. “A 735i. My dream car.”
“Never too late to marry for money,” Seven kidded.
“Yeah. Because I meet so many rich guys on the job.” Erika flashed her best smile, the kind that could sell toothpaste.
Erika was all of five feet, two inches tall, maybe 105 pounds soaking wet. But she carried herself with the confidence of a woman who wore a badge and could regularly put men in their place on the firing range. She had the classic good looks of many Hispanic women. Her clothes didn’t flaunt her curves, but you could see she was proud of her figure just the same.
She turned back to the victim’s desk and slid back the top page from the desk calendar using the eraser end of a pencil. “It’s like my mami always told me, Seven. A woman needs a man like a bull needs tits.”
“Right. And I’m sure she said it just like that, too.”
Seven had met Erika’s mother, an elegant woman born in Cuba who looked as if she might still wear a veil to church on Sundays. But he had to admit, Erika’s mom wasn’t exactly the poster child for happily-ever-after. Just last year, Milagro had moved on to husband number three.
Getting his attention, Erika motioned Seven over to the desk. Three wooden statues stood on the desk lined in a row like good soldiers. They were old, maybe even museum quality. They had monstrous heads, and their bodies appeared to be covered with hair, looking like some sort of incarnation of Bigfoot.
“What do you think these little guys are?” she asked. “Some kind of idols?”
“It’s definitely not your everyday table decoration.”
She glanced back at the body. “Could be a ritual killing.”
“That, or the killer was one sick fuck.”
That was the problem, of course. If they’d come in and found some poor vic with her throat cut and her diamonds gone, the job would get chalked up to a home invasion gone bad. Asian communities were ripe for the picking when it came to burglary. A deep-seated distrust of banks usually meant a lot of cash stuffed under the mattress.
But this was different. Already, a crowd had gathered outside, neighbors whispering about the bizarre circumstances surrounding Mimi Tran’s death. Nor would the colorful nature of the victim’s trade help to keep things low-key. Soon enough, reporters would be buzzing around the story like flies on shit.
And then the speculation would begin: was this a one-time deal or just the beginning?
There’d already been a leak. While the cop who’d arrived on the scene had done a decent enough job, one of the witnesses, the victim’s niece—a coed from Chapman University—had kept her trusty cell phone in hand. Her fiancé was just outside, champing at the bit to see her. Seven understood the beginnings of a small memorial had already been erected for Mimi Tran, complete with incense sticks, bowls of rice and fruit, and a framed photograph of the victim covered with flowers.
“Let’s go with the obvious first. Mimi Tran is a psychic,” Seven said, thinking out loud.
“The kind that likes St. John suits,” Erika said, naming the designer of her outfit. “And a few other things. Patek Phillipe watch, Daniel Yurman necklace, Shelly Segal shoes. Not cheap.”
He gave her a look. “Aren’t you the little fashionista.”
She shrugged, sending him a flirty glance as she batted her eyelashes. “I’m a girl, aren’t I?”
The family was Vietnamese, but swore that nothing at the crime scene had anything to do with custom or religion. No one had ever threatened Mimi Tran as far as they knew. She was well liked and respected in the community.
“Too bad we’re not just up the road,” he said to his half-Cuban partner.
“Santeria?” Erika asked, naming a religion comparable to Voodoo that flourished in Cuba. She again rolled her eyes at him. “Because I’m such an expert on the stuff?”
In Westminster, their turf included the largest population of Vietnamese living outside of the motherland, with a hodgepodge of Cambodian and Korean immigrants mixed in. But just up First Avenue would be Santa Ana, an area dominated by Hispanics. Seven could definitely see Santeria, or something like it, mixed up in this.
Still, whatever had happened in this room, he imagined no one was an expert.
Seven stepped around the blood splatters, coming closer to the body. He was careful not to disturb any evidence. She’d been stabbed in the back, chest and abdomen, a trinity of vital organs: heart, lungs and stomach.
Only, something about the blood didn’t strike him as right. He remembered when he’d first entered the room. Blood and the smell of it appeared to be everywhere. But now that he looked closer, there didn’t seem to be enough of the stuff. Almost as if someone had strategically spread out splotches of red to make it look like there was more.
These houses were built on slab, usually with a layer of linoleum under the carpet, which was Berber—not a lot of absorbency. Any liquid from the body would spread out through the fibers of the rug.
Mimi Tran was no small woman. If she’d bled out, here on the carpet…
He was thinking about the blood on the rug, examining the crime scene, putting the pieces together when suddenly, it all changed in his head. Just like that, he was staring at a different body, experiencing a different crime.
He closed his eyes against the memory, trying to block it out. Before he knew what he was doing, he backed away from the corpse, almost tripping.
Shit.
He forced his eyes open, telling himself to be here, in the present. He held perfectly still as the room came back into focus. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm down. All he needed was to screw up by trampling on evidence.
He took a few more steps away. Best to let the crime scene guys finish up. He told himself he was just giving Roland a little space, ignoring the fact that Erika had no such qualms.
He didn’t want to admit that it could be something else. That suddenly murder had become personal.
With her sixth sense, Erika was instantly there beside him.
“I’m fine,” he said, a bit more gruffly than he’d meant to. “Really,” he added, softening his tone.
She was just worried about him. But that was the problem. He didn’t want her concern, didn’t want anyone to connect the dots and figure out that a homicide detective didn’t have the stomach for the job anymore, couldn’t come in close and stare at those bloody holes where her eyes should have been, dissecting the situation like a professional.
So he kept to the markings on the wall, focusing there.
The killer had been in a hurry. Maybe even caught in the act by the relatives who found the body. At first, Seven had thought it was some sort of calligraphy, the kind you see on storefronts or painted on shop windows. But up close, it didn’t look so much like writing. Despite his question to the tech, he was pretty familiar with the different calligraphy in the area.
He put in a call to the security system guys. He had some passing knowledge about the system in the victim’s house, his brother having installed something similar. Ricky liked to brag about all the bells and whistles.
From what Seven could see, Tran’s system was heavy-duty, just like Ricky’s. Nothing you would expect in this neighborhood.
“It was disabled,” Erika said, coming up from behind. “Maybe by the perp.”
“Or the victim,” he said.
“Whoever did it,” she answered, “they knew the code.”
“Which probably