been no signs of a forced entry. The vic had an elaborate security system that had been disarmed. Both facts indicated the victim knew her killer.
Seven stared at the blood on the walls and the white sofa. However it had gone down, Mimi Tran had put up a fight.
The body now lay on the floor, bloody sockets where her eyes should have been and a bird’s head shoved inside her mouth. The blood where she had been stabbed flowered across the white wool of her suit like some flashy pattern by those designers his sister-in-law loved so much. Chanel or Gucci. Tran still wore some impressive jewelry—diamond studs the size of fat peas, gold bangles shining from her wrists, a dragon pendant with fiery rubies for eyes—taking robbery off the list of motives.
On the wall, there appeared strange markings, like maybe someone had dipped a finger in Mimi Tran’s blood and started to paint some weird wallpaper design, then changed his mind. There were exactly fifteen marks, each no bigger than a man’s palm. To Seven, they looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs. Or maybe one of those cave paintings you see in museums. The tech on the scene had already tested the stuff and made a preliminary determination. It was blood.
“My best guess?” Roland said. “He used a feather from the bird. You know, like a paintbrush.”
Erika came to stand next to Seven. Still staring at the body, she asked, “You okay?”
She said it like it was nothing, just a little chitchat between friends. But he knew what she meant.
Of course she’d ask.
He shook it off. “Just tired of this shit.”
They didn’t often get cases like this. Gang shootings, traffic accidents, domestic disputes gone bad—the everyday stuff, sure. But this was different, like some sort of ritual killing.
“I want a couple of close-ups of the markings on the wall,” Seven told the tech.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Just the same, Roland knelt down to take the stills.
They’d dusted for fingerprints and interviewed the relatives. They’d confiscated Tran’s laptop and PDA. Every nook and cranny of the scene had been documented. Pretty soon, the coroner’s office would remove the body for autopsy.
And then they’d have to figure out what the hell it all meant.
Seven stepped closer to one of the bloody symbols painted on the wall. He frowned, staring at the marks, trying to make them out. Two horizontal lines curved around a small circle…an eye? Made sense, given the condition of the body. Taking out a pen and notepad from inside his jacket pocket, he made an attempt to copy the image.
He tried to figure out what it might mean. Someone was watching—all-knowing and all-seeing—lording his omnipotence over the now blinded victim?
“Roland? These make any sense to you?” Seven asked, pointing out the bloody images on the wall.
The tech shook his head. “It’s not Vietnamese, if that’s what you’re asking.” He looked over at the body. “Neither is that.”
But Seven might argue with him there. No one was immune to this kind of violence.
“The niece said she had an appointment to pick a lucky day for her wedding,” Seven said, moving on to the next symbol, a shaky copy of the first.
“Not my gig,” Roland said. “Fortune-tellers, that’s more old school. When Wendy and I got married, we went to the Buddhist temple to pick a date.”
“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
