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 means the victim let them inside. Someone she knew?”
“A client maybe?” Erika asked.
“A client? So whoever she’d let in would be here for a reading?” He looked at his partner. “Guess she didn’t see it coming?”
“Funny,” Erika said. “Really, Seven, you should take it on the road.”
Just then, his cell phone went off. It was a special ring, one he had set up just recently. He could feel his guts twist at the familiar tone, a neutral arpeggio.
Erika looked up. She recognized the ring and knew what it meant. “I can take care of things here,” she said.
He wanted to ignore the call. He didn’t want his life to interfere with his work. He wanted to escape, run away from his own drama and disappear into the facts of the Tran murder.
He didn’t want to see that other dead body in his head.
“Don’t be stupid,” Erika said, reading him. “Go.”
He fumbled with the cell phone, but didn’t take the call. Erika shook her head, walking away, making it clear she was washing her hands of him.
The ringing stopped. But he knew she would call again.
Turning for the door, homicide detective Seven Bushard went to deal with his own ghosts.
3
Seven sat in his car, staring at the LCD screen on his cell phone. Three missed calls, all from the same number.
Beth was nothing if not persistent.
He slid back against the headrest of the Jeep Cherokee, the unkind thought ringing with guilt. After eight months of this crap, he knew the drill: Beth couldn’t handle the giant slice of reality being shoved down her throat. Not alone.
And he was Ricky’s brother. Nick, his nephew, depended on him. Beth was family. End of story.
This time, when the phone rang, Seven picked up.
“I’m fifteen minutes away, Beth,” he said, starting the Jeep.
He drove past the crowd gathered around the Tran place and headed out of the housing track. Beth had recently been diagnosed with panic disorder. Seven shouldn’t have let it go to the forth call.
Only, he couldn’t help wondering if maybe Erika was right about his relationship with his sister-in-law.
If you just let Beth get through the damn panic attacks by herself—without stepping in and making it all better…
Erika thought Beth needed to learn to stand up for herself. What the hell had she called it? Some psychobabble about him being an enabler?
“It’s just guilt, Seven. Pure and simple,” he could almost hear Erika saying in
