The Collector. Cameron Cruise
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took a moment. Seven recognized that carefully controlled expression on his partner’s face. Erika didn’t like people wasting her time.
“Because you had a dream?” she prompted.
“I thought it was a dream, Detective. But after I read the article in the paper, I knew it was more than that.”
“You’re talking about a premonition?”
“Yes.”
“But you called it—” Erika pretended to check her notes “—a vision?”
Gia Moon didn’t answer right away, but he could see the tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t enjoying the attention. In fact, she looked ready to bolt…which was unexpected. Usually the crazies who showed up with important “evidence” after a story like Tran’s hit the paper couldn’t wait to have their say.
“You can call it whatever you wish, Detective,” she said.
Erika didn’t even glance up from her notes. “Actually, I’m using your words, Ms. Moon. In your vision, you saw Mimi Tran being murdered in her home?”
“No. It wasn’t clear like that. It never is. It’s like a dream, subject to interpretation. I saw a woman in danger. I saw blood—or at least the color red.”
She seemed to be making an effort to remember—or perhaps edit her words now that she knew she would be held accountable. She glanced down at her fingers.
There, under her nails, the color of the paint. Red.
“When I read the story in the paper,” Gia Moon continued, “certain things from my dream suddenly fell into place, making me think it was Mimi Tran’s murder I saw.”
“You have these often?” Erika asked. “These…visions?”
Moon frowned. “I don’t see why that would matter, but yes. I often have visions of this sort.”
He liked that schoolteacher tone. Not many people took on Erika. Seven had to admit it was a bit of a turn-on. Really, it was a shame about the batty part.
“But this is the first time you’ve contacted the police?” Erika pressed.
Seven caught a slight hesitation before Gia answered, “Correct.”
“Why is that, Ms. Moon?” he asked, seeing an opening.
She turned to look at him. Her smile—shit, he felt it right down to his toes. But he kept his eyes steady, knowing that was one of his talents. Intense interest…the kind that got people to open up.
“I think that would be obvious, Detective,” she said, still with that devastating smile. Like it was a joke between them. “The police don’t exactly invite my kind of input.”
“In your dream, Ms. Tran was killed by a demon?” Erika’s tone said it all. And why would we?
“As I explained, that doesn’t mean she was literally killed by a demon. It could be a representation, a symbol for the killer. He could have a tattoo or it could be a piece of jewelry he wore.”
“Really?” Erika said. “How very mysterious…and vague.”
Seven almost cringed before he pulled up a chair and sat down, giving it a shot. “Can you describe the demon?”
Gia Moon closed her eyes, as if getting a bead on the thing with her “inner eye.” He almost smiled, but stopped himself.
“Scales,” she whispered. “Red mist. Black, protruding eyes.” She opened her eyes and stared at Seven. “Very large teeth.”
Seven glanced at Erika. Gia Moon had just given a fair description of the painting in the entry to Tran’s house.
Which didn’t necessarily mean shit. Scales, big teeth, protruding eyes—sounded like your basic demon, right? The newspapers had mentioned the victim was Vietnamese and a fortune-teller. It could be a common enough image given the culture.
On the other hand, the description of the painting might indicate that Gia Moon knew the victim…that she’d been inside her house.
“Go on,” he said.
“She felt fear. All-consuming fear,” she said. “She was terrified. At the same time, there is something familiar about this demon. I think she had encountered him before—but never the violence. The attack confused her. She hadn’t expected the attack. That’s why she invited him inside.”
“She invited the demon inside?”
There had been no signs of a forced entry—information that Seven knew hadn’t been printed in the papers.
“She fought him.” Now Gia wrung her hands, almost as if washing them in the air. “There’s blood coming from her hands.”
The victim had had defensive marks. But anybody who watched CSI regularly could come up with that much.
“He was…so hungry.” Now her eyes looked unfocused, as if she were again slipping into some scene only she could see. “He fed off her fear. There was a lot of blood, but he wanted more. He liked it when she tried to run away. But then she died. Too quickly. He didn’t like that.”
It was almost as if she was speaking in a trance. Jesus, he thought, if this was an act, she was good.
Suddenly, she focused back on Seven, waking up. She took a deep breath and stood. She shouldered her purse.
“I felt compelled to come here and tell you about my vision. For what it’s worth, of course.”
“Hold on.” Seven stood, as well, taking her arm to try and stop her from leaving.
Only, the instant they touched, static electricity—coming hard and fast and unexpectedly—shocked the two of them apart. They stood there, staring at each other.
Moon was petite, maybe five foot three. Seven was just under six feet. She had to look up to meet his gaze.
But those eyes, they could zing right through a man.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The way she said it, she was apologizing for something very different than that silly shock between them.
“A woman is dead, Ms. Moon,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “We take any information that you may provide very seriously.”
“All right.”
He watched as she sat down again. He could see she was just as shaken as he. She took a moment to steady herself.
He sat down beside her, but Gia Moon turned to Erika, addressing her. “You’ll want a test, of course. Something that lets you know I have information never leaked to the press.”
Erika glanced at Seven. Is this chick for real?
“There were eyes everywhere,” Gia Moon said. “And there was something in her mouth.” She spoke as if tired of jumping through hoops. She was searching for the quickest way to cross the finish line. “Something very old—very powerful. And small. Blue. No, red. Perhaps made of glass. I would start there.”
Seven felt the blood freeze inside his veins. Holy shit.
“Seven, why don’t you start the videotape?” Erika asked.
“I’m on it.”
His partner leaned forward, now completely focused. “What do you mean, start there?”
“With the object. This blue or red piece,” she elaborated, with another tired gesture. “It’s—” she seemed to struggle for the right words. “It’s very old. Museums. Private collections. It might be a gem of some sort. Whatever it is, it’s missing. Someone is looking for it. He wants it back.”
Nothing she’d just told them had been reported to the press. Even if she’d managed somehow to