The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) by Lotta Smith Page A

from the comfort shoes shelves at Macy’s.
    “Thanks, Fashionista.”
    Archangel gleamed
at the kid in a pink Juicy Couture hoodies, a white V-neck tee from Calvin
Klein Kids, a pair of black jeans from True Religion, and a pair of black Sketchers
with shiny studs on the toes.
    Then she turned to
me. “You know, the best statement a woman can make begins with the shoes she
puts on her feet, you know.” She added, “No offence.”
    “None taken.” I
said, though I did a mental eye-rolling. Telling her that I was so past making-fashion-statement phase after all those hooker shoes in my previous job with Iron Dragon and the
days of Manolos and Jimmy Choo shoes when I was Mrs. Estevez was easy and
tempting, but I opted out. I didn’t come up with suitable words to replace
words such as hooker , prostitute , or ‘ho .
    I added, “For your
information, my shoes are comfortable and affordable, you know.” Fully aware
that she’d take me as one of those sagging old grandmother who’s been around
since stone ages.
    “I’ll keep that in
my mind for the time I hit the old age and start having arthritis.”  She
said with such earnestness that I couldn’t help laughing out loud.
    “What’s so funny?”
She furrowed her eyebrows.
    “Well, in general,
a girl of your age considers yourself to be immortal and age-resistant
existence.”
    “Well, the thing
is I’m not a usual child, which is a blessing and a curse.” She shrugged.
    Then looking up at
Archangel, she said nervously. “Has anything happened to Alice?”
    “What makes you say
so?” He asked, squatting to lower his eye level to match hers.
    “First, you’re
Michael Archangel the giant brilliant detective who wears women’s clothes and helps
the law enforcement; second, that means you people do not visit her just for
fun or drop in to say hi; and third, I haven’t seen her for ages even though
she’d totally promised that we go to Sicily in June. She also told me she wouldn’t
be going on the road until then. Basically, we’re a team.”
    “And you are?”
Archangel asked.
    “My current name
is Karen Zwerg Tycon Andrews, meaning I’m likely to have some minor changes with
my last names when my mother splits from her current husband and remarries with
a new guy.” She introduced herself sounding more like a fifty-year-old lady
than a child. “I’m the BFF of Alice and her next door neighbor. So, what
happened to her?”
    Archangel crossed
his arms. He didn’t tell anything.
    “Oh my God, it
must be bad, is she missing, or worse yet…?” she furrowed her eyebrows.
    “I didn’t say
anything.” Archangel muttered.
    “Sometimes,
silence and gestures are more telling than millions of words.” She retorted. “Did
you know crossing your arms indicates your reluctance to communicate?”
    Standing as tall
as physically possible, she said. “So, how bad is the situation?”
    “Have you ever
heard of a saying that says ‘Don’t ask a question to the answer you don’t want
to know?’”
    “Come on,” she
snorted. “If you think you can get away by treating me like your typical,
ordinary baby girl, then you are dead wrong. Okay, so physically, I’m merely an
eight-year old child, but...”
    “And legally, you’re
an eight-year-old child, period. The end of discussion.” Archangel interrupted
her and rose up.
    But she didn’t
give away without putting on a fight.
    “I’m in the
sophomore year of high school, got an IQ of 200, and multiple pediatric
psychiatry specialists had certified that I have a mature mind which is more
mature than most adults. I can cope with most things adults conceal from ordinary
kids of our age.”
    “That doesn’t mean
you have the same legal lights as an adult. Wait until your twenty-first
birthday. Besides that, most adults are a bunch of idiots and jerks which casts
agnosticism to the hypothesis that you are genius.”
    Turning his heels,
he started taking long strides. “Goodbye, Fashionista. Go home