by Simon Wood
But then, when I try the next drawer, I discover that it too is unlocked. This one is full of men’s Rolexes, and I don’t remember showing any the day before. I frown, glancing at the camera again. Once again, I pretend to unlock the tray before pulling it open.
A quick survey of the contents of the tray shows me that nothing is missing in this drawer either. Still, it’s strange. I weigh calling Maria over to tell her, but I squash the idea. Why borrow trouble, I remember an old lady shaking her finger at me once. For the first time, I understand what that old lady had meant.
As I move on to the third drawer, which contains Lady Date Just Rolexes for women, the bell above the entrance rings again.
I expect to hear Maria’s chirpy greeting, gushing over the early morning customer in her own particular way.
Instead, I hear a sharp intake of breath. “¡Dios!” she says in Spanish, her voice unexpectedly strained and hoarse. “What are you doing?!”
Without thinking, I stand up quickly, causing blood to rush forcefully to my head. For a moment, I am too dizzy to focus and I shut my eyes.
Then, when I open my eyes again, I cannot make sense of what I am seeing. Maria is facing me, her face expressing intense fear and shock.
A man in all black stands between us, his back to me, a hoodie pulled over his head.
Two thoughts surge into my mind. Robber. Gun.
And then, a question tears at my heart. Will this be the day I die?
An icy shock runs over me, and my knees start to buckle. Across the room, Maria’s terrified eyes meet mine.
The man tosses an olive messenger bag to Maria. “Fill this up,” he says. “Be quick about it.”
I inhale sharply. That voice! It couldn’t be!
“Dana, run!” Maria cries.
Hearing her words, the man whirls around and stares at me.
I take him in, his stance, his size. And through the mask, deep-ringed blue eyes. Eyes that I had just looked into this morning. My boyfriend’s eyes. Dmitri.
For a long moment, we stare at each other. I see him take in my dressy top, read my nametag. Dana Miller, Sales Associate. Only when Maria begins to sob does he break the intense silence.
“Bitch!” he says, turning away from me.
At the ugly word, my throat closes up and I stumble back against the wall, trying to keep from falling. “Oh my God,” I hear myself say, distantly through the great rushing in my ears.
The man—Dmitri!—begins to pace. Then he glares at Maria. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” He nods to where I was standing, without looking at me again. “Now those cases. With the watches.”
Maria crosses the room and hands me the bag, her hands trembling. “Please, Dana,” she says. “Do as he says.”
I take the strap. “He won’t hurt us,” I whisper to her, before starting to empty the watches into the bag. I say it more to myself, than to her, but her eyes widen.
“How do you know?” she asks.
I shake my head and continue to fill the bag, my fingers clumsy and numb from fear. I am trying desperately to make sense of what is happening.
“Dana,” she says, more loudly this time. “How do you know he won’t hurt us? Why do you say that?”
“Enough talking!” Dmitri snaps. He cracks his neck. I know his anger is growing. I’ve seen his before. Once when he was angry at our upstairs neighbor for playing music too loud. Another time when he wasn’t satisfied with his cell operator’s customer service. This is worse though. He needs to calm down.
“Please,” I whisper, transfixed by his waving gun. “Don’t!”
“You wanted a witness? Is that it?” He turns back to Maria. “Well, we don’t need you!”
Then with that, he shoots Maria, before turning to look back at me. Is there a pleading look in his eyes? I can’t say for sure.
Senseless, I can only clap my hand over my mouth as I stare at the blood flowing from Maria’s head, onto the sparkly gray carpeted floor. It’s hard to make sense of what I’m seeing.
“Oh hell.” He looks down at Maria, before turning back to me. He leans over the counter and I hand him the bag with the jewelry and watches. He sees me shaking. “Just keep your mouth shut and it’ll be alright.”
Did he wink then? I’m not sure.
He unlocks the front door and walks out onto the street. When the door shuts, the bell jangles above.
I crawl over to Maria, whose eyes are fluttering. “I’m so sorry Maria,” I say beginning to cry. I take her hand. “I didn’t know he would shoot you.”
Her eyes are confused, terrified, and already clouding over. She whispers something then, which I can’t quite catch. I think it was in Spanish. Then she takes two last great breaths, and her chest stops rising at all.
It takes everything I have to lay my ear near her chest.
She is dead.
I don’t know how long I’ve been kneeling beside Maria’s body. But dimly I hear the bell when it jangles again. I begin to crawl away, fearful that Dmitri would return. Should I hide? Where should I go? My legs aren’t working right at all. Now they are made of jelly. Wobbling jelly. I begin to laugh to myself as I imagine my knees as jelly. Better than thinking about Maria’s brains as jelly.
“Excuse me?” A man calls out, his voice oddly cheerful. “Anyone here? I’m looking to get a gift for—” Then, “What the hell?”
I just stare at him. I manage to say some words but they sound muddied, distant, as if I am lying in the deepest dregs of a swamp.
The man had pulled out his cell phone. “Hang on. I’m calling 9-1-1.”
I sit back then, unable to look away from Maria’s still form.
More time passes, but I don’t know how much. Someone throws a blanket around my shoulders.
“She’s in shock,” I hear someone say.
Someone else tries to put something hot into my hands, but I cannot unlock my arms from around my knees. I need something to hang on to, something to keep me upright in this low staggering nightmare.
“Miss, can you tell us what happened here?” someone asks, crouching down beside me. Places her hand on my shoulder and shakes me. Evidently reads my nametag. Speaks more forcefully. “Dana! Who did this? Was this a burglary? Did you see where the burglars went?”
I latch onto just one of the questions. Who did this? Dmitri’s eyes looking back into mine. That wasn’t the Dmitri I knew. I shake my head. I didn’t know that man. I don’t know where he went or what he’s doing.
“I don’t know anything,” I murmur. “I mean, yes. It was a burglary. I don’t know where he went.”
“He?” The police seize on the gender. “A man? Just one man? Can you describe him?”
“He wore a mask. Please,” I plead. “I need to call my boyfriend, Dmitri. I need to speak with him.”
“We can call him,” one of the uniformed officers says. “But first we need to take you to the hospital. You’ve had quite a shock.”
When another officer enters the store, they turn their attention from me. I hear muffled bits of conversation. “Jenkins is on his way. He’ll pull up the security footage.”
I stand up, still clutching the blanket around me, and move toward the door. I want to be away from the cops looking behind the counters. Away from the photographer snapping pictures of the store. Away from the body.
Avoiding eye contact, I slip out the door, that infernal bell jangling as I step onto the street. Every movement is labored. Everything around me seems in slow motion. One thought overrides everything now. Must find Dmitri. I hope I didn’t say it out loud.
I can’t shake the image of Dmitri shooting Maria, of the blood seeping from her wound. Of her life ebbing away. I make it halfway down the street before I begin to vomit.
“Are you all right?” a passer-by asks me.
I shake my head, and the gesture worsens my nausea. I lose my balance, and the ground swarms up to meet me.
I wake up
at the hospital, an IV line in my arm. I feel my forehead, touching the bandage that someone has wrapped around the sore spot.
“Just a minor concussion,” the nurse says to me, having noticed my eyes were open. She continues to check my vitals. “We’re giving you something for the pain. And we’ll have to hold you overnight for observation. Is there someone I can call for you?”
“Dmitri, my boyfriend,” I gasp. Then, the events of the morning wash over me. “Although, maybe not. I mean, he might be away.”
“Away?”
“He might have taken a trip. I’m having trouble remembering.”
“That’s to be understood. Concussions can cause short-term memory loss.” Her tone offers a studied professional comfort. “You’ll remember. How about your parents? Or a friend?”
No, no, there’s no one. My parents died when I was a teenager, and I really didn’t have any friends. “I’ll be fine,” I say. Dmitri had been my friend, these last few months. My other friends had slipped away, and I don’t even know how it had happened.
“Some detectives have been waiting to speak to you,” she says. “I’ll bring them in.”
A man and a woman step into my hospital room, and flash me their badges. The male detective introduces himself as Detective Wilson. He looms over his partner, Detective Lee. They both wear rumpled suits and serious shoes, just like detectives do on TV. Their demeanor is friendly and solicitous but their smiles don’t reach their eyes when they shake my hand. They inquire after my health, and then begin to ask the same questions I remember answering earlier. Could I describe the burglar? Had he been alone? Which direction had he gone? Was he on foot?
Then the bombshell question. “Did you know him?”
A stabbing pain seared through my forehead. “Did I know him?” That murdering thief was not my Dmitri. Not the friend who’d held my hand when we’d had to put my dog to sleep. Not the man who’d made me laugh when I was down about my family. Not the man I’d shared a bed with. “No, of course I didn’t know him.”
In the morning, when I am released from the hospital, I find Detective Wilson waiting for me.
“We have a few more questions for you,” he says. “It would be best if we could talk down at the station. Just a few things we were hoping you could clear up.”
“I’m hungry,” I mutter. Besides I needed to know if Dmitri was back at our apartment. I just had to speak to him. “Can’t this wait?”
“How about I buy you a donut on the way.”
The donut turns out to be a stale mistake. One bite and I’m retching into a police station wastebasket. With a grimace, Detective Wilson puts the trashcan out in the hallway no doubt to keep the smells at bay. Detective Lee joins us, and leads me into a small room with three chairs and a table. Is this an interrogation room? Am I being interrogated?
Though I want to bolt out of the room, I plop down into one of the chairs and put my head in my hands.
“You’re not well,” Detective Lee sounding almost kind.
“Concussion,” I say, tapping my head.
The detectives nod knowingly. I can tell they are searching my face, looking for something. What? What are they looking for?
I see them glance at each other.
“How about I get you some water,” Detective Wilson says, about to exit the room.
“I’ll take tea if you have it,” I call. Anything to stall.
Detective Lee smiles. “You’re in luck. I just brewed some. I do real tea, leaves and all. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
For a moment, I am left alone. There is a mirror. Are they on the other side, watching me?
I don’t have to wait long. Detective Lee returns just a moment later, placing a Styrofoam cup in front of me.
“I don’t use an infuser,” she says, sounding oddly apologetic. “Just wait until the leaves drop to the bottom and then it’ll be ready to drink.”
“And then you’ll read my fortune?” I say, staring down at the steaming drink. What would mine say? You’ve been sleeping with a thief? I am lost until the detective brings me back.
“If you like,” she says. “Or you can just tell us the truth. It will be much easier to predict your fortune if you stop lying to us.” Her tone has lost all warmth.
“L-Lying to you?” I stammer. All of this has to be a mistake. Later, Dmitri and I will snuggle on the sofa, and he’d be there to comfort me, saying how odd it was that the thief had resembled him. And we’d mourn Maria together, and hurl invectives at the sorry sot who had stolen her life. But the detectives have other ideas.
Detective Wilson enters the room then, pushing a cart with a TV and combined VCR-DVD player. He plugs the equipment in and stays by the door. Looms.
“Tell us. When did you start working at the jewelry store?” Detective Lee asks.
“Oh just a few weeks ago,” I say.
“We’ve checked your employment history,” she continues. “You’ve mostly worked in the food industry, isn’t that right? Bars, restaurants, that sort of thing?”
“I worked in retail when I was in college,” I say.
“Before you dropped out of college, you mean,” Detective Wilson says.
I glare at him.
“So how come Ms. Garcia hired you?” he probes. “Why you? You lack relevant experience.”
I shrug. “I guess she thought I’d do a good job.” But even to my own ears that sounds lame. Truth was, I’d wondered about it myself. Why had Maria hired me?
My last night at the bar came back to me. Me, yelling at a handsy customer. My manager, siding with the disgusting fat man who had groped me. Getting fired. At least the bartender had poured me a farewell drink. It was then that Maria Garcia had approached me. ‘What an asshole,” she had said. “So you’re outta here now.”
“Yeah,” I’d mumbled. “Now I gotta find another job. Rent’s due.”
“You know I’ve seen you here before. You do good work. Ever work in retail?”
“Not really.”
Then one thing led to another and before I knew it I’d found myself hired at Jenkins’ Diamonds, where I’d been working for the last two weeks. Maria had been fairly patient with me, but I’d also worked reasonably hard, not wanting to shoot my shiny gift horse in the mouth.
“We’ve got the security footage from the robbery,” Detective Wilson says, turning on the TV set. A familiar image of Jenkins’ Diamonds appears on the screen. “We’d like you to talk us through it.”
I can feel sweat beading on my forehead. The thought of Dmitri. Of Maria. The blood. Bile rises in my throat, threatening to gag me. “Oh, is that necessary?” I ask, trying to appear unruffled.
“Oh yes. We have some questions.” He presses ‘play.’
I find myself leaning closer, trying to make sense of it. He had started the footage earlier than I expect, before the robbery. Only Maria could be seen. She is doing what I imagine were the usual morning things, shutting off the alarm, opening the security windows, moving chairs into place.
We watch as she checks her watch several times, and peers out the front window. She moves into the middle of the room, where she is in full sight of all security cameras. She is tapping her feet. “Where is she?” we can hear her say. “Why is she late?” We watch her text someone on her phone, frowning the whole while.
Detective Wilson pauses the image. “She’s waiting for you, isn’t she? We pulled her phone records. We know she’s texting you.”
My blood begins to race again, remembering how I’d spent my morning. “Yes. I was late.”
He resumes play and then after a few minutes, there is footage of me entering the store, looking a bit frazzled and annoyed. We hear her berate me and then we see me give her the finger behind when she turns away. I had forgotten about that and guilt washes over me.
Detective Lee glances at me, but doesn’t say anything. We continue to watch. Now, there’s footage of me opening up the glass cases an
d drawers. I watch myself find the open drawers and glance up at the camera and then back to the drawer. My stomach clenches.
This time Detective Lee pauses the image. “What’s happening here?” she asks.
“The drawers were unlocked,” I explain. “I found them that way.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to your boss? That seems odd.”
“I thought I had forgotten to lock them the night before.”
“Do you often forget to lock the cases?”
The blood rushes up in my face. “No, I’ve never forgotten.”
“So all the cases were unlocked, but you were pretending to unlock them. Got it. Let’s move on.”
Shortly after, Dmitri walks in with the mask drawn over his face. He locks the door behind him, and waves towards Maria. At the sound of his voice, we can see me poke my head up, and him turn towards me. I strain again to see his features, but they were completely obscured.
We watch as Maria comes over and hands me the bag. “Fill it, Dana.” Her voice is softer than I remember, more pleading here.
Together we watch as I fill the bag with watches and bracelets, and then we hear me say something to her.
“You spoke softly, but we had a lip reader read your words. ‘He won’t hurt us,’ you told her. Why would you say that to her?”
I don’t answer because I am transfixed by the next section of the video. Even though I know what would happen next, I can’t look away. Dmitri comes over to us then. I try to remember his expression. Shocked? Angry? Maybe a bit sad. “You wanted a witness, is that it?” he asks and then turns and shoots Maria in the head.
I put my face in my hands. Tears threaten but I strive to contain myself. He must have planned the theft with Maria. Maybe she had told him that the store would be empty. That she would be alone. Why had she wanted a witness then? To have someone who could report on her innocence?
I think about the unlocked shelves, her insistence that I be there, her concern when I was late. Maybe she needed me there because she knew the cops would figure out it was an inside job.
