The Third Eye

by Jenna Rae

  She considered her options. She could pick the worthless lock on Smith’s front door. Brenda eyed it askance and frowned. She recalled the deadbolt was useless too. She’d have replaced the whole thing if she’d been forced to live in this run-down apartment complex.

  She shook off the distracting question of Donnelly’s failure to secure his home and returned to the question at hand. She could call the apartment’s property manager, flash her badge and say she was concerned about the sick mom and kid. She could call the department and ask for a welfare check. She could leave and come back later.

  All of those choices had unfavorable consequences. If Donnelly’s killer worked in the department, calling for help could bring the bad guy’s attention to Staci Smith. Picking the lock was illegal and could damage the cheap thing, which would mean she would have to pay to replace it, and, given the fact she didn’t actually know anything was wrong, would be inappropriate. Someone should replace the useless lock, but she was reluctant to trespass on what was not her business.

  Leaving the apartment complex and ignoring the fact Smith was missing could imperil both Staci Smith and her young daughter, if there was some problem that needed attention. Had there not been a child involved, and had that child not been ill, maybe Brenda could have just chalked up Smith’s absence to flakiness and walked away. But there was a child involved and that child was ill. And the dead boyfriend of the mother was a crooked cop, a cop killer and dead from a gunshot wound. That boyfriend might have been working for someone even worse.

  She couldn’t pretend there was no potential risk to the kid. She thought maybe Smith actually cared about being a good mom. Then again, Brenda reminded herself, people don’t walk around talking about what lousy parents they are. Every abusive parent she’d encountered in her twenty years on the force vehemently proclaimed his or her devotion to their bruised, molested, filthy, half-starved children.

  She checked her notes and saw Smith’s only vehicle was a 2007 Chrysler minivan. She eyeballed the parking lot and saw the silver van with the right license plate in less than a minute. So Smith hadn’t bailed at the last second, not in her minivan. She hadn’t taken the child to the emergency room. She hadn’t managed a last-minute doctor’s appointment and taken her daughter there.

  Throughout Brenda’s childhood, she and her mother had wandered up and down coastal California, staying for varying amounts of time in one apartment or trailer or duplex or motel after another. They’d even lived on a boat for almost a year, drifting up and down the coast, evading the ex-boyfriend who owned the boat. Eventually they abandoned it in a port she no longer recalled.

  And in each situation she developed survival tactics. She knew how to pack in under an hour, how to fix broken appliances and toilets, how to handle a boat and a motorcycle, how to read strangers’ moods and intentions, and how to escape through a window. And her mother had survival tactics too. She knew how to game the system, how to manipulate men into paying her bills, and how to get a low-wage job in an afternoon.

  Her mom had always had at least one friend nearby, a drinking buddy or babysitter or a random someone with a spare key for when Mom was working late or passed out. Brenda was too young to be left alone for hours or days without some neighbor calling the cops. That newly minted bosom buddy usually had a kid too, so the two moms could bail each other out of the dozens of crises a marginally employed single parent with no family and too little money might face.

  Thus, she started knocking on neighbors’ doors. It was late morning on a weekday, and the parking lot was at least three-quarters empty. No one answered the first seven doors. Number eight was an older lady with a highball glass in her hand and a cigarette dangling from the corner of her sloppily painted mouth. In answer to Brenda’s query, the tipsy septuagenarian wordlessly pointed at a door three down from her own. After a few minutes of knocking and pressing the button for what she suspected was a defunct doorbell, she heard someone struggle with the doorknob. She let her hand rest near her weapon until the door inched open.

  She gaped down at Jessica. Staci Smith’s little girl was wearing a purple fleece sleeper and clutching her grinning green elephant. She looked feverish and was in urgent need of nose blowing, face washing and hair combing. If the smell was any indication, the child was also in need of a clean diaper. Topping it off was the acrid odor of vomit. Brenda recalled that Smith had interrupted their call, saying Jessica had thrown up.

  “Hi, Jess, remember me?”

  The kid wandered away from the door, mewling plaintively, and she peered inside. Two little boys, maybe three and four years old, sat on the couch staring at a cartoon on the blaring television. The place was littered with toys, dirty clothes, and half-eaten snacks.

  While she waited for an adult, Jessica clambered onto the sofa next to the other kids and started sucking her thumb. Based on the odor in the room, more than one kid needed a diaper change. She watched the kids fix their gazes on the fast-moving animation before them and waited a full two minutes to call out for an adult.

  “Hello? Hi, is someone there?”

  “Dammit, Tyler, how many times I hafta tell you not to answer the fuckin’ door?” A very young woman in worn-out sweats and an oversized undershirt finally came out and frowned at Brenda. “Who are you? What the fuck you want?”

  “I’m looking for Staci Smith.”

  “Ain’t we all? She was supposed to take my fuckin’ kids today.”

  “I—”

  “You find her, tell her I get it, okay? She’s been through a lot and all that. But she was supposed to babysit for me. It’s her turn. I had to call in sick. How the fuck I’m supposed to pay the rent if I don’t work?”

  Despite or maybe because of her teased black hair, heavy Goth makeup and shapeless outfit, the woman looked more like a disaffected middle schooler than a grown woman with two kids.

  “When was the last time you saw Staci, ma’am? How did Jessica end up here?”

  “Ma’am? You a cop or something?” The woman narrowed her eyes at Brenda. “Yeah, fuck. Fine, I got nothing to hide. She was supposed to take my boys for a couple hours, but then she wasn’t there. The kid was all by herself, and my asshole boyfriend didn’t show up either. So here I am. I got my kids, her kid, no babysitter, a useless man, and no money for the day. What the fuck I’m supposed to do? So I brought her here.”

  “Leaving Jessica alone, that’s pretty unusual for Ms. Smith?”

  “Well, yeah!” The woman rolled her eyes. “She one of them stuck-up bitches. No sugar, organic, and all that bullshit. Thinks she’s better than me, but who the fuck’s here with her fuckin’ kid? Me, that’s who! Her place was a damn mess too. If she thinks I’m gonna keep her sick kid here forever, she’s fuckin’ nuts! I got two kids of my own, and now they gonna get sick too, so I’m a miss more work. What the fuck?”

  “I’m sorry this happened to you. I used to work with her boyfriend. Did you know him?”

  “That makes you a fuckin’ dirty cop too, and I don’t talk to no dirty cops. Don’t worry about the kid. I’ll watch her until Staci shows. Get the fuck outta my house. I don’t want you here, cop.”

  “I’m not trying to intrude. But I’m worried about your friend. Don’t you think it’s strange, her taking off like that and leaving her daughter alone? I’m worried something might’ve happened to her. If you know anything that might help me figure out what’s going on, I’d really appreciate your help. Please.”

  “Whaddya want from me? That cop was a crook, right? So how I know you’re not a crook too?”

  “Oh.” She grimaced. “You have a point.” She eyed the three glassy-eyed kids lolling on the sofa. “I’d be suspicious too. But all I can tell you is, I want to make sure Staci and Jessica are all right.”

  “Typical. Girls like Staci always get the attention. Me and my kids could die right in front of you and you’d say it was our own fault, but that hot little piece goes prancing by, every guy—and every dyke—in town breaks into
a sweat. And don’t think you’re above it all, because I know what the fuck you are. You can kiss my ass, cop, and get yourself and your ‘lifestyle’ out of my fuckin’ house!”

  Brenda backed away, hands up, noting that Jessica looked alarmed by the rising voice, while the two boys didn’t seem to register it. She’d been like those boys as a kid, pretending to ignore screaming and things being thrown around the room. It took some time to develop the skill of covert watchfulness, and these little kids, still too young for kindergarten, already had it down pat.

  The ringing of her cell phone startled her, and she nearly dropped it when she yanked it out of her pocket.

  “Any word on Peterson?” Tori’s voice was brusque.

  “No, nothing. I swung by his house, talked to some of his friends, all that. But nothing. Listen, I went by Donnelly’s girlfriend’s place, and she thinks someone forced him into the whole scheme. I—”

  “She’s a hooker, Bren. She’s used to letting men tell her the sky is green.”

  “A stripper. Listen to me. She asked to see me this morning, and then she was gone. She left her little girl all alone, and—”

  “Oh, what a shock. The hooker—excuse me, stripper—is a bad mom.”

  “When did you turn into such a snob?” She shook her head. “Maybe you should spend a little more time on the streets and less time kissing the city council’s ass. Then you’d get it that people don’t always have a lot of options.”

  “Okay, Gandhi. Let me guess. She’s gorgeous and she cried big crocodile tears and waved her cute little kid in front of you, along with her big, fake tits. You feel sorry for the poor wee stripper and can’t imagine she was playing you.”

  Brenda sputtered and held the phone away from her head while Tori railed at her. Eventually the squawking stopped, and Tori hung up. Brenda considered Tori’s suggestion. She went back to the neighbor’s apartment and pounded on the door.

  The young mom yanked the door open. “What now? Coming back to plant some drugs in here, cop? Maybe you can call CPS and get my fuckin’ kids taken away? Huh?”

  “Do you have a key to Smith’s place?”

  “Why, you planning to wait in her bedroom?”

  “Ma’am—”

  The door slammed in her face, and she stood staring blankly at it for a moment before it flew back open and something shiny hit her in the chest.

  “Take it, cop,” the teen screeched. “Get the fuck away from me!”

  She managed to grab the key before it fell. Still pondering what she should do about Jessica, she went down the row of identical front doors until she reached Smith’s, let herself in and looked around at utter chaos.

  She cleared the rooms, weapon in one hand and cell phone in the other. Only when she was sure no one was in the apartment with her did she holster her weapon and pull on gloves and booties. Then she took her time looking around at the mess.

  The place was torn apart: couch cushions slashed, dishes broken, toys and clothes and ruined stuff strewn about the rooms. The fridge, the kitchen cupboards, the dresser drawers—every corner of the apartment had been tossed. This had taken time. Smith had called Brenda at seven fourteen, and the neighbor had found Jessica alone about two hours later. Brenda figured at least ninety minutes, if there was more than one person searching, given the fairly narrow window of opportunity.

  She went methodically through Smith’s apartment. She saw the scattered remains of Mark Donnelly and Staci Smith’s life together. The toys and clothes could have reflected lackadaisical housekeeping, but the ravaged furniture belied such a fantasy. The bedrooms appeared to have borne the brunt of ransacking rage.

  In the larger of the two bedrooms, birthday cards and love notes and photo albums surrounded chunks of a jewelry box that had been smashed open and discarded in pieces on the carpeted floor. The jewelry was scattered around the master bedroom.

  She studied the most valuable pieces: a diamond tennis bracelet, a large ruby pendant and an elegant emerald stud earring whose mate was likely somewhere under the mess. After a careful examination of an overturned drawer, she saw the other emerald earring twinkling under the edge of a pair of tightly rolled men’s black socks. The intruders left behind a small fortune’s worth of gold, silver, and gems, so whatever they came looking for was of greater value, financial or otherwise, than the jewelry. At least, she noted grimly, there was no blood.

  Maybe Staci Smith struggled with an assailant and then left the apartment, either under her own steam or not. What were the odds she’d left her young daughter behind willingly? Or maybe Smith left and someone tossed the apartment after her departure. Was Jessica home while someone went through the place? It was tossed before the neighbor came by to drop off her kids; she’d said it was a mess, with a note of real surprise in her cynical voice. How long was Jessica here on her own?

  Suddenly it occurred to Brenda that there was no vomit smell. Smith had said Jessica threw up. The child still smelled of it, though her sleeper didn’t. What happened when a small child threw up? A wipe down, a diaper change, clean clothes for the kid and maybe clean clothes for the mom too.

  She checked the trash cans. In contrast to the wild disarray of the rest of the apartment, the three trash cans were pristine, with new plastic bags stretched over their top corners. There was what appeared to be only adult-sized laundry dumped out of hampers in the master bedroom, but no dirty laundry in the baby’s room. Nothing smelled like vomit. The bathtub still smelled vaguely of baby shampoo.

  Brenda pictured it. The young mom has been up much of the night with her sick child. The baby throws up and the mom cleans her up, changes her clothes, throws the dirties in the hamper, tosses the diaper and maybe wipes or paper towels in the trash.

  She has someone she doesn’t know well coming over in a few hours. She thinks she might be catching the baby’s bug, and the odor may be triggering her own nausea. Maybe she puts together a load of sick-baby laundry and takes out the trash along with it, trying to get rid of the smell.

  Brenda checked out the laundry room on the ground floor at the end of the building. In one washer was a load of what looked like Jessica’s clothes: the right size, pastels, still wet, smelling strongly of fabric softener and stain remover.

  The nearest Dumpster was overflowing, and right on top of the edge was a trio of garbage bags of Smith’s brand, each stuffed with the distinctively odiferous detritus produced by a child’s illness: dirty diapers, vomit, and standard kitchen garbage.

  A possible version of the narrative took shape. The young mom cleaned up the baby. Then she ran downstairs to throw in a load of laundry and take out the trash. She thought she’d be just a moment and didn’t want to take the sick child down all the stairs in the early-morning chill. She’d just run down, she told herself, and be right back. Three minutes, no more. That’s when someone took her.

  Would whoever tossed Smith’s place come back for Jessica? Brenda wasn’t sure she felt comfortable questioning the little girl, especially since she was not on duty. She’d already wasted time with her dithering. Decision made, she called Child Protective Services. She also called her office. Lieutenant Johnson answered, and she filled him in on what she’d found at Smith’s apartment.

  “We’ll get a forensic analysis as soon as possible,” he promised. “Anything else?”

  After several minutes of discussion over some mundane administrative matters, she signed off and let Johnson get started. She thought through what she’d done and what she knew. She’d reached out to Peterson, who’d gone missing after talking to her. She’d reached out to Staci Smith, who appeared to have gone missing after talking to her. Tori wasn’t missing, but someone appeared to have followed her away from Brenda’s house.

  Was Tori in danger? Unlike a retired, alcoholic cop and a low-rent stripper, Tori was a medium-profile, semipublic figure. She couldn’t just get disappeared without fallout. Would Tori’s career success insulate her from danger? Brenda knew she was skirting one possib
ility.

  Tori had largely ignored, rebuffed, and insulted Brenda for months until Donnelly’s murder. Now she was showing up at the house, calling, offering to help. Was she just playing Brenda? Would it be dangerous to ignore the possibility that Tori was one of the bad guys?

  Chapter Six

  “I’m just ready for a change.”

  “Well, young lady, that’s wonderful!” The cologne-soaked salesman leaned close and attempted a flirtatious leer. “I’m sure we can find something that works for you.” He eyed Brenda’s ancient Chevy Caprice with skepticism and a wide, soulless smile. After all, a commission was a commission.

  She turned away from the neon ribbons and red balloons that festooned the front of the low-end dealership. She chucked her chin at the less festive rear of the car lot. “Show me the cheapest used model you have that actually runs.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to look at one of our more affordable newer options? We have special financing and incentives for some very fine sedans. No credit is too bad for Swann’s Fine Autos!”

  “No thanks. I’ll be paying with cash.” She rattled the paper bag she was holding under one arm. She’d stopped by the credit union on her way to the second-rate auto row that lit up the southern end of Briarwood, and already she had misgivings. But she was here now, and she might as well go through with it.

  The salesman nodded as though lugging a lunch sack full of money to the used car lot was a perfectly normal thing to do. She recalled the array of fast-food restaurants, check-cashing shops and liquor stores she’d passed on her way to the dealership. Now that she considered it, she thought maybe more than a few of Swann’s customers bought vehicles with bags of cash.

  She looked across the street at Dan Miller’s Watchdogs headquarters. The black cube looked like something from a science-fiction movie. She turned away from Watchdogs and eyeballed her choices.

  Twenty minutes later, she was driving a battered 2007 Dodge Caliber. The diminutive Dodge wouldn’t have been her first choice under normal circumstances, but for now it suited her needs. It was black, careworn and unobtrusive. Fiddling with the creaky controls of the wheezing car stereo, she reminded herself she needed to replace the shuddering old Caprice anyway, and she could always trade in the Caliber on something else later.