The Devil's Eye

by J. R. Rain

  Rick fakes a shrug. “Oh, just the look on your face when everyone said ‘Merida’ at the same time.”

  And yeah, I get that sometimes. Okay, all the time. Thank you, Disney, for turning me into a walking, talking mascot for the movie, Brave. I really should be on their payroll. At least it’s a good movie. Okay, I admit I watched it and don’t have any kids.

  Anyway, I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  “Oh, come on, Maddy. You look just like her.”

  “Sure I do, maybe twenty years later.”

  “Naw, twelve years later, tops. You could pass for twenty-eight. A hard twenty-eight.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Mr. Lewis is in a body bag but still present, so I refuse to laugh. Still, I smile at Rick. “What other Disney princess could I possibly go as anyway?” I wave a handful of my hair at him. “I’m kinda stuck.”

  He shrugs. “Like I’m some kind of authority.”

  “You have kids, Rick.”

  “Yeah, a pair of boys who aren’t into the princess thing.”

  “Your Jack Sparrow last year wasn’t half bad.”

  Rick mimics the famous pirate’s posture. “I might be able to do the voice better if I actually have a few drinks beforehand.”

  “Greer would tear you a new one.”

  He whistles. “Yeah, she would.”

  Pity it’s an official department charity event, or I’d ask Elise to go. She’s the youngest member of my coven and could pull off an amazing Queen Elsa from Frozen, complete with platinum-blonde hair. Well, maybe a Tim-Burtonized, depressed Elsa. The girl’s twenty, but she passes for seventeen, especially with a little makeup on. Problem being, she’s about as opposite in personality as one can get from the Disney character. In a room full of people she doesn’t know (much less sick children), she’s barely able to talk.

  But anyway…

  “So, I’m thinking we’re looking for a transient who happened to be walking down the road. Mr. Lewis sees the guy, stops for whatever reason, and gets bashed in the head for his trouble.”

  “Or perhaps the Brian Lewis bloke had a flat,” says Rick in his best Captain Jack Sparrow voice. “Mayhaps the murderous knave found the unfortunate Mr. Lewis after he’d already stopped.”

  I twist some hair around my fingers. “Possible, but I don’t think our killer would’ve continued changing a tire after whacking the guy.”

  “Unless he waited for the car to be drivable before he attacked,” says Rick.

  I nod. “Good point.”

  Waiting for the coroner’s team to finish is maddening, but eventually, they have Mr. Lewis loaded up in the van and on his way to the ME’s office. Rick and I make a final sweep around the area, checking for anything we may have missed. He gets a few more photos of the blood on the road and guardrail, and we leave the scene to the patrol officers to watch until a crew shows up to clean the mess.

  Our first stop is the liquor store in the Capital Mall where the Visa card turned up. On the ride, I keep digging on the laptop, and find a pair of ATM withdrawals of $300 each. Guess the killer sobered up enough to realize using the credit card of the man he just killed is practically inviting us over for tea. The more I think about this case, the greater my feeling becomes that Rick might be correct. Our killer is probably suffering from mental illness, or at least a strong case of not giving a shit. I’ve heard of homeless people committing crimes for the sole sake of getting a roof over their head, but they usually don’t escalate to murder one.

  Since we have the vehicle registration, I put out a BOLO on the plate number for his Saab. Call it an educated guess, but if this guy is going to dispose of the murder weapon by throwing it down in a ditch thirty feet from the dead body, I’m betting he’s not going to take great pains to hide the car. Headed for a chop shop, this one isn’t.

  ***

  The man behind the counter at the liquor store offers a friendly wave when we set off the electronic door chime. He’s probably three days past being legal to drink, but has a curly, brown beard halfway down his chest. I still don’t understand that whole ‘skinny guy dressed like a lumberjack’ thing. This store smells like someone set off a bomb of cedar chips and beef jerky, and they’ve got the A/C on North Pole, despite it being a cool day.

  Rick and I do the introduction and badge routine. Surprisingly, the clerk doesn’t change his demeanor at all. Usually, people get nervous around cops―especially homicide detectives. We need a warrant to demand anything, but there’s no harm in asking.

  “We were hoping you might be able to tell us who used a stolen Visa card at 10:14 this morning.”

  “The transaction’s for $88.13,” adds Rick.

  “Uhh, yeah. I think I remember the dude. Surprised me when he pulled out a credit card, yanno? He didn’t look the type to have one.”

  “The type?” asks Rick.

  Cringing, the clerk chuckles. “He had a certain… aroma to him, if you get what I’m saying? I thought he might’ve been a vagrant or something, but I didn’t, like, wanna offend him or anything.”

  “You didn’t cross check his driver’s license?” asks Rick.

  The clerk gives us an ‘oops’ face. “Er, no. Dude looked plenty old enough to buy booze.”

  “Can you describe him?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” The clerk nods. “Forty or so, hadn’t shaved in a couple days, hadn’t had a shower in a couple of months. Thick eyebrows. Old-style Army coat. You know, the plain olive-drab type.”

  “I know,” I say. “Anything else?”

  “Jeans. Beat-up sneakers.”

  “White guy?” asks Rick.

  The clerk nods. “Yeah. Oh, he had a dark blue wool cap, too.”

  I point at a camera aimed directly at where I’m standing. “Any chance we could look at the surveillance video around that time?”

  “Sure, hang on a sec, okay?” The clerk takes two steps toward a curtain leading to another room. “Do me a solid and make sure no one steals for a minute?”

  “No problem.” Rick pivots around to lean his ass on the counter, watching the store.

  “Hey, Vic?” The clerk disappears behind the curtain. “Couple cops here askin’ for information.”

  A thicker, deeper voice mumbles in response. The words are unintelligible, but the tone sounds promising.

  After a few seconds, a shadow approaches the curtain, which pulls aside with a shink of metal rings, to reveal the clerk. “Sorry. You said, ten this morning?”

  “The transaction is time-stamped 10:14 a.m.,” I say.

  “Cool.” The clerk turns his head to the back room, and calls out the time.

  “Gimme a minute or two,” says the thicker voice.

  The clerk walks up behind the register again, letting the curtain flap back into place. “Just a sec. Victor―the owner―is burning it onto a DVD for you.”

  I blink. Wow. That is… amazingly helpful. I glance at Rick. Even he looks impressed. I smile at the clerk and say, “Thanks.”

  “Adam,” shouts the guy in back, about two minutes later.

  The clerk, evidently Adam, holds up a ‘be right back’ finger and ducks out of sight beyond the curtain again. Rick and I remain ever-vigilant, watching the front of the store. In a moment, Adam returns and hands us a plain DVD in a clear plastic clamshell case. “This is everything from midnight until, like, five minutes ago from the internal cameras. Vic said it’s got the guy clear as day on it.”

  “Awesome,” says Rick. “Thank you.”

  “Thanks.” I shake Adam’s hand. “You, and Victor, have been a big help.”

  Adam smiles. “Just trying to do our part, right? Keep society going and all that.”

  “It’s appreciated.” Rick nods.

  We head back to the car, where I pop the DVD into my laptop and open a media player. Video’s running before Rick’s door closes. It’s easy to drag the slider to 10:14 a.m., and sure enough, the screen fills with the scruffy face of the man most likely to be our killer. Adam’s description i
s pretty spot-on, except for the wool cap being black instead of dark blue. The man is probably in his later forties, but has more wrinkles than he should for his age. He sways like he’s still somewhat intoxicated, and never makes eye contact with the camera.

  “That guy’s scarily calm for having killed a man hours before,” says Rick.

  I tap my fingers on the edge of the laptop case. “He might not remember doing it. Mr. Lewis could’ve been killed any time between late yesterday afternoon and two in the morning, and this guy still looks half-drunk at quarter after ten.”

  “Could be nerve damage, or maybe the guy’s so used to being shit-faced, he always wobbles like that. The man’s a professional. He polished off most of a bottle of Night Train and didn’t wind up in the hospital.” Rick’s wink gives away his joke.

  “Poor bastard,” I say. “The DTs are going to kick his ass in prison.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Cold turkey’s gonna hit him hard.”

  “Assuming we find him. Any ideas?” I ask.

  Rick rubs the bridge of his nose. “Needle in a haystack. This guy might already have gone out of state. Don’t suppose you can whip up a spell or something to reel him in?”

  That gets a laugh out of me. “Come on, Santiago… the body’s not even cold yet.” And by that, I mean the ME hasn’t examined him. “We’re still looking at a couple days of canvassing the area with this guy’s picture. There’s a couple places he might turn up. Almost $90 of liquor and $600 in cash, he’s going to be everyone’s best friend. Besides, magic doesn’t quite work that way.”

  Our call sign comes over the radio. Rick’s faster to the mic since I’m covered in laptop.

  “Santiago,” says Rick into the mic. “Go ahead.”

  “A patrol unit has eyes on a green Saab matching the tags of your BOLO at a Motel 6 off I-5.”

  “The one by Trosper Road?” asks Rick.

  “Copy that,” says Dispatch.

  Rick gives me the eye. “Did you do that?”

  I rub my pentacle necklace. “Witchcraft isn’t the only magic out there. Ever hear of LoJack?”

  “That’s some powerful ancient stuff.” Rick flicks on our emergency lights and hands me the mic.

  “We’re en route,” I say into it, before relaying the description of the suspect.

  “You’re going to make me believe in that stuff someday, you know.” Rick bleeps the siren enough to roll through a red light. “No case is ever this easy.”

  I close the laptop and pull on my seat belt. “Some are. Something tells me we’re not dealing with a meticulous serial killer here. Probably trying to remember what a shower feels like, and maybe a soft bed.”

  Rick shrugs one shoulder. “I bet we’re going to find a prostitute.”

  My dismissive laugh gets him to raise an eyebrow.

  “Donuts, there’s a prostitute in there,” he adds.

  “Fine.”

  He slows on the approach to an intersection and pulls a right turn once we’re clear. “The whole squad.”

  “You’re really betting against my intuition?” I ask, amused.

  “No, I’m betting against your optimism.” He grins. “You’re far too sweet to be a cop.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I narrow my eyes at him.

  He glances at me for a brief moment. “It means you have a tendency to give people too much credit.”

  “Do me a favor? If I ever stop doing that, tell me it’s time to find a new job.”

  “Sure.” Rick grins. “What’ll you do then? Open up a little shop and sell candles, incense and whatnot?”

  “That’s an option. Maybe I’d even spawn.”

  “Better get on that quick,” says Rick. “Forty’s sneaking up on you.”

  My eyes narrow. “So I’m an old maid now? Thirty-five’s plenty young enough to reproduce, thank you very much. And you shouldn’t call a witch old, by the way. Not unless you want to spend a few days hopping around your backyard as a frog.”

  He laughs, which gets me laughing too. “You think this guy’s going to be the one?” ‘This guy’ is Caius, my live-in boyfriend. Though I suppose it’s more technically accurate to say I’m his live-in girlfriend. He owns the house; his family’s got a bit of money. They’re not like yacht-and-Bentley-rich or anything, but Caius works because he wants to. He’s also the son of our coven’s matriarch, Abigail. Thinking about the idea of handfasting―our term for marriage―with him is… surprisingly tempting. We’ve known each other going on ten years now and have been dating for at least six of them.

  “Maybe.”

  “He still a big-shot music guy or whatever?” asks Rick.

  “Right.” I can’t help but shake my head. “Big shot is a bit overstating it, but yeah, he’s still a music producer.”

  “Game face,” says Rick. “Here we are.”

  He cuts the emergency lights, and a half-minute later drives into the parking lot of a Motel 6. A lone black Olympia Police car lurks near the far right. A thick-necked male officer with a brush cut inside points out an ordinary-looking green Saab parked closer to the building. While Rick circles us around toward the manager’s office, I snag a quick cell phone picture of the laptop screen showing the suspect’s face. The patrol unit follows us.

  I lead the way into the office with Rick and two uniformed officers behind me.

  A young woman behind the counter looks up and goes wide-eyed at my outstretched badge.

  “Hi. I’m Detective Wimsey with the Olympia PD. Have you seen this guy?” I hold up the phone.

  “Nope. Sorry.” The clerk shakes her head.

  “When did you start your shift?” I ask.

  “Nine,” says the woman.

  “Probably wasn’t here when he rented a room. If the guy even rented a room. He might’ve only ditched the car here.” Rick sets his hands on his hips. “Maybe I spoke too soon about easy.”

  “Hang on.” I lean on the counter. “Do you have a room registered to a Brian Lewis?”

  She checks the computer, keys clicking for a moment. “Yes. Looks like he paid cash. We have a copy of his driver’s license.”

  “That shouldn’t be possible,” I mutter. Mr. Lewis’ license was still in the wallet I found. “Can I see it?”

  The young woman rummages a file cabinet behind the desk and comes back with a sheet of paper showing a photocopy of a card with a blurry picture of Mr. Lewis that appears to be a work ID badge. The time of the check-in is 3:42 a.m., so I’m betting the half-asleep clerk here at the time wouldn’t have been able to tell a driver’s license from a lottery card.

  “Great. Thanks. We’ll need a key.” I turn around to face Rick and the two cops. “Room 17.”

  “I can open it for you,” says the clerk, standing.

  “Are you even eighteen yet?” asks Rick.

  “I am eighteen,” says the girl.

  “We’d rather you stay here where it’s safe.” I hold out my hand. “We don’t know if the guy is armed or not.”

  She timidly hands over a white plastic key card. “Okay.”

  Rick reaches for it, but I hang onto it.

  “I got it,” says Rick.

  “I’ll hold the door so you big strong men can go in first,” I say in a fake ‘helpless woman’ voice.

  The officers chuckle.

  We hurry down a long strip of sidewalk under an awning, past door after door. Room 17 is the second one after an L-bend in the building. I draw my weapon, a department-issued M&P 40, as I ease up to the door. Canned laughter from an awful daytime TV game show emanates from within. The low volume tells me the set’s merely on for background noise, or perhaps forgotten, and won’t be absorbing anyone’s attention. Each room has a knob consisting of a large metal box with a handle, above which sits a credit card-sized slot. It’s probably going to beep when I put the key in, though it might not be loud enough for anyone in the room to hear over the game show.

  Rick and the two officers line up behind me. The door open
s outward, so I’m going to have to fling it aside and rush in. Hope the guys don’t think I was serious about letting them go first.

  Goddess protect me.

  I nod to Rick and seat the key in the slot. It beeps as expected, but it’s faint. No reaction comes from inside. After one deep, preparatory breath, I shove the door open and jump in while shouting, “Police, get on the ground!”

  And promptly scare the complete shit out of two people.

  A skinny strawberry-blonde woman on my left, sitting by the window wearing only panties, startles at my entry, fumbling a cigarette lighter and spoon, spilling boiling heroin all over a little table. The guy we’re looking for is sitting on the bed facing me, naked as a newborn. His half-gone bottle of wine slips from his fingers and drops straight down onto the rug. No weapons appear to be in plain view.

  He barely has a chance to shout before Rick and the two officers are on him. I turn my attention toward the woman, who screams and falls off her chair, arms crossed over her face. She wails like a six-year-old who wiped out on her bicycle.

  “Roll over, keep your hands where I can see them,” I say to the woman, ignoring her cries.

  She complies, trembling, and whimpering, “Please don’t hurt me” over and over. I ignore that too.

  After they cuff the man, Rick goes to grab a set of underwear from the rug, but recoils away from it. “Hang on… I’m gettin’ this guy a towel. Those things need to be burned.”

  Our suspect’s stunned silence wears off in a sudden flurry of screaming and flailing legs. “Damn lizards! You ain’t gonna get me!” He drives his heel into one cop’s groin and tries to stomp the other one in the gut, all the while screaming about alien overlords impersonating humans.

  I pivot to my right, gun not quite aimed at the flailing man.

  Both cops yell, “Calm down!” and “stop resisting!” repeatedly, though the drifter continues to freak out, resulting in the officers hauling him off the bed to the floor.

  Little Miss Timid picks that moment to spring at me, shrieking like a banshee and grabbing two fistfuls of my hair. “This is my gig, bitch! Go find your own john!”

  I spin toward her, ducking to get some slack on my hair while grabbing her wrist with my free left hand. She’s maybe ninety pounds, easy to fling to the ground with a pain-compliance twist of her arm. The landing knocks most of the air out of her lungs, changing her screams into wheezing. Rick’s not quite halfway across the room to us by the time she’s sucking on a face full of carpet with my knee in the middle of her back. I holster my M&P and grab the cuffs off my belt.