The Devil's Eye

by J. R. Rain

  “Dave’s over there,” says the man, pointing.

  “Thanks again.” I walk three bays over, stop, and ask in a loud tone, “Dave Swanson?”

  A short guy with light brown hair and close-set eyes stands up from under a little SUV. He looks like the license photo I pulled up back at the office. “Can I help you?”

  “You’re Dave Swanson?”

  “You got him. What’s this about?” He walks around the front of the micro-SUV and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “What’s up?”

  I show him my badge and we introduce ourselves. The badge has little effect on Dave, no stranger to the police. “Do you know a guy named Walter Manning?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Dave nods. “We kinda hang out sometimes.”

  Rick edges up next to me. “How close would you say you are with him?”

  “I dunno.” He pulls one hand out to scratch behind his right ear. “Met the guy at a bar a couple years ago and we started bullshitting. He ain’t from the area, and neither am I, so we kinda wound up hangin’ out. Uhh, why are the cops asking about Walt?”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” asks Rick.

  “Uhh.” Dave puffs air out, making his cheeks swell up. “Week maybe? He came over to my place and we caught the Seahawks game. Had wings, beer. Maybe too much beer… he slept on the rug in the living room.” Dave chuckles.

  “When was that, exactly?” I ask.

  “Last week, Wednesday. Seahawks versus the Pats.” Dave glances at Rick. “Hey, how can you tell if the Pats are cheating?”

  Rick’s eyebrows go up with a slight frown of contemplation. “Umm, the ball’s light on air?”

  “Naw.” Dave grins. “They’re on the field. But that’s a pretty good try.”

  I’m not a sports fan, but I know the gang back at the station are. Both boys sound like sour grapes. “I take it the Hawks lost?”

  Dave rolls his eyes. “Yeah. That’s why we wound up on the floor passed out. Damn Pats.”

  “Money riding on it?” asks Rick.

  “Just a pool around here.” Dave gestures at the service bay. “Not like real gambling. Dunno if Walt had any action going on at his place. So, uhh… what happened? Is Walt in trouble?”

  I let the air out of my lungs. “Mr. Manning was found dead yesterday.”

  Dave blanches, jaw open. “Oh, shit… what the fuck?” He rakes a hand up through his hair and shivers. “Wow. I mean… dude had some demons, but he was really trying to turn it around.”

  “Demons?” I ask.

  He bounces a little and can’t seem to figure out where to put his hands. “Record, you know… little trouble with the law. That was all behind him, he said. He had a decent thing going on at that construction yard.”

  “Seems like he didn’t have a whole lot of friends,” says Rick. “Can you think of anyone who might’ve had a particular reason to want to hurt him?”

  Dave shakes his head. “Naw, man. Walt wasn’t a people-type person. He didn’t go out of his way to expand his social circle. Wow.” He exhales. “I can’t believe the dude’s dead. That’s, like, really fucked up. You guys really don’t have any idea who did it?”

  “The case is currently ongoing,” I say evenly, our standard response. “Are you aware of any other friends or associates he may have?”

  Dave shakes his head. “Umm. If he hung out with anyone else, he never mentioned them to me.”

  Hmm. Walter had one other person he called fairly often over the past month, though the calls didn’t last long. Then again, his calls to Dave’s phone didn’t last long either. Some guys aren’t talkers. Must be a man thing to have a full conversation in forty seconds.

  “All right,” I say and hand him one of our business cards. “Please call us if you think of anything that might help.”

  “Yeah.” Dave studies the card. “So, like, when’s the funeral and stuff?”

  “No idea.” Rick shakes his head. “We’re still trying to locate any next of kin. Did he ever mention any family to you?”

  Dave purses his lips, squinting in thought. “I think he said something about a sister, but she didn’t get along with him.”

  I perk up at the mention of the sister.

  Rick arcs an eyebrow. “Any idea why? Could whatever went on between them have been bad enough to make her want to hurt him?”

  “Doubt it.” Dave shakes his head. “She’s all uptight about him havin’ a record and all. Think she’s got a kid or something and doesn’t want a ‘criminal’ around the baby.”

  “Ahh.” I add ‘sister probably real, has a child’ to my notes. Well, if his sister actually does exist and isn’t part of a cover story, that’s a little more information. “Thank you for your time.”

  “No problem.”

  Rick points at him. “Don’t lose that card. If you think of anything, no matter how insignificant, let us know.”

  “Right. Will do.” Dave salutes us with the card before tucking it in a breast pocket.

  We’re about halfway across the dealership on the way back to our car when a fiftyish man in an awful tweed suit runs over to us. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but thin, and has a tight, well-sculpted helmet of curly grey hair. The man’s almost a caricature amalgam of a televangelist and used car salesman.

  “Detectives?” asks the guy. “I’m Peter Johnson, the general manager.”

  Rick’s eyebrows go up; he almost snickers.

  Boys and their ding-a-lings. I nod and repeat our introductions.

  Mr. Johnson clasps his hands together, grimacing at me. “I’d like to apologize for the comment one of my maintenance associates made to you earlier. We take such things very seriously here, and I’d like you to know it won’t happen again.”

  I stare at him blankly for a moment. Shit, I’d almost forgotten the comment. If Rick’s mouth opens, he’s going to laugh at this guy, so he keeps quiet and I jump in.

  “Thank you.” I manage not to smirk at him. Based on that one female service agent’s reaction, they haven’t been taking harassment all that seriously. I wonder if he’s apologizing because I’m a cop, or if he thinks I might be inclined to buy a car from him. “There’s no need for the man to lose his job, but he could do with some attitude adjustment.”

  Mr. Johnson nods at us. “I agree. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, thank you. We’re done here.”

  “Either of you need a new car?”

  “We’re investigating a murder,” I say. “Want to reconsider that question?”

  “My apologies. Have a good day.”

  “No shame,” Rick mutters when we’re not-quite-out-of-earshot.

  Once we’re outside and the door closes behind us, I say, “That man’s parents were cruel.”

  Rick bursts out laughing.

  I take advantage of his momentary incapacitation to steal the driver’s seat back.

  “So, onto the other friend?” asks Rick, hopping in.

  “Yeah. Alan Chan, I think it is.”

  Rick snickers when I start the car. “Hi, I’m Penis Penis, the general manager.” Again, he snickers.

  I smirk at him. “Why do men find that funny?”

  He wipes tears from the corners of his eyes on his tie. “Oh, I dunno. It just is. Poor bastard. Admit it; you were trying not to grin at him.”

  My lips twitch. “I admit to nothing.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Okay, maybe a little.”

  Rick’s chuckles to himself as I pull out of the parking lot.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Or It’s Free

  The second number belongs to Alan Chan.

  Before we left the office, I pulled his address and place of employment, Gino’s Pizzeria. He’s renting a bedroom out of a larger house on the southeast end of Pattison Lake, an area called Kelly’s Korner.

  A healthy elderly woman, white and clearly not related to Alan, answers the doorbell. She looks bewildered by our presence until we
hold up our badges. “Oh. Police?”

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” I say on autopilot. It’s not even 11:30 yet. I don’t bother correcting myself. Close enough. “Is Mr. Chan home?”

  “Oh. The apartment’s got a separate door on the right side. There’s no way to get in there through the main house. Is something wrong with Alan?”

  “No, ma’am,” says Rick. “He may know someone connected to a case we are investigating. We only need to talk to him.”

  She smiles, looking relieved. “Oh, that’s nice. He should be home now, but he may be sleeping. The boy works late.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.” The elderly woman grins at us and eases the door shut.

  On the way around the corner into the side yard, Rick asks, “Boy?”

  “He’s thirty-two. Matter of relativity.”

  A cool wind rushing in from Pattison Lake rips between the houses, fluttering my hair and nearly tearing the notepad out of Rick’s grip. The gust subsides, leaving a weaker, but noticeable breeze behind.

  Rick starts up a narrow wooden stairway that leads up to a tiny porch/deck on the second story that’s barely big enough for two adults to stand on. While he rings the bell, I hover on the first step down from the porch. Never know how someone is going to react to the police showing up at their door, and crowding up is a recipe for a problem.

  A few minutes―and more bell ringing―later, a bleary-eyed Chinese man answers the door in only boxer briefs. He’s slim but athletic and of average height, maybe five-ten. The man definitely looks like we woke him up.

  “Alan Chan?” asks Rick.

  “Yeah.” The guy scratches his stomach, scrunching up his nose. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “11:29 a.m.,” says Rick. “I’m sorry, I found out from your landlady that you work nights. We won’t take up too much of your time.”

  I peer past Alan at a tiny apartment, the entirety of which would fit in my living room. Then again, Caius’ house is pretty spacious. Alan’s bed, TV, and sofa occupy a common main room, with a miniature kitchenette in the back corner and a closet-sized door in the back leading to a tiny bathroom.

  “What’s this about?” asks Alan, while wiping at his eyes and yawning.

  Rick flashes his badge and introduces us. Interestingly, Alan doesn’t look so tired anymore. “Do you know a Walter Manning?”

  “Say again?”

  “Walter Manning,” Rick says, this time enunciating a little more clearly.

  “No idea. Never heard of the guy.”

  Rick uses his phone to show a driver’s license photo. “Can you explain why there are over a dozen calls from him to you over the past month? A lot of communication for someone you don’t know.”

  “Oh.” Alan’s expression goes sour. “That guy. Look, I deliver pizza. When I have trouble finding a place, sometimes I call the number that ordered from my cell to ask for directions. This guy’s been up my ass ever since, like, his first order. He thinks I own the pizza shop or something. Keeps trying to call me directly to order pizza and bitching about it being even a minute late.” He waves his hand side to side. “We don’t do that whole thirty minutes or no charge bullshit. Dude thinks if he catches me ten seconds late, he’s getting his pie comped.”

  “Where do you work again?” asks Rick.

  “Gino’s,” says Alan.

  I jot down the bit about harassing phone calls. “So you don’t know Mr. Manning on a personal level?”

  “Nope. I just deliver pizza to him. I don’t think the dude cooks. I’m there, like, twice a week. Hey, can you guys maybe tell him to knock off the calling thing? It’s really damn annoying.”

  “Manning is harassing you?” asks Rick.

  “Yeah. You can check it out with my boss if you want. I mean, I guess the guy was all right, but he’s damn obsessive about his pizza arriving on time.”

  My pen stops. My gaze flicks up to make eye contact. The guy was all right. Maybe he meant past tense in the case of previously encountering the guy, but neither of us have told Alan that Manning’s dead yet. This guy’s sinewy, some muscles, but he’s thin. I don’t think he could’ve overpowered a guy Manning’s size on his own. Could a harassed pizza delivery driver get so pissed off at an annoying customer they kill them and tear their guts out?

  Weak, but that stood out.

  I circle Alan’s name in my notes and write ‘was’ next to it.

  “Heh. I like my pizza hot too,” says Rick. “Your place any good?”

  Alan shrugs. “Yeah, it’s decent. Enough people seem to like it that I still have a job, so I can’t complain. So, you two here about the harassment? Did Gino call it in finally?”

  Rick shakes his head. “No. I’m afraid your phone won’t be blowing up anymore on account of Mr. Manning. He was found dead the other day.”

  “Oh.” Alan yawns. “That sucks. Kind of a shitty way to stop getting annoying phone calls, though. Dude was neurotic about his extra-large. What’d someone kill him for?”

  “Putting ketchup on pizza,” says Rick.

  Alan grimaces.

  Rick taps his notepad on his hand, grinning. “Thanks. Sorry to wake you up.”

  I manage to turn around on the narrow staircase without falling, facing into the wind.

  Rick sputters and spits behind me. “Gah! Control that beast. I’m under attack!”

  Laughing, I trot down the steps to the ground. At the bottom, Rick narrows his eyes at me with a playful fake-angry glower. One strand of my hair hangs from his lip. I pluck it loose and pretend to reattach it to the mop.

  “Ack. Almost lost some.”

  “It whipped me square in the face.” His ‘hard’ expression falters to a grin.

  “The hair’s innocent. Blame the wind.” I hop in the car and wait for him to join me. “Hey, did you catch that ‘was’?”

  “Yeah. We didn’t tell him Manning had died yet.”

  I pick at the key in the ignition without turning it. “Think it’s something or just a half-awake guy talking about a past meeting?”

  “Half-awake guys make the worst liars. It’s worth noting.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” I stare at the dashboard, brain going in circles. “What do you think now?”

  “Pizza?” Rick grins. “Talking to that guy made me kinda hungry, and it’s almost lunchtime.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Karmic Return

  I’m too distracted by thoughts of Alan Chan potentially being involved to realize what Rick intended… until we drive into the parking lot of Gino’s Pizza. Aha! Mixing work and lunch break.

  We head inside and order a pair of slices each. Plain for me, the works for Rick.

  The guy behind the counter looks well into his fifties and is probably at least part Italian, so I venture, “Are you Gino?”

  He smiles and declares, “The one and only,” before leaning close and whispering, “at least in this building.” He throws his head back and laughs. I do, too; his laughter is infectious.

  “Would you mind if we asked you a few questions about one of your employees?” I hold my badge up when the chuckling subsides.

  “Oh, boy.” Gino leans back, fuzzy eyebrows up. “Hope it’s nothing bad.”

  “Mostly just looking to verify some information. Do you have a man named Alan Chan working for you as a delivery driver?”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “Alan’s a good guy. Always on time. No complaints… except one nutjob.”

  Rick tilts his head. “Nutjob?”

  Gino nods while using that long spatula thingie to move our slices around in the oven. “Yeah, this one kook keeps pestering him. Calls him direct to place orders, loses his mind if the pie takes longer than a half hour to get to him.” He sets the slice-retriever tool up on top of the oven and faces us again. “No threats or anything. Guy’s harmless, but damn annoying.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I say. “You ever see the guy here in person or spending any time with Alan?
”

  “Oh, no.” Gino shakes his head. “I think Alan might break his nose if he cornered him here.”

  “Alan’s violent?” asks Rick.

  “Naw.” Gino waves us off. “But if a guy like that customer called me three times a week for a month, then found me at work too, I’d probably pop him one. We all would.”

  Rick chuckles. “Yeah.”

  Gino pulls our lunch out of the oven, arranges it on paper plates, and sets it on the counter. “Here you go. On me, detectives.”

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling.

  We move to a booth table and throw ideas back and forth about our theories. Rick still thinks the kids are worth looking into. Something gnaws at me about Alan, but I don’t say anything about it here in case Gino might overhear.

  In a fit of decent-but-not-awesome timing, my cell phone rings while I’m dusting slice one’s crumbs off my hands, before I can start on slice two. A torrent of shrieking assaults my ears when I answer, and after a moment, I understand it’s Colleen, my fellow coven witch, freaking out because her latest shithead boyfriend got into an accident and he’s in the hospital.

  “Slow down, hon. Take a couple breaths, and try that again,” I say.

  Colleen near-hyperventilates in the background for a few seconds before sniffling. “Okay… okay. Justin was comin’ over to my place. He wanted to take me to this little concert at a club, but I really can’t stand the kind of music they play so I didn’t want to go. He got upset and said we’d talk about it in person. On the way here, he, like, evidently tried to swerve in front of a big rig. The truck couldn’t stop. It rear-ended him and kicked his car off the road.”

  “Holy shit,” I mutter. “How is he doing?”

  “He’s in surgery.” Colleen’s voice starts to break into a pre-cry whine, but she gets herself under control before detonation. “It’s my fault.”

  Taking blame that he drove like an idiot because he’s pissed off is the sort of thing a woman accustomed to domestic abuse tends to do, which isn’t Colleen. True, she has a real knack for finding losers, but she doesn’t stick around and tolerate mistreatment. “Coll. You know that’s―”