Eye of the Witch

by Dana Donovan

  THREE

  We arrived at Detective Webber’s apartment building just as it started raining. A faint chalk line in the approximate shape of a human body was still visible on the sidewalk out front. I stood on the spot and looked straight up, blinking into the rain. One of the balconies four stories up still had crime scene tape flagging from its railings. I imagined that a fall from such a height would almost certainly kill a person instantly. For Detective Webber’s sake, I hoped that was the case. I looked at Carlos and found him assessing the situation similarity. He looked at me and we both looked down at the chalk line.

  “Probably quick,” he said.

  I nodded. “Yup.”

  We took the elevator to the fourth floor and found the sounds of life abuzz within the building. A television set in one unit drowned out a baby’s wail in another. Down the hall, a woman hollered at her husband to get out and find a job. He hollered back that there weren’t any because the Mexicans had moved into town and taken them all. Carlos found that exchange particularly amusing, since the debate had been argued in Spanish. On the other side of a door, marked STAIRWELL, the steady thumping of a boom box pulsed like the heartbeat of the building. A small dog, probably a terrier, yelped upon our approach from behind another closed door. I imagined it trotting off in triumph back to his doggy bed after hearing us move on without breaking into his castle.

  We found Karen Webber’s apartment at the end of the hall, next to the Spanish couple’s unit. Carlos had secured a door key from the building super earlier, exercising the rule of domain jurisdiction for tactical investigative purposes.

  “For what?” I asked him, after learning of the excuse he gave. “The rule of….”

  “Domain jurisdiction for tactical investigative purposes. You’ve heard of it?”

  “I didn’t,” I said, “because you just made it up!”

  He pressed his finger to his lips. “No. I didn’t just make it up. I made it up this morning. But the super doesn’t need to know that.”

  He unlocked the door and I pushed him into the room when it opened. The apartment seemed a lot smaller than I expected, barely a studio, really. But then Karen did live alone and hardly needed anything larger. And considering the atmosphere of the rest of the building, she had managed to transform the place into quite a cozy little flat. The furnishing (a little too French Provincial for my tastes) were neat, pictures on the walls tasteful and aesthetic. As a trained eye, I saw where police investigators had turned a few things over and poked at some of Karen’s belongings, but otherwise I imagined the apartment appeared just as she left it. On the dinette table, a place setting for two remained untouched, with two empty wineglasses waiting by a bottle of Bordeaux, which sat in an ice bucket soaking in water. A three-day-old pan of cooked lasagna sat on the stovetop growing brown and fuzzy. I turned to Carlos and found him thumbing through a stack of CDs by the stereo.

  “Carlos, run it by me again,” I said. “What’s the going theory about what happened here?”

  He pulled a CD from the stack and held it up, smiling. “Ooh, I love this one. Have you heard this girl yet, Nora Jones? She kicks at old school.”

  I shook my head. “No. What is it, that Rap crap?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, Tony, that’s it. Rap crap. That’s the kind of music I like.”

  “Well I don’t know, Carlos. I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. I’m more into Classical: Beethoven, Mozart, that kind of stuff.”

  “I know. You’re stuck in a time warp. You should broaden your horizons. Think more contemporary.”

  “I do think contemporary. I listen to Goodman, Miller, Artie Shaw…guys like that, too.”

  “Ooh, real hip.”

  “Hey, songs like Moonglow and Stardust, they don’t ever go out of style.”

  He looked at me with creased brows. “Yeah, like that trench coat?”

  I splayed my arms and looked down at my attire. “What?”

  “Tony, detectives haven’t worn trench coats since the days of Sam Spade, Dick Tracy and Inspector Clouseau.”

  “So? Those men were all fine detectives.”

  “They were all fictional!”

  I looked down at my coat again and pulled on the creases. “Can we get back to what happened here?”

  He tossed the CD on top of the stack. “There’s the balcony,” he said, pointing across the room. “She jumped from there.”

  I looked back at it, but didn’t go to the door, yet. “Any witnesses?”

  “Four: teenage boys hanging out on the street corner. They all saw the same thing. Karen Webber stepped out onto the balcony, alone, hiked her dress up above her knees, climbed up over the railing and fell forward.”

  “And they saw no one else?”

  “Not until the police busted into her apartment ten minutes later.” He turned and pointed to the door. A security chain, still attached to its latch, dangled from a piece of wood on a splintered jamb.

  “The door was locked from the inside?” I started looking around for other points of entry, when Carlos stopped me.

  “Save it, Tony. There are no other windows or doors. There’s only one way in and two ways out.”

  “Two?”

  He pointed across the room again.

  I looked back over my shoulder at the balcony. “Oh, right.” I walked to the dinette table and refocused my attention on the place settings. “She was expecting company.”

  “Yup.”

  “A dinner date?”

  “I guess.”

  “Did he ever show?”

  “Not while the investigation was going on.”

  “Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  He crowded his brows and thinned his lips. “I don’t know.” Then he perked up. “Maybe that’s why she jumped.”

  “Because she got stood up?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I thought you thought she didn’t jump.”

  “Right. I don’t. I’m just looking at it from all angles.”

  “Keeping an open mind, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  I took the conversation to the sliders overlooking the balcony. “I see black powder here on the glass and handle. They must have dusted for prints.”

  “They did,” said Carlos. He pointed to several other places around the apartment where prints had been lifted. “I think they got about a half-dozen really good ones. Unfortunately, they all belonged to Karen. Hey, do you suppose the killer wiped the place down?”

  “That thought crossed my mind, but if there was a killer, it’s more likely he wore gloves.”

  I watched a whisk of disappointment blow across his face. “If? So, you still think she committed suicide?”

  “Like you said, we have to keep that door open, which leads me back to this dinner date of hers. Has anyone checked her phone records to see if she received any calls before she…went over? Maybe her date phoned in a cancellation.”

  Carlos took a small notepad from his pocket and started writing. “No, but that’s good. It might help us. I’ll get Dominic on it right away.”

  “While you’re at it, have him ask around the station and—”

  “The box.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what we call the justice center, Tony. We don’t call it the station.”

  “How come?”

  His eyes looked down briefly and then up, empty. “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm, that sounds about right. Anyway, have Dominic ask around. See if anyone knows who Karen may have been dating.” I pointed to the broken chain on the door. “And what about that? Do we know for sure the cops broke the chain busting into the apartment?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Suppose isn’t certain.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that you know me better. You tell me?”

  He turned and gave the door a good hard look. I could see his thoug
ht process at work, churning out ideas that he had not previously considered. He touched his chin whiskers and stroked them absentmindedly. Then his eyes moved down to the doorknob, and I imagined a light bulb in his head turning on at that moment. He spun about on his heel and pointed at me, excitedly.

  “They didn’t bust in, did they? If the cops busted through the door, then the jamb along the doorknob would also have splintered! Karen opened the door with the chain still latched, right?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Yeah. I bet she answered the door for someone she knew, and then had second thoughts about letting him in.”

  “You’re working it now.”

  “So, Karen tried to shut the door, but whoever it was pushed it open, breaking the chain in the process. Then at gunpoint, forced Karen to the balcony and made her jump. He probably stood back far enough from the window so that no one in the street could see him. Am I right?”

  I smiled proudly at him, rewarded by the enthusiasm of his spirit. It reminded me of all the years we worked together, and of his total willingness to embrace new possibilities. “Honestly,” I told him, “I don’t know. But if the investigators believed that the first responders broke the door in, then they would have no reason to suspect that Karen wasn’t here alone.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Let’s follow up on that. And I don’t just mean reading the responding officer’s report. Maybe the medical examiner took the wording too literally. If it said, ‘We broke in…’ and he assumed the broken chain meant by force, then we could have a serious misinterpretation on our hands.”

  Carlos made another notation in his little book. “Got it,” he said, punching a period at the end of his note. “I’ll get with Dom, find out who the officer was and we’ll go straight to the horse’s mouth.” He looked up from his notepad. “Now, there’s just one more thing.”

  I checked my watch. It was twelve-thirty. “You want to go eat now.”

  He pulled the car keys from his pocket and jingled them in front of me. “It’s Monday.”

  I admit that I shrugged at the significance of that. “What’s so special about Mondays?”

  He looked at me as if I had just stepped off the short bus. “Tony! Monday is meatball madness day at the Perk. Twice the meatballs for half the price.”

  “You’re a meatball,” I said, and I snatched the keys from his hand. “I’ll drive. I don’t want you getting us killed over mashed meat.”

  We shut the apartment door and locked up behind us. The rain had stopped while we were inside, but that didn’t make me want to give the keys back to Carlos. The truth was I didn’t want to get to The Percolator too quickly. The thought of meatballs smothered with grated Parmesan made me want to hurl. I hoped we would spot another restaurant that I might talk him into going to, instead. Almost anything else would do. But Carlos had his heart set on meatballs. He’s like a kid that way. And me, I’m just a big softy with kids. Ten minutes later, I pulled the car into the parking lot of The Percolator. We spotted another unmarked cruiser there, though not a Crown Vic. Carlos informed me it was Dominic Spinelli’s ride.

  “What, you all get a car?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Sure, since you retired we can afford it now.”

  I jabbed him in the arm. “Smart ass.” I knew it was someone else’s ride, but I let him believe he got me. “Just for that,” I told him. He should have seen it coming. “You can buy.”

  He grumbled his acceptance.

  The Percolator had not changed much in the months since I last visited it. But then months in the life of the Perk were like minutes in history. They still brewed coffee from a vintage brewer, circa 1940, and I swear the grease on the griddle is left over from the hash browns I ordered on my first day on the beat. In a way it was sort of like coming home again. It gave me a warm feeling and a sense of nostalgia that made me long for the old days. It’s funny how the simple things in life can sometimes stick with you the longest. Isn’t it?

  Carlos and I got lucky and found a booth in the corner that had just opened up. We no sooner sat down, when Carlos asked if I remembered an incident that happened there, involving a coffee spill and a certain waitress who tried to dry the spill from his lap. I told him I did, and that he should still feel embarrassed about it.

  “I do,” he replied, and then pointed across the room at a young blond-haired beauty working the lunch counter. “But you know after that little misunderstanding we became good friends. Her name is Natalie, and she hears all the dope on everything going on around town, both from the cops here and her regulars. Maybe she heard some scuttlebutt about Karen Webber or Bridget Dean.”

  I picked up a menu and began leafing through it, hoping to spot something lighter than the usual grease plates that I might manage to hold down. The entire time I could see Carlos leaning forward on his elbows, straining to peer over the menu to hold my attention.

  “So, what do you think?” he said, and he actually put his finger on the top of the menu and bent it down an inch. “You think I should go over there and ask her?”

  He seemed eager for me to say yes. I couldn’t tell if it was because of his drive to solve the case, or his desire to show me how well he connected with young women. And since he doesn’t connect well with young women, I suspected the latter. I snapped the fold back into the menu and pulled it from his reach. “I don’t know, Carlos,” I told him. “Maybe later. She looks busy now. Besides, I’d rather not everyone within earshot know our business.”

  He settled back into his seat, a little deflated. I knew that would only last about a minute before he perked up with another bright idea. He hadn’t even opened his menu when it hit him.

  “I know!” he sounded more excited than the idea warranted. “I could leave her a note; ask her to call me on her break.”

  “Oh, that’s a good idea.” I rolled my eyes, expecting he’d pick up on the sarcasm. “Why don’t you do that, Carlos?”

  I didn’t have the heart to stop him after he pulled his notepad from his pocket and started writing. Besides, it bought me a little peace and quiet for the moment, long enough to decide what I wanted for lunch. When our waitress came by, I ordered up toast and coffee. I figured I couldn’t go wrong with that. Carlos didn’t need to look at the menu. He ordered a meatball sub with extra meatballs. I thought he might even ask for a meatball shake to wash it all down. If I gave him the idea, he probably would have. Instead, he went with a more reasonable choice: Coke. I can’t tell you how glad I was for that.

  After taking our orders, our waitress accepted the note from Carlos intended for Natalie. He instructed her not to let anyone else read it. “It’s police business,” he whispered, his hand to the side of his mouth. Then he gave her a wink and shooed her away. He looked at me after she left, smiling at his own cleverness. I shook my head and made a tisk-tisk sound through my teeth.

  “What?” he said. I watched his smile fade.

  “Do you think that was wise?” I asked him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That note. You don’t really think she’ll give it to Natalie without reading it. Do you?” I almost started laughing.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You told her it was police business. Curiosity will surely get the better of her. She’ll read it and think you’ll want to ask questions about her. Natalie will never get it now.”

  “You think?”

  “Sure.” The urge to really let it out nearly overtook me. But you learn to keep a poker face when you’re a cop, especially when playing a joke on a fellow officer. And the longer you can keep it up, the greater the reward. I kept a straight face and dismissed it like it meant nothing. “You know what, Carlos?” I waved my hand in a flutter. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get to talk to her some other time.”

  I probably shouldn’t have done it to him. Carlos worried so much about Natalie getting his note, that he barely touched his extra meatballs. All during lunch I caught him looking over his sho
ulder at the lunch counter to see if she would notice him. Each time he saw her eyes drifting toward our booth, he would try nodding or waving to get her attention. Despite his efforts, or in spite of them, she failed to acknowledge his existence.

  We were about to ask for our tab and leave, when I heard the little bell chiming up over the door. At once, nearly every head in the place turned, including Carlos’. In all my years, I only knew one individual who could command that kind of presence when entering a room. I turned to the door, and her name spilled from my lips like a song.

  “Lilith Adams.”

  She appeared more stunning than I remembered. Perhaps because the last time we met, I was actively engaged in an investigation to nail her for murder. You tend to see through a person’s beauty when you factor a homicide into the equation. With the fog of nadir lifted, I could now fully appreciate the utter brilliance of her beauty. Her skin, the color of cappuccino even in the perpetual gloom of New England’s April rains, seemed to radiate a luminescence unequaled in nature. Her long black hair flowed in silky threads like smoke on glass. She stood against the open door, one hand on her hip, one knee bent, her blue jeans tighter than cellophane, her buttoned shirt half-opened down the front but tucked in along the back. It’s not to say that I had forgotten Lilith Adams altogether, though hard I tried. Visions of her all but consumed me the first few weeks I was away from New Castle. Shades of Lilith filled my sleepless nights. I could not shake the insult of her sassy attitude, snide remarks and daring laugh. Her cocky posture burned in silhouette deep within the crevices of my mind. A man my age can only hope to forget such things in a woman, especially one so much younger and vivacious. But there is one thing a man can never forget, something I will never forget: her eyes, her wildly captivating, hopelessly hypnotic, fathomless, flirtatious, blazing and beguiling ebony eyes. They shall haunt me in my dreams for as long as I live. I have looked into those eyes and seen the fervency of hell, yet I hold that somewhere in her soul she knows of it only from a distance.