The Devil's Eye

by J. R. Rain

  Linda walks over. “Ooh, donuts! Thank you.” She opens the top box, selects a Boston cream, and walks away.

  Rick, too, helps himself to a donut and even pours himself some coffee from the box dangling off my left hand.

  Great, I’m a living table. Nothing to do for it but wait. The more upset I get, the worse they’ll give it to me.

  Even Captain Greer takes a donut and coffee, leaving me standing there trapped by my reluctance to drop the donuts all over the floor. Andrew can’t even bear eye contact, and makes no move toward the treats.

  “Go ahead,” I mutter. “It’s fine.”

  He looks up apologetically while Rick and Ed fall into a conversation about some movie where a woman gets her hair locked in an old-school fridge, trapping her in a serial killer’s kitchen. Then they start debating how long it will take me to disassemble the doorknob and escape.

  Andrew eventually snatches a glazed donut from the box and scurries off to his desk like a manic squirrel with a treasured acorn.

  Chuckling, Rick opens the door. “You stayed a lot calmer than I would have. I’d have chucked the shit on the floor after ten seconds.”

  “Luckily, I’m far more evolved.”

  I carry the donuts and coffee and whatever dignity I have left to the table in the middle of the squad room used for this sort of thing, and set them down. Once I’ve got a strawberry jelly and a coffee in hand, I head for my desk with a mission. “I have a theory,” I say to Rick.

  Linda glances over at me. “That your hair is a hazard?”

  “Oh, it plays games but it won’t hurt me.” I chomp a healthy bite out of my donut, mentally stick my tongue out at Linda, and attack the computer.

  “Whatcha got?” asks Rick, settling into his desk with donut number three.

  I admit to mild jealousy, though I’m not sure if it’s his metabolism or lack of care toward his health that I envy. “My working theory is that Manning and two others robbed a place, stole some jewels, and wound up having a disagreement.”

  “Solid theory. Any idea who the others might be?” asks Rick.

  “Yep.”

  He sits up straight, hesitating with a donut inches from his exposed teeth. “That sounded too confident. What did you find?”

  “Nothing I can give to the DA.”

  “Magic?” asks Rick.

  “Yep.”

  Linda glances over at me. “You should get a broom with flashing lights and a siren.”

  “I can’t do the broom-riding thing,” I say. “It’s hard to fly straight with wood between my legs. Come to think about it, I may not even leave the ground.”

  Rick nearly chokes on his donut while Ed cackles. No, it’s not the first time someone’s cracked on me about a broom. I have a number of one-liners at the ready.

  She fights a smile, and looks away. “Thanks for the coffee and donuts.”

  “Thank Rick,” I say. “He made the bet I was dumb enough to agree to.”

  “We need more than magic, Wims,” says Rick, between bites.

  I nod and begin running through the system, hunting for recent reports of robberies where loose gems were stolen, disregarding cases in which the suspect took ‘a ring or two’ from a display case. I get one hit, a jewelry store in the downtown district, where the owner reported a tray of twenty-two diamonds of various sizes stolen, as well as some bracelets, a set of emerald earrings valued at $12,400, and an item listed as The Devil’s Eye, a twenty-five-carat ruby for which the owner claimed a $1.2 million loss.

  My first thought is: Gee, that doesn’t sound ominous at all. My second thought is: holy sweet mama! $1.2 million!

  As I’m poring over the report of that incident, my mouse-clicking finger freezes at a photograph of damage inside the store showing a display case smashed open with bits of safety glass all over the rug. I involuntarily rub my left shin, the same spot Walter had a few nuggets embedded under his skin.

  “Rick. Look at this.” When he walks around to stare over my shoulder at the screen, I point out the broken glass. “Walter must have kicked in the display case or maybe fell on the glass afterward.”

  “That’s too much of a coincidence to ignore.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Let’s take a ride.” I print out the evidence photo of the diamonds we recovered from the owl statue to bring along.

  “So, who’re your suspects?” asks Rick, pulling his jacket on. “You never did mention that.”

  “Oh.” I smile up at him. “Walter’s friend, Dave, and that pizza guy. They’re the only two individuals he had any semblance of contact with on a regular basis.”

  “The pizza guy? But Gino, his boss, backed up the harassment story.”

  I lock my computer and stand. “Of course. How easy would it be for Alan, the driver, to complain? Or for Walter to play along with the annoying customer act to set up an alibi?”

  “Why would Walter help the guy set up an alibi for his own murder?” Rick follows me back down the hall to the exit.

  “I’m sure he didn’t plan for that!” I stiff-arm the door open and squint at the bright sunny day outside. “They were trying to dispel the appearance of having any sort of association with each other to cover the jewel heist.”

  “Heist?” He laughs. “You’ve been watching way too many movies, young lady.”

  “Maybe I’m Bugsy Siegel reincarnated.”

  Rick laughs, and I let him drive, since I’m still seeing Toyotas everywhere, and it’s sort of freaking me out. On the way there, I tell him about the spell I cast last night, the sudden, odd craving for pizza that I took as Ceridwen pointing at Alan Chan, and of course, my new Toyota fixation.

  “Say, Walter’s ‘friend,’ Dave Swanson, is a mechanic at a Toyota dealership,” says Rick.

  “And you have to admit, Alan was on edge, too,” I add.

  Rick drums his fingers on the wheel. “He also slipped and said ‘was’ in regard to Walter before we mentioned anyone had died. I think you’re on to something, kiddo.”

  “Kiddo?”

  “It felt like a ‘kiddo’ moment.”

  I shake my head, smiling. “Could there be a connection between them and the teenagers, or did these two scumbags randomly stumble over the ritual circle?”

  “I say random. Marco told us the one guy said something like, ‘this looks good.’ They found that site by accident.”

  “Yeah.”

  ***

  The showroom of Olympia Diamond Exchange is pristine, despite the robbery occurring only two weeks ago. A woman in a glittering purple dress approaches, her sales smile weakening with each step as she gets a better and better look at my jeans-and-flannel ensemble.

  “Good morning, I’m Victoria. Can I help you find anything?”

  I hold up my badge. “Yes, actually. We’d like to speak with the owner if he’s around. Mr. Surinder Shah, I believe?”

  “Oh. Of course. One moment.” Victoria whisks off into a back office.

  We cross the sales floor to the nearest counter.

  “Cameras,” says Rick. “I see at least four.”

  I pick them out as well, little black domes on the ceiling.

  Victoria returns two minutes later and holds the door open for a late-forties man in a nice pale-tan suit. He’s on crutches, his left leg in a cast up to the knee. I don’t remember seeing anything in the robbery report about injuries, only that three women and two men who had been working at the time were left hogtied in the back room.

  “Mr. Shah?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He ambles up to the inside edge of the counter and leans on it. “I am happy to see you are still working on this case. It’s been some time now with no word.”

  “We aren’t working directly on your robbery; however, I’m confident that our case does intersect.” I show him my badge. “Detective Santiago and I are with homicide.”

  Mr. Shah’s dark brown cheeks pale a little. “Homicide? Someone was killed? How does that relate to me?”

  I open my
manila folder and set the photo of the diamonds on the counter glass. “Do you recognize these stones?”

  He picks it up and squints close at the page. “It is difficult for me to say without examining the actual gems, but these do resemble some of the loose diamonds that we reported missing.” He peers over the paper at me. “Have you found them? May I see the gems in person? I’ll be happy to go to the police station to look at them.”

  Rick smiles. “We can arrange that, yes. Having your confirmation would help.”

  “Those gems, eight of them, we found in the home of the man who was killed. I believe the men who robbed you got into a dispute over their ill-gotten gains.” I glance again at the camera bubble. “I was hoping your security system might’ve captured something useful.”

  “The men all had ski masks on,” says Victoria. Her radiant disdain for my ‘not rich person clothing’ is long gone. In hindsight, it more likely had been her disappointment at expecting a low commission. She half-leans on the counter a few feet away from me, scratching at her left wrist while staring at the rug. “I was here that day. I think one of the robbers was Chinese. I got a close look at his eyes when he dragged me by the hair into the store room.”

  “Ski masks,” mutters Rick. “That’s consistent with what the boy saw.”

  “Yeah.” I look at Mr. Shah. “What happened to your leg?”

  “My foot. Last month, I went out for coffee soon after arriving here in the morning. While crossing the street, I slipped and a truck ran over my foot.”

  “Ooh. Ouch.” I cringe.

  “You’re telling me.” He chuckles. “Better my foot than my head. I laughed at the idea of a curse, but that was a warning, I’m sure.”

  “Curse?” I ask.

  He nods, as if he hadn’t just uttered something most people would consider complete nonsense. “One of the items stolen, Detective, was a twenty-five-carat perfect ruby.” Mr. Shah’s eyebrows draw close with anger.

  “The Devil’s Eye,” I say.

  “Yes, that’s right.” He looks up at me, surprised. “How did you know that?”

  “I read the police reports of the burglary, but the robbery division didn’t have anything from your security feed.”

  “That’s because one of the thieves knew the system and erased it,” says Victoria. “He’s why Rebecca quit. She used to be the manager, but the guy forced her at gunpoint to log into the system with her password. After she got him in, he erased everything. She’s seeing a psychiatrist now for post-traumatic stress.”

  “So the man was familiar with the system then, only needed your manager’s login credentials.” Rick jots that down in his notepad.

  “Yes.” Victoria nods.

  My mind is still reeling. “You did say something about a curse, correct?”

  Mr. Shah nods. “A colleague of mine in Chennai warned me not to trade that gem.” He shakes his head, sighing. “I didn’t believe in the foolishness of curses, of course―back then.”

  Rick’s eyebrows go up. “You’re serious?”

  “Look at my foot, Detective.” Mr. Shah smiles. “And you are investigating the death of one of the thieves, correct? What troubles me most is how the thieves seemed to know I had this gem. They came right for it.” The man scratches at his right eyebrow, exhaling in frustration. “I suppose it’s better to have it stolen than wind up dead myself.” His somberness evaporates with a laugh. “Assuming you believe in that sort of thing. Have you found it?”

  “Not yet.” I tap my pen on the notepad. “Er, what sort of curse are we talking about here?”

  He eyes my pentacle necklaces and crescent-moon earrings. “You, the police, take such things seriously?”

  “I do.” I grin, then jab a thumb in Rick’s direction. “My partner, not so much. The department as a whole, even less than him.”

  Rick chuckles.

  Mr. Shah stares blankly, processing what he’s hearing.

  “Well,” he says after a moment. “It supposedly came from Egypt, out of a tomb belonging to the pharaoh, Khufu. Legend claims it is under the protection of a curse, and all who possess it meet an untimely death within three months. There’s a list of over twenty individuals who have owned the Devil’s Eye at one point and died. According to the stories, the only way to survive possessing it is to claim it with the genuine intention of returning it to its true owner.”

  “And that is?” asks Rick.

  “Khufu’s mummy… if you can find him.” Mr. Shah waves dismissively.

  “You’re not worried about the curse after everything that happened?” I ask.

  “I had a buyer already lined up. Even if the curse was real, I hadn’t intended to keep the gem for myself.” Mr. Shah grins for a second before his expression turns angry. “Somehow, those thieves knew that I had the stone here waiting for the buyer. Perhaps he is involved?”

  I add that to the notes. “Do you have the name and contact information for the buyer?”

  “Of course.” He shifts to look at Victoria. “Would you mind bringing my phone from my desk?”

  “Okay.” She gives us an ‘excuse me’ look, and heads into the back.

  Rick rubs his chin, then glances at me. “Kinda odd, you think? Cursed gem, ritual site in the woods?”

  I let out a soundless chuckle. “I’m sure that’s a complete coincidence.”

  “Did you say ritual site?” asks Mr. Shah.

  “I did, but that’s all I can say.”

  The man shakes his head. “Well, in addition to the Devil’s Eye and twenty-two diamonds, the thieves took quite a bit else.” Mr. Shah proceeds to list off stolen jewelry for the better part of two minutes. “… and an emerald bracelet. The police who were here before took down a full report of everything, and it’s with the insurance company as well, of course. When do you think I will be able to check those diamonds? And if they are from the robbery, when will I be able to get them back?”

  “Probably not until after the trial,” says Rick. “Depends on if the DA wants to keep them as evidence.”

  Victoria emerges from the back room with a smartphone and hands it to Mr. Shah, who pokes at it for a little while before holding it up to show off a close-up view of a huge oval-cut ruby. As soon as I see it, my gut cramps up bad enough to make me lean into the counter.

  “Wims?” asks Rick, a hand on my back. “You all right?”

  “I shouldn’t have eaten that donut.” I take a few deep breaths until the pain passes, then snap upright and stare at the phone in shocked realization. My head turns to stare at Rick, but I don’t say anything in front of the jewelry store people.

  “This is the stolen ruby,” says Mr. Shah.

  “Thanks. We’ll keep an eye out for it.” Rick flashes his sarcasm smile. “Something that big is hard to miss.”

  “And harder to sell,” says Mr. Shah. “At least on the black market. It would be a tragedy if they cut it down into smaller stones.”

  I flip to a clean page in my notepad. “What about that buyer’s information?”

  “Oh, of course.” Mr. Shah swipes a few times at the phone’s screen, then smiles. “Mr. Ethan Christiansen.” He reads off a phone number and New York City address, which I copy down.

  “Another question,” I say. “Did any of the thieves hurt themselves when they were here?”

  “Yes. One man did.” Victoria gestures at the display case Mr. Shah is leaning on. “He put his foot through the front of the cabinet, lost his balance and fell over sideways. Started cursing loud, screaming about his leg.”

  Rick and I nod at each other. Walter, of course.

  “Do you have the information for the company that repaired this glass or built these counters?” asks Rick.

  Mr. Shah nods to Victoria, who runs off to get it.

  “It may be overkill, but if we can match the glass to what we found in Walter’s leg, it’ll only help the DA out,” says Rick, mostly to me, but to anyone else who might be listening.

  “Yeah.” I no
d.

  We copy the information about the glass company, thank Mr. Shah and Victoria for their help, and head outside.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A Witch’s Intuition

  As soon as the car doors shut, I turn to Rick and yell, “I got it!”

  He leans back. “Whoa. Okay. Magic again or did you figure out something I’m just too dense to spot?”

  I jam my finger into Rick’s mostly-flat belly. “I know what happened.”

  “Well, tell me.”

  “I am.”

  “No, you’re poking me in the stomach, which I’m not entirely sure I’m comfortable with.”

  “Think about it, big guy.” And I poke him again.

  “Hey, what gives―” And the look on my partner’s face says it all.

  “His stomach. You don’t think…”

  “Oh, but I do,” I say. “Walter swallowed The Devil’s Eye. He tried to steal it for himself. That’s why they cut him open like a Thanksgiving turkey… hunting for that gem. That’s also why I felt so drawn to his sliced-open stomach. Alan and David chopped his intestines up into little bits looking for it. The mauling wasn’t out of anger… well, maybe not entirely out of anger.”

  Rick squirms in the seat. “Ugh. What kind of sick son of a bitch rips a guy open like that?”

  “Someone that, as Dr. Ferrante said, doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing or where to look, someone who is chasing 1.2 million bucks.” I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. Thank you, Lady Ceridwen, for the insight. “And who knows. Maybe that curse made them more violent. They were going to kill him anyway for double-crossing them.”

  “Curse, hah.” He glances at me. “And double-crossing? Really? Are you still stuck in an old caper film?”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “Walter fumbled a knife and cut himself. Mr. Shah got run over by a truck, then robbed. We may not even have to do anything, just wait for Alan and David to show up dead by some horrible ‘accident.’”

  And Rick might have a point, actually. I do sound a bit like I’ve stepped off the set of The Maltese Falcon. Then again, such movies are what helped me want to be a cop in the first place. I think, also, I feel a sort of nostalgia for that bygone era, when bad guys were bad guys and good guys were good. These days, there seems to be a lot more grey area, and a lot more bad guys, too.