The Devil's Eye

by J. R. Rain

  “Because I think something one of my sisters did might have caused that.”

  He blinks. “Seriously?”

  “Karmic blowback, not a direct attack. That man was trying to throw out animosity against us and do us harm, so her spell reflected it back at him in a more direct way.” I pick up the phone and call Captain Greer at home. “Or, maybe it’s just a freak act of nature.”

  “Hello?” asks Captain Greer.

  “Hi, Captain, it’s Wimsey. Need you to request some warrants.” I fill her in on the tire tracks and the Alan Chan-is-Nelson Wang bit.

  My email client chimes again.

  “Oh, hold on a sec, Captain.”

  More lab reports. They got prints on beer cans from Walter’s apartment, and they don’t match Walter or Alan/Nelson. I bet they’re David Swanson’s prints. He probably brought the drug over on pretext of hanging out to watch the Seahawks game. The lab report confirms the presence of GHB in two of the beer cans. Unfortunately, Swanson’s arrest at eighteen didn’t result in his fingerprints staying in the system in any capacity that we can cross-check. However, if we can get a warrant for him, I’m almost certain they’ll match.

  I explain this to Captain Greer as well.

  “Nice,” she says. “All right, let me make a few calls. Stand by.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Mechanic

  Neither of us want to leave the station, as Greer could call us back at any minute.

  “Maybe we should order pizza from Gino’s.” I scratch my head. “Would it be wrong to arrest the delivery guy and eat his pizza at the same time?”

  Everyone chuckles.

  “As long as it’s paid for, I see no problem with that.” Andrew smiles.

  “Thai?” asks Rick.

  “I’m not wearing the right kind of shirt for one,” I say.

  He frowns at me.

  “Sure.” I grin at him, waving the comment off. Is it possible that I’m not as funny as I sometimes think I am? “Never had it before. What do you suggest?”

  “Get the Pad Thai,” says Linda. “It’s like Thai food for beginners.”

  I give Rick a ‘that works’ look.

  My phone rings. “Hold on.” I pick up. “Wimsey.”

  “Wims, it’s Greer. Arrest warrants are on the way. You’ve got authorization to bring Wang and Swanson in. Working on search warrants for their residences. Probably an hour on that yet.”

  “Awesome. We’re on it.” I hang up, but don’t let go of the phone. “Rick, Swanson first or do you want to grab Wang?”

  Everyone chuckles.

  “Where are they?” asks Rick.

  I check over the files. “Swanson is most likely at the dealership right now, and fair bet Chan is at home, sleeping.”

  “Let’s pick Dave up first then. Hopefully, by the time we roll up on his place, we’ll have the warrant. Besides, Alan got nailed by a car, so that means he’s probably got the gems, or at least the important one. Better to have the search warrant show up when we’re on the scene so we don’t get stuck standing around all afternoon waiting to search the place.”

  “Good plan,” I say.

  Rick winks. “That’s why I make the real money.”

  Everyone chuckles again.

  “Uhh,” says Andrew, “what does getting hit by a car have to do with having the stolen merchandise?”

  “Oh, it’s a cursed gem, obviously,” says Rick, in such a matter-of-fact tone, he silences the room. “Kills everyone who owns it. You know, normal shit. Any gem past a certain size always carries a death curse.”

  Linda mutters something inaudible, shaking her head.

  Cops might not believe in witchcraft, but we are a superstitious bunch. Everyone keeps quiet as Rick and I hurry down the hall.

  ***

  We head to the Toyota dealership with a pair of patrol cars as backup. So as not to spook him, I send one of the units around back to watch for a runner while the other two officers hover on foot by the garage door. Rick and I will go in since he’s seen us already and will hopefully think we need to talk to him about his dead ‘friend.’

  The waiting room, visible through a window near the garage is jammed full of people. Most are absorbed in books or some talk show on the TV. Only one guy looks up at the four of us walking by. Our uniformed backup waits at the edge of the garage door as we continue inside.

  Cars fill each bay with two more sitting just inside the door waiting their turn. Mechanics run about, some pulling machine carts, others carrying boxes or parts. Asses stick out of hoods, boots jut out from under vans. The room’s deafening between men shouting and tools operating.

  I look around, but don’t see Swanson anywhere obvious. As soon as I’m in arm’s reach of a shortish Hispanic guy in blue mechanic’s coveralls, I tug his arm.

  He looks at me, down at my boobs, and back at my face. “Oh, hi. You shouldn’t be in here. Employees only.”

  “Olympia Police.” I indicate the badge on my belt. “I need to see David Swanson. Is he here?”

  “Oh.” The guy spins to face the room, looks around, and points at a bay with a black Tundra up on a lift before yelling, “Yo, Swanson!”

  Dave (formerly one of the asses sticking out of a hood) slides backward to his feet and glances toward us. He looks perplexed for a moment before his gaze drifts to the door―where one of the patrol officers hovers. Swanson goes rigid, turns pale, and takes a step back with a side-to-side glance.

  “Shit,” I mutter, and start fast-walking toward him. “He’s gonna bolt.”

  Swanson sprints toward the back of the garage. Rick and I pick up to a run, him a little faster since I grab my mini-radio and call in the uniforms.

  Rick closes in, but Dave shoves a pushcart full of tools rolling into my partner’s path. Rick tries to bump it aside, but the thing’s too heavy and he winds up bouncing off it and ricocheting into yet another cart before hitting the floor.

  “My hero,” I mutter, as I rush past Rick and lean into my stride, chasing Dave down a handful of service bays, shouting at him to stop. He heads into a corridor underneath a sign bearing the word ‘Parts,’ and hooks a left out of sight beyond white-painted cinder blocks.

  Right as I reach the corridor, Dave catches me off guard by charging straight back out. We collide chest-to-chest, his greater body mass knocking me back. Before I can get my gun around on him, he pounces, his left hand getting a fistful of shirt, his right pulling at my mane, but finding no purchase. Thank you, Hair!

  Tromping shoes in the hallway tell me the outside cops came in through the parts counter, explaining his sudden about-face.

  Dave’s hand swipes out of my hair, taking only a single strand. Exploiting his confusion at the inexplicable lack of grip, I ram my knee into his groin and go for an arm bar takedown. The guy’s fast and terrified, somehow ignoring the nut shot and twisting away from my hold on his wrist. I duck a fist going for my nose and pop back up in time for him to lunge, grabbing me by the boobs and shoving me so hard I fly straight off my feet―into Rick. The top of my head mashes his jaw shut. I see stars; Rick crumples to the floor behind me like a sack of potatoes.

  Dave takes off to my right.

  Fighting the pain in the back of my head, I try to aim my M&P at him, and shout, “Stop!”

  Rick grumbles, “Shoot the fucker,” between moans.

  I sprint after Dave, the two cops from the parts hallway right behind me. He heads for a plain grey door with an EXIT sign on it. Growling, I dash forward and fling myself into Dave’s back, knocking him into a staggering run that crashes against the door. He bounces away, spins, and stumbles headfirst into a large freestanding shelf.

  With a scrape of metal, he drags an enormous socket wrench handle off the shelf into a swing for my head. I leap back, raising my weapon, but Dave’s feet slip out from under him, dumping him flat on his back in a puddle of… something. Transmission fluid, I think.

  “Don’t move!” I shout, aiming at his chest. �
��Toss the wrench, Swanson.”

  Dave abandons the giant metal club to cradle the back of his head and moan.

  The uniforms and Rick catch up, mere seconds behind me. Evidently dazed from his head hitting the concrete floor, Dave barely reacts as the patrolmen roll him over and cuff him.

  “You okay?” asks Rick, a little blood dribbling over his lip.

  I rub the back of my head. “Sorry about that. Are you okay?”

  “Bit my lip. Looks like I’ll be out on medical for a few months.” Rick holsters his sidearm.

  “You wish.” I put my weapon away as well and approach the uniforms. “Thanks, guys. Appreciate the assist.”

  We escort Swanson out to a marked car where one of the patrol guys leans him against the side and begins the pat down.

  “David Swanson, you’re under arrest for the murder of Walter Manning. You have the right to remain silent…” He stares straight ahead, shifting back and forth from terrified to furious as I finish the Miranda warning. There will be plenty of time later to grill him about the missing jewelry and everything else―once we have Alan/Nelson in custody as well.

  One car takes Swanson off to booking while the remaining two cops head back to their car to follow us. Rick waves me toward the driver’s side and flops in the seat, holding his jaw.

  “God damn, that hurt.”

  “Yeah, it did.”

  “Top of the skull’s a lot harder than my jaw.” He chuckles.

  I radio back to Dispatch, requesting another unit for backup at Alan/Nelson’s address. “He tried to tear my boobs off, Rick.”

  “Surprised you didn’t shoot him for that.” He squints at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “How the hell did that guy not choke you with your own hair? You can’t even carry donuts through doorway without getting trapped.” He shakes his head. “I was trying to get a bead on him, but had no shot with you in the way.”

  I laugh, and fluff it over my shoulder. “I told you. She plays games, but won’t hurt me.”

  “Right.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  By Minutes

  The good news is that Alan/Nelson’s rear, upstairs apartment has only one way in, a side pathway. He’s got no escape routes that don’t require a leap out of a second-story window. On the side of bad news, though, the place has a tiny, elevated porch/deck and a narrow stairway that forces people into single file.

  I ask one of the cops to remove the nice old lady from the main house, just in case. The police report from the jewelry store robbery mentioned all three men had handguns. While waiting to be told the woman’s been evacuated to a safe distance, I head around to our trunk and pull on my bulletproof vest. Rick does the same. Seeing us, the other three patrol officers grab theirs as well.

  No sense taking needless risk. The Goddess might send a puddle of transmission fluid to shield me from a socket wrench, but I should at least meet her halfway.

  I look at the one female officer who’s on the small side. Both of us could fit on that deck and not be overly cramped. “You and me knock, Rick right behind us, and one more on the steps, two on the ground watching windows.”

  Officer Beem, the woman, nods. “You got it.”

  “Shit. Wims?” asks Rick.

  “What?” I look back at him.

  “There’s no Impala anywhere around here. I think our guy’s gone.”

  My gaze sweeps around over the parked cars within sight of the house. True enough, no sign of a silver Impala. Grr. “Damn. Come on.”

  I rush up the stairs and ring the bell, then pound on the door yelling, “Police. Open the door.”

  No answer. I ring again; still nothing.

  “Boot it,” I say, holding the outer door open.

  Officer Beem rears back and stomps by the knob. The main door doesn’t quite give, but she is small. Her second kick punts it clear and she rushes in shouting, “Police!”

  I duck in after, covering to the left while Rick follows his gun to the right.

  The residence is so damn tiny, we can see right away that he’s not here.

  “Well, shit,” I mutter. “The city just bought that nice, elderly landlord a new doorjamb.”

  “We probably missed him by minutes,” says Rick, heading into the bedroom.

  I grab my mini-radio and call in a BOLO for the silver Impala. Dispatch reads the plate number back, and I confirm. “Be advised the suspect is most likely armed.”

  “Copy that,” says Dispatch.

  “Wims,” yells Rick.

  “Thanks,” I mutter to Officer Beem, before walking the six steps it takes to get to the bedroom. “Whatcha got?”

  Rick’s on one knee by a closet, pointing at the floor where a section of peeled-up carpet exposes boards, and an open hole big enough to hold a shoebox. “That’s probably where he had the jewelry.”

  “Yeah. Probably.” I holster my sidearm. “Damn it. What tipped him off?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe he’s a witch, too,” says Rick.

  “Think I know,” says Officer Beem from the front. “Check this out.”

  I walk back to the main room. Beem’s over by a little computer table in the corner, to the left of the front door under a window. The monitor’s got a six-way split screen view. Two of the panels show the garage at the Toyota dealership; one has the salesroom floor, the other the back parking lot. The next two panels look like the interior of an apartment, likely Swanson’s, and an outside shot that must be coming from a small camera on a telephone pole.

  “Son of a bitch,” says Rick. “Guess there’s no trust among thieves.”

  “Damn. We should’ve hit this guy first.” I rub the bridge of my nose. “Dispatch, come back?” I say into the radio.

  “Go ahead, Wimsey.”

  “Can you push that BOLO out to the State Police? This guy’s likely planning to take a long ride.”

  “Copy that.”

  I let my arm fall to my side, radio in hand, and sigh in frustration. Neither of us could’ve predicted this surveillance suite. If someone hits me with a car―even a slow-moving Prius―I’m going to stay in bed for a few days, right? Guess there’s nothing like a murder charge and a million-dollar ruby for motivation.

  Well, since the computer is open, I poke around. When I minimize the software controlling the video feeds, his email client is right there showing a transaction alert from his credit card. He’s paying a monthly rental charge for a bay at Swantown Marina. Again, I thank the Goddess for that being right there under my nose.

  “Rick!” I shout, leaping to my feet. “I know where he’s going!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Lucky

  Since I became a detective, I haven’t had as many reasons to run code three as when I worked patrol. I kind of miss the adrenaline rush.

  Though, we seldom drive as fast as the movies make it look. Unless we’re in direct pursuit of someone, we usually don’t do much more than fifteen to twenty over the posted limit, if even that. Driving ‘a little fast’ while traffic moves out of our way and we blow through red lights is usually fast enough. No sense risking civilian lives for something stupid like losing control of a car.

  Anyway, I’m flying down the street with the lights and sirens going, two patrol cars behind me. Rick’s on his cell phone with Parrish back at the station, who’s in contact with Swantown Marina management and City Records. While they are trying to figure out what boat we’re looking for, I’m on the car radio with Dispatch calling in marine support.

  Swantown Marina sits at the southernmost point of the Budd Inlet, so we’ve got about a three-mile stretch where he’s contained, before he could go anywhere. If, as I guess, he’s going to try for Canada or California, he’d have to swing right past Boston Harbor toward the Nisqually Reach, then make his way up past Seattle on the Puget Sound. It’s a long-ass trip for a small boat.

  “They got the Impala at Swantown… Love OnStar,” says Rick, holding
his phone away from his mouth.

  “Shit. We’re way behind.”

  Minutes later, I race west down Olympia Avenue, then pull a tire-squealing right turn onto Marine Drive. Since traffic is lighter there, I pour on a little speed and cut the siren, advising our backup to do go silent as well. Alan/Nelson is probably not expecting us to figure out where he went so fast. I hope.

  Neat rows of thin trees blur past us on both sides, a large fenced-in field of brown grass on our left. After passing the only other car in sight, I push it up to 75 MPH, staring to the right over a browned field at the rows of boats.

  “Take the first entrance up there,” says Rick, pointing. “Alan’s rental berth is on the southernmost pier, closest to us, middle row.”

  If I had my Silverado, I’d have gone clear over the turf, bee-lining for the boats, but in our Crown Vic, I’m stuck on pavement. Spotting the marina entrance coming up on the right, I hit the brakes a little hard, bleeding off speed, and whip around the turn. The parking lot is narrow, stretching way off to our left, but only about sixty feet ahead to a red-painted curb, beyond which sits the access way to the docks.

  We come to a stop with our front tires against the curb, and leap from the car. A little blue awning covers a doorway leading to a bridge that connects solid ground to the moorings. The dock ahead of me forks to three piers, each lined on both sides with berths and boats.

  Rick barrels over the bridge onto the wider dock, and heads straight down the center, his head swiveling right and left. I follow, with four patrol officers a short ways behind me. Seconds later, Rick’s stride slows, letting me zip past him. He draws his weapon, pointing it to the left at maybe the tenth boat out from shore.

  “Nelson Wang,” shouts Rick. “Hands where I can see them and get off the boat.”

  I pull my sidearm and take aim as well, at our suspect standing on the rear deck of a cabin cruiser a short distance ahead on our left.

  Alan/Nelson scowls at us—not a trace of fear whatsoever—for a fraction of a second before ducking out of sight into the enclosed bridge. The engine roars to life and a spray of foam churns up from the ass end.