Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 2

Zandra stuffs her pockets with trinkets, props and other useful distractions before getting in the car with Charlie. What should've been a short drive across downtown to the police station doesn't happen. Charlie wants to meet up at a farmhouse outside of town. Keep things discreet.

The two pass on small talk. Zandra spends her time inventorying the contents of Charlie's vehicle. It's not a squad car. It's a rear-wheel drive, two-door Pontiac Sunfire. Not the most practical choice for Wisconsin given the winters, still a couple months off. A cop should know better. The car either isn't Charlie's or it's all she can afford. If the latter is the case, then her credit sucks. More bad decisions, just like the drinking.

None of that's for certain, but life is always a game of odds. Zandra's compressed and honed her luck for years. She doesn't roll with dice. She rolls with diamonds.

Two containers of Visine rest in the center console. One is empty, the other full. The vehicle smells of cheap, scented spray, the kind better reserved for gas station bathrooms. A couple empty boxes of .40 caliber jacketed hollow-point ammunition made by Crate 27, the type used exclusively by the police department, sit on the floor near her feet. Probably left over from target practice, but it's sloppy form nonetheless. All Zandra needs is an empty beer can to complete the mental picture.

Zandra's eyes fall on well-worn indentations in the center of the back seat, the only part of the car completely free of fast food detritus. The indentations roughly match the dimensions of a booster seat, suggesting Charlie could be a divorced parent or the aunt to a child. More cards for Zandra to play later.

Zandra could turn those same observational powers inward. She might note the hate clawing inside her for Stevens Point. For the people in it. For those keeping it safe and ignorant, like Charlie.

Or Zandra might analyze why her pulse raced when Charlie offered a chance to find the missing girl. Why else would she accept other than to fuck over the department that took such enthusiasm in doing the same to her years ago?

But she doesn't turn her gaze inwards. She spends enough time alone trying to manage those feelings. To cover them up with a gaudy gown, truckloads of cigarettes and sparkling trinkets. She coats herself in these things not because she enjoys it, but because it works. Zandra's colorful veneer settles Stevens Point's nerves. Keeps the money coming in.

Charlie stops the car at a mundane farmhouse. Doesn't look operational save for the house itself, stuck in time out between two deciduous monoliths.

"This is it," Charlie says. She rolls up her flannel sleeves. "We're meeting with Captain Fred Dobrogost, the lead for the Elle Carey case from our department."

Dobrogost is a Polish last name. No surprise there. Central Wisconsin is an intensely Polish part of the state. It's said there are more Poles in Chicago than in Warsaw. The trend continues up into Stevens Point and beyond.

Back in Poland, "Fred" would've gone by "Fryderyk" or some variation. Not that it matters now. In Stevens Point, the established "names" are all Polish. Chances are good that Fred's family roots run deep. He's probably well connected and well groomed. That means a cozy relationship with the big businesses in town. It wouldn't surprise Zandra if Fred knew little Elle Carey personally through family connections. The "Carey" surname, at least in Stevens Point, is an Americanized version of "Czerwinski." No one in the area questions the ethnic non sequitur. This type of whitewashing happened all the time for simplicity's sake.

Zandra's only slightly off from her initial hunch. Fred is indeed well groomed, but his outfit doesn't match. He's in a Chicago Cubs jersey and jeans. Another attempt at a disguise by Stevens Point's finest. Try as he may, Zandra still picks up on the phoniness underneath Fred's limp handshake.