Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 31

"What the hell?" Zandra's landlord says as she pushes her way into his apartment.

Her landlord, a mustached waif named Steve, lives on-site in a bachelor pad filled to the ceiling with porn. It's on the TV. It's stacked on the tables. It's in the air. Salty and moisturizer-sweet.

"Typical evening for you, eh, Steve?" Zandra says.

"I thought the police took you away, you...you...kiddie killer," Steve says. He wags a finger. "You can't just barge in here like this."

Zandra feels the itch of the knife up her sleeve. She could use some sigil magic right now. Release some energy onto Steve. She's not even sure why she's mad at him. Just feels right.

"Barge in? Like you did in my apartment earlier today and then called the cops?" Zandra says. She closes the distance between them. Thumps Steve on his bony chest. "I'd like to know more about that. What did you see?"

Steve takes a step back. Zandra keeps at him, corralling him against the wall. His eyes flicker between her and the faux lesbians groping each other on the TV.

"Focus, asshole," Zandra says.

"A tenant called me about a stench coming from your apartment. So I entered your apartment," Steve says.

"And?"

"And I found the remains of a little girl in one of your filing cabinets, you sick fuck," Steve says.

He rolls out of Zandra's reach. His scrawny frame makes for the far side of the living room. She's right behind him.

"How did you get into the filing cabinet?" Zandra says. His pursed lips indicate he's holding back.

"Fuck you. Your lease is over," Steve says. His hand goes for a cell phone resting on a stack of dirty DVDs.

"Put the phone down," Zandra says. She repeats it twice. Steve doesn't listen. Out comes the lawnmower knife. She sticks the point under Steve's throat. "Put. The. Phone. Down."

Steve listens this time.

"Tell me how you got into my filing cabinet," Zandra says. "Step by step, I want to hear it. This isn't hard, Steve."

Steve gulps. Starts to cry.

"Come on, Steve. Get it together. Look, I'm not actually going to cut you," Zandra says and sheaths the knife. "Just tell me exactly what happened, OK?"

Steve wipes his eyes. "I used my master key to get into your apartment. I followed my nose to a filing cabinet in your living room. The drawers weren't locked, so I slid them open. When I saw what was inside I called the police. Please don't hurt me," Steve says.

Zandra's not satisfied with the answer. She asks Steve to repeat the story backward.

"Backward? What?" Steve says.

"Just do it," Zandra says.

"I called the police. Before that I saw the drawers were open already, so I looked inside. Before that I unlocked your door because of a complaint," Steve says.

Bingo.

"Before you said the drawers were unlocked. Now you say the drawers were open. Are you lying now or then? Which was it?" Zandra says.

Steve stammers. Zandra slaps him across the cheek. It's not hard enough to leave a mark on his translucent skin. "Focus, Steve. Which was it? Unlocked or already open?" she says.

"Well, now that you mention it, I guess it was both," Steve says.

"What do you mean both?"

"The drawers were open just a little bit. They didn't have any locks in them, just holes where they used to be," Steve says.

So someone drilled out and removed the locks.

Zandra didn't own top-of-the-line filing cabinets. A little effort and the right tools could take out the cheap locks without a problem. Without a doubt, she'd been set up. She feels a jolt of relief at the epiphany, but only for a second. It's replaced by 25-year-old rage.

"Which tenant complained about the stench?" Zandra says.

"I don't know. I got a phone call about it. Guess I forgot to ask for the caller's name," Steve says. He asks for permission to get his cell phone. Zandra hands it to him. He goes through the call history. "It says here the number is unlisted."

Zandra lights up a cigarette. She needs to calm down or her nerves will push her to get the knife out again.

"Steve, listen to me carefully. Someone set me up. Is there any way you can tell me who went into my apartment before that call came in?" Zandra says. She pauses as the lesbians fake an eighth orgasm. "You're kind of creeper. You videotape people around here?"

Steve shakes his head. Points to his porn. "I value the right to privacy, as you can see," he says.

"What about parking lot security cameras?" Zandra says.

"Nope. Sorry," Steve says. His eyes stay on Zandra, but his fingers push buttons on his phone.

"You don't want to do that," Zandra says, looking at the phone.

"And why not? You forced your way in here and put a knife to my throat," Steve says. He brings the phone to his ear and explains his emergency to the 911 dispatcher.

Zandra backs away until she's out of the door. With her bad ankle and no vehicle, it's doubtful she'll get far before the police show up. Hell, they might already be here, given her suspicions about being tailed. Time to deploy a little reverse psychology and hide in plain sight.

Zandra drags her ankle around the parking lot to the other side of the unit to her apartment. The police are gone, but the front door into her apartment is still sealed off with chains. The only way in is through a window.

Steve's stingy policy on not updating the windows or installing bug screens comes in handy. The old locks on the window prove no match for the lawnmower knife. She uses it like a pry bar to separate the two panes and pop the loose lock out of its screws inside. With an awkward hop, she slides open the glass and tumbles inside. Her hand reaches up and shuts the window just in time. Flashing lights paint blues and reds on the glass.

Zandra's eyes adjust to the dim interior. What she sees is shocking.