Bull's Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #3

Chapter 32

A familiar, piercing aroma pries Zandra from her hard sleep. It makes her question whether she's still in a hospital. Sitting up straight, she finds a greasy imprint where her head used to lay on a starched pillow that confirms that, yes, she's still in a hospital bed. However, a curtain is now drawn around the bed, obscuring her view beyond a couple feet past the railings.

But the curtain doesn't prevent the cigarette smoke from reaching her nose. She breathes in deep.

Finally, someone with a good idea.

A faint shadow and a pair of black dress shoes beneath the curtain confirm the source of the cigarette. Judging by the quiet, Zandra assumes the door to her room is closed.

I have a visitor. But who? I never formally checked in. And who the hell smokes in a hospital anymore?

Zandra can't help but study the shoes for hints. It only takes a moment, but she's convinced that whoever is on the other side of the curtain is someone important, at least in monetary terms.

It's not that Zandra can tell what brand the shoes are, or how much the shoes cost. It's in the care. They're shiny and unscathed, allowing the masculinity of the black leather to bully each step without impediment. It's obvious the man wearing them is comfortable and confident, which suggests regular use. That means there should be signs of regular wear and tear, but Zandra can't see any, suggesting regular maintenance.

Why is that important? Because it says a lot about the person wearing the shoes.

Do you know who needs to keep dress shoes in tip-top condition? Big business types. Right after a handshake introduction, or maybe right before it, these people consciously or unconsciously observe each other's teeth and shoes for status signals. Watch them. You'll see it.

This person gives a shit about their shoes in the hopes that people will give a shit about him. And it is a him. It's obvious in the shape of the foot.

That's confirmed when the man speaks.

"Do you know why I smoke in hospitals?" he says. His voice is slow, smooth and aged to perfection. He speaks deliberately, as if he's accustomed to people hearing what he's saying.

It's not Gene, though. I know what his voice sounds like. This is someone new.

"I hope it's to provide relief to patients in crisis, such as myself," Zandra says and inhales hard through her nose. She wants to rip the curtain away, but something tells her not to do so.

The curtain must've been drawn deliberately. It ought to stay that way.

"No. I find smoking a disgusting habit. I'm not even puffing on this myself," the man says. "I do it just in case someone forgets that they can't tell me no."

"Charming. You must be great at parties," Zandra says. She licks her dry lips. "If you're not going to burn that heater for yourself, how about giving it to someone who knows what to do with it?"

"The ash is meant to fall to the floor. You should know what that means, since you know Gene so well," the man says.

And so do you, apparently. You're copying his style, you arrogant prick.

"If you're here to kill me, you're doing a great job of it by not bumming me a smoke," Zandra says.

The man paces. Zandra watches his shoes.

The man says, "You see, everyone knows about Gene's scam with his insurance company, about the ways he pulls the strings on everything that happens in Wisconsin and beyond. It's an open secret, and that's why exposing him for the fraud he is won't do anything to derail his gubernatorial campaign. Even pinning a murder on him won't take him down."