Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 8

After confirming the Stevens Point Target sells Elle's pink shoes, Charlie turns to the store manager for security camera footage.

"I'll have to run this by corporate, unless you've got one of those warrant things like on TV," says the manager, a burly man struggling to breathe inside a black dress shirt that still can't hide the pit stains.

Zandra speaks up before Charlie can answer. "What about customers? I'm no cop. I'm a concerned citizen and Target enthusiast," she says.

The manager looks Zandra up and down. "Well, that's obvious. But the fact of the matter is I need to run this by my people first. Haven't been on the job long, this is a first for me," he says.

Charlie blushes with frustration. Zandra keeps her cool and says, "I used to manage the Target in Green Bay. You're right. Corporate needs notification before working with police. But it's up to the manager's discretion whether a regular customer can see footage."

It's a lie, but Zandra adjusts her body posture so it doesn't feel like one to the manager. She turns her torso toward him and makes a steeple with her fingers. The lie makes her blood pressure spike a hair, trickling itchy blood into the side of her neck. She resists the urge to scratch it and focuses instead on making sure her shoulders don't rise when she fibs.

The manager doesn't consciously pick up on the cues, but his gut feeling tells him to trust her. Zandra's age probably helps, too.

"Fine. You can check it out, but not the cop," the manager says.

Zandra cracks a genuine smile for the first time in a long while. Feels good to be "on." Charlie pouts outside the manager's office.

"We keep a dated record of every purchase, which means I can tell you every time someone bought a pair of those shoes," the manager says. He presses a few keys on his computer. A window pops up on the screen. "Here's the parking lot footage two minutes after the most recent pair was purchased. In fact, it's the only pair anyone's purchased in the past three months. Not a hot seller."

The naïve are always the ones to talk more than they should. Thank goodness he's new.

Zandra's smile fades into her usual scowl as she studies a young man in a hooded sweatshirt. He carries a stuffed Target bag out of the store and to a van. His thick hands open the sliding door of the van, toss the bag inside and mulls about the interior for a minute. Just as he shuts the doors, a Point Beer cardboard box falls onto the parking lot. The young man doesn't seem to notice and drives away.

Squint as she might, Zandra can't make out the license plate. She makes a mental note of the color and model of the van instead. It's a maroon Pontiac Montana.

"Is there any footage of the man inside the store?" Zandra says. "Any way to tell what else he purchased?"

"Probably, but don't tell corporate. You must know how much of a hard ass Brian is about everything," the manager says.

"Oh, yeah, Brian, sure. Real hard ass," Zandra says. She makes a zipping motion across her lips. "Your secret is safe with me."

The manager prints off a still image of the only clear shot of the man's face. He's in his 20s, with a beard and longish hair, standing in the checkout line. Zandra will have to wait to inspect it closer, because the manager is already herding her out the door.

"There's an emergency in sporting goods. Bye for now," the manager says and closes the door.

Leaning against the wall outside the office, Charlie raises her eyebrows to Zandra. "Well?" she says.

"Let's go," Zandra says and starts to leave. "Elle's still alive."