My Favorite Suspects: Part 2

"Don’t work on your theory too long," Miller said. "You've only got three days left."

In this cozy noir, amateur sleuth Terry Perez revisits his first case in which he investigates a series of crimes at his supermarket. Can he solve the mystery before he loses his job at the store? Who in his circle will turn out to be the criminal?

After I gave Miller the names of my suspects, he sat back in his chair, faced the window, and used his fingernail to rhythmically flick the pull tab of an empty can. My brain filled in the noise as a mechanical voice saying: Think… think… think.

"You sure it's them?" he said, setting the can down on his desk, then crossing his arms behind his head.

"Only one of them. Not both."

"Right. That's what I meant." His radio chirped. He picked it up and listened to the dairy lead attempt to form a coherent sentence. Miller rolled his eyes. "I guess the trucks are done," he said, making to leave the office. "Let's pick this up after the status check."

I followed him to the break room.

Along the way, we passed the baking aisle, where Miller thought he'd seen Ghost. He told me that Ghost wore a hoodie and drawstring pants, wasn't tall, had a slight build, and used a simple dark-colored backpack.

Miller's description was the only one I had. The other clue was that Ghost often hit us around the same time as the trucks arrived and the crew was busy unloading them. That's why I’d been up on the cameras in the office while almost everyone else was on the loading dock.

The stench of over-cooked coffee and sweat lingered in the break room as Miller talked us through the mid-shift status check. Each shift, after the trucks had been unloaded and sent on their way back to the warehouse, Miller gathered the night crew to update task assignments. He leaned against the vending machine, listening to each department leader list what they were missing and what they had too much of. I gave my update from Loss Prevention, then I zoned out for a few minutes and took off my glasses to wipe dust from the lenses. I was legally blind without them so I cleaned them frequently.

After the group wrapped up, Miller came over to me. I couldn't make out his face without my glasses. I recognized him by his tie. Miller always wore a red tie and kept it clean by flipping it over one shoulder, like a vestigial cape. I put my glasses back on.

He was about to say something when the night cashier called me to the front end for a price check.

When I got to register three, I found one of my suspects: Luna.

To the untrained eye, Luna appeared to be an ordinary college student making a midnight run to the store. She wore minimal makeup and tucked her hair under a Red Wings baseball cap. She fit the description for Ghost in that she had a lean build and typically wore drawstring casual pants, running shoes, and a designer-knockoff hoodie. She had a student's black backpack slung over one shoulder.

Most people wouldn't guess she was a stripper.

She slid the backpack down, accidentally tugging at the zipper of her hoodie, and revealing a tattoo of a crescent moon on her breast, roughly where a name tag would be on a supermarket uniform. Luna caught me staring and zipped up.

"Price Check," she said lightly, "eyes up here."

I stammered an apology and looked up as instructed.

"It's a waning crescent," she said.

I glanced down at the tattoo. Apologized. Put the register into admin mode and corrected the price of the antiperspirant. Did it twice because her watching me made me fat-finger the SKU.

She laughed like I was a puppy with lopsided ears. "You blush so easily."

"Sorry."

Her order included cigarettes. Customers weren't allowed to get cigarettes from the case. Only trusted associates (like me) or managers (like Miller) could. I went to the case and brought the packs back to the register.

"Lighten up, Price Check. I'm playin' with you." She gathered her cigarettes, antiperspirant, and other items into her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. I noticed a light floral scent as she moved, something with vanilla, that subtly drew attention back to her like a spell.

"FYI, I've got more tattoos. Come by the club if you're curious."

"What?" I said, distracted.

"You're too much, Price Check," she said.

I watched her walk out of the store, hoping she'd look back.

She stopped outside the entrance to light up.

She didn't look back.

I realized that I didn't pay attention to which brand of cigarettes she'd bought. I tapped my forehead with my knuckles and began to walk back to the steps of the manager's office.

That's when I spotted A.J., my other suspect, approaching register three.

We exchanged low-key fist bumps. A.J. was shorter than me, about Luna's height, and had the cut physique of a competitive sprinter. As did Luna, he preferred to wear drawstring casual pants, running shoes, and hoodies; he said it made it easier to run around the warehouse and fill pick lists. He always loaded up his backpack, the same type and color as Luna's, with snacks and cigarettes before his shift.

"Any summer plans?" he said. "Getting together with family?"

I was pretty sure I'd told A.J. about my parents and my brother. I usually gave people a pass for not remembering my brother's situation, but when someone who knew me forgot that both of my parents are dead, I wouldn't abandon them, but I would mark them off a letter grade, to borrow an expression from college. I never said anything, though. At that point, my parents had been gone a few years and I was tired of explaining it to people. And the sudden awkward burst of sympathy never helped.

"No," I said. "No plans."

He tapped his forehead theatrically with his palm. "Shoot, Terry. I'm sorry. I remember now."

"It's OK."

"I'm so sorry. It's horrible that…" he droned on for a few sentences. I put on a sad face and nodded. I logged back in to the conversation when his tone brightened. "Hey, listen," he said, "my church's barbecue is Friday. We're at Hamlin Beach this year. It's co-ed. I think that's a better offer than our local Jezebel." He meant Luna, of course. A.J. knew about Luna, as did all the regular customers and everyone on night crew. He shifted his backpack to his other shoulder and nodded his head, eyebrows elevated. "Vanessa will be there."

I'd met Vanessa at a barbecue a few months earlier. She had a beautiful smile, the perfect amount of padding, and worked on day shift. I tried to start up a conversation with her and she made it clear that she didn't hang with any trolls from the night shift.

"Sounds tempting." I peeled my thoughts away from Vanessa and back to A.J. Something about him was different tonight. He kept touching his fingers to his chin, as if stroking an imaginary beard, while he talked. He bopped up and down on the balls of his feet. I glanced at the items he'd set down on the belt and noticed that he hadn't bought any cartons. Not even a single pack. He had a lot of chewing gum and breath mints, though.

I chalked it up to a military thing. A.J. did a few hitches in the Army. Then it hit me. "No cigarettes tonight?"

"Nope. Tryin' to quit."

It made sense: the twitchy, repetitive movements. The chewing gum. A.J. was going through nicotine withdrawal. "Cold turkey?"

"I figure it's the best way, you know? Cut the cord. Rip off the Band-Aid."

"Good luck."

"No such thing as luck." A.J. touched a gold cross on a thin chain around his neck and held out his hand like a benediction. "Bless," he said, gathered his stuff into his backpack, and left.

I complimented myself on my expert deduction of A.J.'s symptoms as I walked to the manager's office. I reached the top step when I realized that I had, once again, forgotten to take note of which cigarette brand my suspect smoked.

Miller returned to the manager's office a few minutes after I did. He plopped into the cheap vinyl chair at his desk. I sat in my usual spot, across from him on a stool with a torn seat.

"I saw you talking to Luna and A.J.," he said. "Are you sure about them?"

"They're the best we've got."

"A stripper and an evangelist." Miller yawned. He stretched out his long arms then rested them across the top of his head. “We’re one job short of a bar joke.”

"They fit the description you gave me and they're usually around when Ghost hits."

"That's pretty thin."

"I know."

"Do they take the same brand Ghost does?"

"Luxury Kings? That's the brand that Ghost prefers. I'll have to find out what Luna and A.J. smoke." I thought about how I'd lost the chance to identify the brand of cigarettes they'd bought tonight, due to getting flustered around Luna and getting annoyed at A.J., and made a note not to let any opportunity slip again. Not when my job was on the line.

Miller popped open an energy drink. "Interesting, you know? Why that brand? They ain't cheap, but they ain't the most expensive. You'd think Ghost would steal the most expensive brand. Sell it for the most money."

"Smoking's an addiction," I said, flipping between camera feeds by tapping the Enter key on a time-yellowed keyboard. "It's not supposed to make sense."

"I thought all that addiction jazz was bullshit."

"Cigarettes have nicotine. It's as addictive as cocaine. It releases dopamine and is a stimulant. Smokers will keep smoking even when they know they're dying. It's almost impossible to quit."

"How d'you know that?"

I had a flash memory of my dad, in his hospital bed, his skin as brittle as parchment, oxygen fed through a tube in his nose, asking me to sneak in a pack of cigarettes.

"Something I saw on YouTube," I said.

Miller made a hm sound. "I wonder if that's the reason for stealing? You think A.J. or Luna smoke multiple cartons of cigarettes a week?"

"Of course not. No way that either of them smokes that much. They've got to be reselling the packs on the street."

"It doesn't add up," Miller said. "Why them? Luna must be making decent money with her…" he hunted for a word. "…talents. And Corporal Jesus should be high on the Holy Spirit. Why would they steal anything?"

"I'm working on a theory.”

“Don’t work on it too long. You've only got three days left.”

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