My Favorite Suspects: Part 4

"Thirty bucks," Luna said. "You get two minutes. Don't make a career out of it."

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?

By the time I got back into the store after talking with A.J., I'd lost sight of Luna. I stopped at the entrance to wipe sweat from my glasses.

The night cashier came over and let me know he needed to go on break. I signed on at register two, near the entrance and the manager's office, with a clear view of the cigarette case.

The night cashier always kept the front end in good order: the belts and registers clean, shelves stocked with bags, displays filled and faced (store speak for the product names displayed appropriately and products neatly lined up). After checking on his work, I put my register in admin mode and queued up the reports Miller would need before the end of shift.

Luna would have to pass through the front end again.

While I waited, I rang through, in no particular order, some of the night crew staff, some male and female prostitutes, and an unusually tall female sheriff's deputy.

Nobody bought cigarettes.

My attention wandered to thinking about my brother. I had an appointment with county Social Services next week, to try to get them to move on his housing situation, and I wondered if I'd have to ask them for help finding housing, too—as an unemployed supermarket loss prevention associate.

The door to the cigarette case rattled. Surprised, I dropped my phone on the concrete floor. I reached down to get it and accidentally pushed it underneath the shelf below the cash register. I got down on hands and knees to poke it out from its hiding place with a pen.

Miller must have gotten cigarettes for someone.

While I was on the floor, items clattered onto the conveyor belt. Luna giggled.

"Yo, Price Check," she said. "You hiding from me, now?"

I looked up. Luna was average height. A few inches shorter than me. It was an interesting angle.

"I'd love to chat, but can you cash me out? I'm on a schedule."

"Phone," I stammered. "Dropped it."

"Whatever."

I stood, shoved my phone into the pocket of my chinos, and rang her items through.

She leaned toward me, her hands resting lightly on the point-of-sale terminal.

"You want to bring out my groceries?" she said, voice husky. "Or do you only do that for the old ladies?" She leaned a few inches closer, smelling of floral body wash and tobacco. "Why d'you always blush around me? It's not a problem, is it?"

I apologized.

She moved to the end of the belt and loaded her her gum and cigarettes into her backpack. "I'll have to imagine why, I suppose."

I dropped her receipt and tried to recover before it hit the ground. My hands snatched at empty air. Good reflexes. Bad depth perception.

"Easy, Price Check. You're gonna hurt yourself." Luna snorted.

After I recovered it, she took the receipt and smoothly slipped a business card into my hand.

The card showed the address for a local gentleman's club, hours of operation, and Luna's stage name (Luna).

"Why don't you stop by," she said. "We can figure out what's making you blush."

I started having doubts. Could Luna be Ghost? Could she move that much merchandise? Did she even need money? How much cash did she pick up through the club?

She slung the pack over her shoulder and turned to leave.

"We're hiring," I said.

Luna turned back. She raised an eyebrow. "How's that?"

"Hiring. The store. We're hiring. There's open reqs on our web site. In case you're looking to get into something else other than what… um…. you're doing."

The thing about Luna was the way she'd focus on you, with soft brown eyes from underneath dark bangs, as if she was talking to you from her pillow on the other side of the bed. At that moment, however, her eyes had the cold indifference of a police station booking officer.

"If anyone else told me that," Luna said, "I'd be offended. You really don't know, do you? I make bank, babe. You're adorable. Maybe you really do belong with A.J. and his disciples." She looked down, then up, and her eyes had warmed to a temperature more appropriate for late-night bedroom conspiracies. "But something tells me you're going to appear at my club soon."

Again, I watched her walk out. Again, I wanted her to look back.

Again, she didn't.

I cursed myself. I didn't pay attention to the brand she'd bought. I texted Miller. Since I hadn't gotten the cigarettes out of the case, he'd be the only other person who could've done it.

Miller said he was too distracted to notice.

I jogged after her and caught her when she paused to light up.

She turned to me, smoke trailing. "Such a gentleman." She adjusted her backpack on her shoulder. I wondered what she kept in there. How much would it carry? I realized that I'd started estimating volumes in terms of cigarette cartons.

"It can be a dangerous neighborhood."

"I've been practicing Krav Maga." Her eyes twinkled. "You should give me your mom's number. I'll tell her what a sweet little boy you are."

As I said before, most people didn't know my parents were dead, and Luna wouldn't have known that yet. "I don't think she can get a signal where she is."

Luna took a drag and let the smoke out slowly, in what she would later tell me was a French inhale. I felt like an odd-shaped peg that she was mentally trying to fit into a hole: Not round, not square, not triangular….

"I… uh… how long've you been coming to the store?"

She ran her fingertip along her lower lip.  "Coming to the store? Since my freshman year."

"You're in college?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I'm a theatre major. Was. Graduated last year."

"I was a psych major."

She made a not bad face and took another puff. "Listen, Price Check, I gotta get on stage."

"Walk you to your car?"

"Bus," she said. "My car needs a new coil gizmo. But, sure, you can walk me to the bus."

"Bus stop it is."

We started off.

"So," I said. "Theater. Do any mysteries?"

"Por supuesto. A woman like me has an affinity for mystery: Femme fatale. Manic pixie dream girl." She framed her face with a dramatic gesture. "Black widow." A sigh. "Actually, I'm usually the dead body in Act One and I do props. Also, it's community theater. No paycheck."

"At least you're acting."

"True."

"Ever notice that some mysteries could be solved if the detective simply looked in the right place earlier in the story?"

"Well, yeah. I…"

We stopped at the edge of the building, under the harsh glare of an overhead light. The corners of the building were covered by cameras. What happened here would be recorded.

"Price Check, is there something you're trying to ask me?"

"Yes. I'm not sure how to do it."

"Spit it out. I have no feelings to hurt."

"I'd like to look in your bag."

Shadows of emotions passed over Luna's face. Finally, she settled on one. I sensed a judgement.

"Are you a weirdo?" Luna looked at me sideways, conspiratorially.

"Weirdo?"

"Blushing again. Look, it's OK. I don't judge. I've got lots of weirdos. They're my fans. They're the absolute best. But… and here's the deal, OK? It'll cost you."

"Cost?"

"You really are naive," she said. "Everything has a price, see? I have a side hustle where I sell stuff to my weirdos. Panties, bras, socks, that kind of thing. Get it? You wanna look in my bag, you gotta pay. Thirty bucks. Not negotiable. You get two minutes. Don't make a career out of it."

I hesitated. On one hand, I didn't want her to think of me as some random perv. On the other, I couldn't pass up the opportunity.

I handed over the cash, hoping I had enough ramen noodles until payday.

She opened her backpack.

The thing was practically bottomless, if you excuse the pun. She could definitely fit a dozen cartons inside. I fished out a half-empty pack and held it up to the light: Luxury Kings.

"I didn't figure you for that," Luna said.

"For what?'

"Smoking fetish."

"What's that?"

"What's a fetish? Nothing to be ashamed of," she said, finishing another French inhale. "A fetish is when your sexual desires are linked to something other than the, um, typical body parts. For example, feet. Or underwear. Or, in your case…"

"Cigarettes?" I said, trying to draw her out.

"Maybe not the cigarettes themselves. Maybe more about the act of smoking. Lighting up. Inhaling. Exhaling."

She made an O with her lips and blew a smoke ring, her throat pulsing with each puff.

"Fetishes are all about associations." She leaned in and whispered, "It's my fetish too."

She plucked the pack from my hand. She wrote on the back with a Sharpie, then sprayed it with a floral-scented liquid from a small vial. She handed me the pack and pointed to what she'd written.

"That's my e-commerce site," she said.

"Uh… OK."

"Consider this a freebie."

"Oh. That's cool. Thanks."

She took a drag, then held her cigarette at eye level, arms crossed over her chest. Waiting for me to say something. I let the moment play. Enjoying an unfamiliar rush of power by holding her attention.

"Price Check," she said, "why haven't you asked me why I'm a stripper? For a minute there, I thought you would. Most guys like you ask. They want to rescue me. They want to, oh, find out how I got hurt so they can take my pain away."

I sensed, behind her brown eyes, that she enjoyed that same power, of holding someone's attention.

"Honestly? I haven't asked because I think it's only a job. It's not who you are as a person."

"Very good, Price Check. Not so naive after all. Well… still pretty naive though." She checked the time on her phone and cursed. "I'm gonna be late. Why not come see me after your shift?"

"Sounds tempting," I said.

She puffed out another smoke ring and watched my reaction. The ring hovered like a wraith in the stifling air.

"Do you smoke?" she said.

"No."

"Are you sure?" Luna took another drag from her cigarette, and then did something unexpected. She held the lit cigarette out toward me, dangling between her first and second fingers. I froze. She moved the cigarette slowly closer, and closer, until she was close enough to touch me… and she pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose with her index finger.

We stared at each other. I didn't know what to make of her, and she didn't know what to make of me.

The bus rumbled up the street. Luna crushed the cigarette out on the pavement and hustled, alone, to the bus stop.

She's got opportunity, I thought. She's got motive—she sells cigarettes to her weirdos. She uses the same brand as Ghost. Now all I need is method, and I can get that from the security cams.

Disappointment nipped at the heels of that thought.

An object made of paper and cellophane crinkled in my hand. I looked down. There, the pack of cigarettes from Luna, her writing on the front. Completely forgotten.

How does she do that?

I held the pack closer, taking a hit of Luna's perfume mixed with the sweet dark smell of unburnt tobacco.

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