Three Wishes, Part Three

Stakeouts, of course, are boring as hell.

            I parked down the street from the Pope house in early afternoon, in a position where I could keep an eye on it without (I hoped) being too conspicuously parked on a suburban street with no traffic. I kept the radio on to help me avoid dozing, and refrained from drinking too much water—although I did have the wide-mouthed bottle that Rachel had mentioned.

            Fortunately, no one came up to demand that I explain myself or move. Unfortunately, nothing moved for four hours, aside from a few kids on bicycles and a woman unloading groceries from her car across the street.

            I couldn't give up, though. Part of being a detective is patience. And a strong bladder.

            Rachel called me once to make sure I was still alive. "The lasagna is in the oven. And the kitchen is a mess. Tomato sauce all over. Pots and pans in the sink. I chopped spinach and some veggies, so those cutting boards are all dirty. And I left all the spices out on the counter." She giggled. "But it'll be good."

            "Just save some for me. Wait . . ."

            A big Lexus rolled down the street in front of me. I caught a glimpse of blond hair and slim shoulders in a sleeveless blouse. Sunglasses, but it looked enough like Emma Pope for me to hit the power button on my car.

            The Lexus pulled up a driveway. The garage door opened, then closed.

            Maybe she was in for the night. Alone? I was grasping at straws, but that's what I do too often. I waited.

            An hour later the garage door opened again. This time a man was driving the Lexus. I couldn't get a good look at him in the twilight, but I could see the woman next to him. Blond hair, now in a jacket. 

            I started the car and followed them a few blocks to an Olive Garden. The thought of Italian food made me ravenous for Rachel's lasagna. I managed to get a quick shot of the male driver stepping out of the car. It was definitely Marvin. I got a few shots of him walking with Emma into the restaurant. They stood four feet apart, and they looked like they were arguing.

             I got a zoom-in shot of the license plate. Then I called my client.

            "He's with Emma Pope," I said. "Right now they're at a restaurant in Olive—I mean, Orland Park."

            "That little bitch." She laughed. "Okay, I don't care. It's not like I—anyway, I just think he took something from the safe that I need. Is there any way . . . I mean, how long will they be eating dinner?"

            "I can't break into the house." Sometimes clients expect that, because they watch too much TV.

            "Of course not." She sighed. "Well, it's something. Do you have pictures?"

            "I'll send them to you. Do you want me to keep on this?"

            "No. Go home. Thank you."

            We hung up.

            I was hungry. I wanted to go home. But I was curious. It's dangerous to cats and private eyes, but it's also what made me a good reporter back in the day.

            So I ate another granola bar and waited. 

            Not too long. They came back out less than a half hour later, Emma stalking ahead of Marvin as he shouted. I rolled down my window, but I could only catch a few words: "—not getting better! . . . all this money . . . you can't—"

            "Shut up! That waitress . . ."

            "—my husband! It was . . . at first, but I can't . . ."

            Marvin unlocked the Lexus with his fob. Emma got in and slammed her door.

            Trouble in paradise? I gave them a little room, then started my car to follow. 

            They drove back to the house. The garage door lifted. Then suddenly Emma flung her door open and sprinted into the garage. I saw her dart to the side, and the door began to drop. 

            The car surged forward, but Marvin decided to hit the brake before crashing into the door. Instead he leaped out and ran to the front door, fumbling in his pocket. He unlocked the door and rushed inside.

            Leaving the door open.

            I killed my motor. Hesitated. Tried to tell myself to drive off. Not my problem. Call the police? Call Rachel?

            Screw it. I pushed my door open.

            I was out of breath by the time I reached the door. I pulled on the screen door and leaned in, hoping they weren't right inside. Every couple fights, right? Even me and Rachel. Maybe they were making up right—

            I heard a scream.

            "No! What are you—what? No! Get away from me! No!"

            Then silence.

            Shit. I pulled out my phone, then I plunged through the door, trying to tap my password and then 911 as I staggered inside. A crash from the back of the house. Marvin grunted loud enough for me to hear from the front room.

            I crept forward, then ducked back as Marvin stomped through the hall and up the stairs. I tried to catch my breath, and my courage, but before either could happen Marvin marched down the stairs again. I waited, my thumb over the call button, then managed to take a few steps forward down the hall.

            In the kitchen I could see a thick metal pot on the floor, and blood leaking across the tile. I leaned forward, hoping my lungs weren't heaving loud enough for Marvin to hear. 

            Emma was lying on the floor next to a granite-topped kitchen island, a steak knife in her chest. Blood leaking all around her. Her stomach lurched up and down. She was still breathing.

            Marvin leaned over the granite top, his hands in furious motion. I couldn't see what he was doing. 

            I swallowed, then stood up and stepped into the kitchen. "Hey, Marvin." I held up my phone.

            He swung around. "What—who the hell—"

            A sudden cloud of green smoke billowed from something that looked like a bronze teakettle. I coughed, dropping my phone—damn it!

            The smoke dissipated. I snatched up my phone, then froze.

            The sudden figure in the middle of the kitchen was tall enough that his head hit the ceiling fan overhead. He stepped back with a scowl. He had a thin beard, black hair tied behind his scalp, and green skin. He wore jeans and a leather vest that left his muscular chest bare. 

            He crossed his arms. "What now, oh master?" His voice was sarcastic.

            Marvin glanced at me, then pointed a finger at Emma. "Make it go away!"

            The green guy shook his head, "I can't kill anyone. That's one of the rules I told you about. And this is your last wish."

            Wish? What the hell? I hit 911. "Yes, hi, there's a woman here who's been stabbed, she's still breathing, but you have to get someone here right away." I gave the address. 

            Then I looked up. "Who are you?"

            He shrugged. "Call me Ginn." He pointed to the teakettle. "I live in the lamp. It's bigger on the inside."

            What the—"You're a genie? A djinn?" I'd guessed right? That was a first.

            Ginn nodded. "This asshole found me in Mexico. How I got there, I don't know." 

            "Shut up!" Marvin was sweating. "Just stop talking!"

            Ginn smiled. "Is that your last wish?"

            He sank back against the refrigerator. "Wait. No. Not that. Give me—"

            "Save her!" I marched up to him. In his face. "Ask him to save her, and you won't have to go to jail for murder. You can do that, right?" I looked over my shoulder at the djinn.

            He smiled. "That I can do."

            "But it's my last wish! I can't—"

            Emma gasped on the ground. Still struggling to breathe.

            I grabbed his shoulder. "You're looking at murder. You'll still have money to pay your lawyers. Make the right choice. Now."

            "All right, all right!" He shook his head. "Save her."

            Ginn grinned. "Yes, master."

            I expected lightning and thunder. Instead the lights flickered overhead. 

            Emma sat up, the steak knife now on the floor next to her. She clutched her chest. "Marvin? You asshole!"

            Ginn smirked. "My work here is done."

            In a puff of smoke, he vanished.

            I lunged for the teakettle—or the magic lamp, I guess. "This is mine now. If you're smart—which I kind of doubt—you won't tell the cops and paramedics about this. Get your stories straight right now. Then, you know, get out and leave your girlfriend alone. And by the way? Don't fight about the divorce."

            Marvin sank to the floor. "Goddamn it. Goddamn it."

            Emma rubbed her bloody blouse. "What the hell happened?"

            Footsteps thundered down the hall. "Hello? Somebody called for help?"