Read Online Eye Contact by Michael Craft - Free Book Online

cellophane. As Manning glances down at the clutter within the drawer, she slams it shut.
    Fuming, Dora Lee lights a cigarette, draws a long drag from it, and paces across the room. When she turns back, smoke shoots from her nose as she tells them, “He always played that highbrow music way too loud, and it was even louder than usual that night.” She throws up her arms in exasperation. “I’m glad he’s dead! I coulda killed him myself!”
    Manning’s brows instinctively rise. Seeing this, she stammers, “I … prob’ly shouldn’t say that, Mark.” She snorts. “I mean, just wanted to have a little peace and quiet. I was mad enough to kill the little weasel, but of course I didn’t.”
    He lets it pass. Rising from the chair, he turns a page of his notebook and says to her, “When I was in the hall last night, I noticed that you opened your door to see who was out there. Do you try to keep an eye on things up here?”
    Happy to shift the discussion away from the murder, she tells him, “A woman’s got to look out for herself. Can’t be too careful these days.”
    “That’s true,” Manning mumbles, “so true.” He takes a step closer to her. “I’m wondering, Dora Lee, if perhaps you noticed anyone in the hall on the night Cliff was killed. Did you see anyone enter his apartment?”
    She takes a puff. “Sure did.”
    David, sensing pay dirt, pulls out his pad to take a few notes of his own as Manning continues, “Do you know who it was?”
    “Never saw him before. Sort of tall—well, taller than Clifford, but that ain’t sayin’ much. Only saw him from behind, never got a look at the face.”
    Now Manning is pacing. “That’s not much to go on. Did you hear what he sounded like? Can you remember any conversation?”
    “Over that ‘music’—you nuts?”
    Manning stops pacing and turns to her. “How was he dressed? I mean, shabby like a bum, sporty like a college kid …?”
    “No,” she steps toward Manning, wagging the cigarette in front of him, “he was more like a salesman. Dark suit, maybe.”
    “This was Monday night, right? Do you recall what time?”
    She sucks her Camel, thinking. “Right around ten. The news was on.”
    Manning nods. “That would fit. What time did he leave?”
    “That damn music was blarin’!” She’s getting worked up again. “Louder than I ever heard it. It was bangin’ so loud, I never even heard the shots. I pounded on the wall and made a few choice threats, but it did no good. That caterwaulin’ didn’t stop for over an hour. The caller was prob’ly gone by then. Didn’t hear anything else that night”—she snorts—“or ever again, for that matter.”
    Manning pauses, looking at his notes. He stabs a period with his pen. “Have you told all this to the police?”
    “Yes.” She exhales wearily. Then she leans close to Manning and tells him, under her smoky breath, “All except that part about how I coulda killed him myself, if you know what I mean.”
    He nods confidentially. “This has been helpful, Dora Lee. I only wish you’d seen more.” Then he nods to David, signaling that they’re ready to leave.
    As David rises and pockets his notes, Dora Lee says, “Awful sorry, Mark, but there wasn’t much to see. There was nothin’ special about the man at Clifford’s door—except, of course, that there was a man at Clifford’s door.”
    Huh? Manning looks at David, who asks, “What do you mean, Dora Lee?”
    She laughs. “Well,” she explains, coughing, “most of Clifford’s callers were of the female persuasion. Especially at that hour. Especially when the music got loud.”
    Manning and David again look at each other, exchanging a shrug. It’s time to go. “Thank you,” Manning tells the woman, “we appreciate your taking time for us.”
    “Hell, Mark”—she extends her hand, a big, beefy mitt of a hand, crunching his knuckles—“anytime.” She walks both men to the door and opens it. “If you think of more