by Jack Parker
Jill appeared just as I was strapping on the chest holster. "So what's happening?" she asked eagerly.
I chose to leave the particulars to her imagination. "I just got a phone call from the Chief of Swedesboro Police," I said, winking at the impressed look she shot at me. "It looks like today's actually gonna get interesting, darlin'."
She smiled and stepped aside to let me pass. "Well, be careful."
I paused dramatically, holding up my snoop's badge like it was the goddamn Bat Symbol. "Careful… is my middle name."
Jill shook her head, fighting a grin. "Shut up and go already, will you?"
I strode past her and down the hall, liking the weight of the handgun on my chest. Even more than that, I liked the way my voice echoed impressively as I called over my shoulder to her, "Keep that coffee warm for me, will ya?"
As I threw the heavy jacket around my shoulders, I caught a glimpse of her posting a hand on her hip. "Or I'm fired?" she called back in a dangerous tone.
"Fired and sued," I reassured her, then threw open the front door and walked boldly outside. "Be back shortly!"
At 8:00am exactly, I pulled in between two cop cars at the very end of Franklin Drive. My parallel parking was horrible, but that wasn't really high on my priority list at the time. Besides, the snow–stacked curbs made proper parking a virtual impossibility.
I got out slowly, gazing down the block at 264, the only property on the street that was full of police activity. The sidewalks were full of pedestrians. Curiosity had dragged them from their beds and breakfasts, I presumed – judging by the way I had to part their sleepy, disheveled ranks on my way to the crime scene. There was also a local news van parked on the opposite curb from 264. A small team of cameramen and a reporter had set up their equipment there, the forward scouts for the media's slanted army.
264 was a two–story house, white with green shutters. The snowy front lawn was nicely landscaped with several trees and a birdbath, plus neat lines of hedges which bordered each side of the property. The front door of the residence stood open and showed signs of forced entry.
At least a dozen police officers were in the immediate vicinity. Two, including Kevin Slyder (whom I could identify even from a distance by his massive physique) were talking with a tall, balding man – Mr. 264 presumably – while a third officer walked around the property, leading several bloodhounds on chains. As I watched, a fourth cop and a fifth cop came out of the house, while a sixth and seventh put up yellow "caution" tape around the property.
When I approached the home, a junior officer ran over to inquire why I was there. He looked tense and anxious, as though this was his first time on duty. It probably was: quality help was always lacking on the Swedesboro Police force.
I indicated the badge on my left lapel. "I'm Stikup. Private investigator."
The young officer nodded sharply, although it was immediately apparent that my name rang a bell with him. Maybe it was a running joke in the precinct, or perhaps Slyder had been badmouthing me to his squad after our earlier phone conversation. Whatever the case, the kid led me past the tape to 264, where the two officers and the tall man were waiting.
As one, they turned to look as we approached.
Captain Slyder was a thick, muscular man somewhat gone to waste. Desk work had reduced what might once have been an impressive physique to a less–than–intimidating paunch. The black mustache shading his upper lip was shot through with silver. Small nose and heavy brows, meaty cheeks, and dark, deeply–set eyes comprised a ruddy English face. He wore a wide–brimmed hat with the Swedesboro Police crest emblazoned above his forehead. A cigarette smoldered between his pursed lips.
Smiling thinly, he extended his hand to me. "Good to see you again, Stikup."
I shook his hand firmly, offering a grim smile in return. Without even reading into the stiffness of his handshake, I could tell that his statement had not been completely honest. Therefore, I responded with my own variation of the truth: "You too, Chief."
"This is Rick Miles, Stikup." Slyder indicated Mr. 264. The tall, balding man was shivering in a light coat thrown over a bathrobe, and I figured that he hadn't had any time to throw on any normal clothes. "Mr. Miles, would you care to repeat your story to Detective Stikup?"
Rick Miles blew on his hands and began to speak in a quavering voice. It seemed to be more from the cold rather than fright: he didn't strike me as the excitable type. "I told Chief Slyder the same thing, Detective. My wife Sandy and I were in the living room watching television when we heard this crash at the front door. I'd heard a car roar up a few minutes ago, but I'd figured it was someone for the neighbors – they got a son home from college for Christmas, so I thought it'd be one of their friends – but turns out it was these thieves. Why they hit us, I don't know. We're certainly not the richest people on the block."
He chuckled nervously. "Go figure."
At least he hadn't told me to go fish.
When he got no reaction from any of the cops, Miles continued the narrative. "Um, anyway, I got up and told Sandy to go phone the police. I didn't think to grab anything to defend myself – I just went to the front door to see what had happened and found these two guys wearing ski masks. They used a crowbar to bust the lock, I think. The leader was this tall guy – well, I guess he was the leader. He says to me, 'Take us to the fucking safe'. Well, I'm not an idiot – I'm not going to argue when he's got a .358 pointed at my chest. So I led them to the living room. A few moments after I'd opened the safe for them, Sandy came back in and whispered to me that the police were on their way. The thieves were smart, though – they knew we'd gotten the jump on them. They emptied the safe and left just before Chief Slyder's boys got here."
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "They made it out the back way."
"We did check that way, sir," the officer next to Slyder put in, talking to me. "Their footprints cut around through the neighbor's yard."
Why that was relevant at the time, I'm not certain.
Chief Slyder blew smoke out of his mouth. "Did our boys that went after the getaway vehicle return yet?" he asked, absently caressing his mustache, cigarette held between two fingers of the same hand.
The second officer nodded. "Yes, sir. They did spot the car in the downtown traffic, and reported that it didn't have a rear plate, so they couldn't identify it. They lost it at the 295 merge in Centerton. Two cruisers are still out looking."
"Can I look around inside?" I interrupted, eager to get out of the cold and snow.
Miles nodded agreeably, looking frozen himself, and Slyder gestured toward the mangled doorway. "After you."
I followed Rick inside.
The spacious entrance hall was furnished simply, like a model home. A small table held a vase of fake flowers and stood next to what was presumably a closet. Carpeted stairs led to the second floor, and daylight fell through the large windows above the front door. Snowy footprints decorated the polished wood floor and went in two directions: into the living room to my right, and down the hall straight ahead, toward what appeared to be the kitchen.
Miles ushered me into the living room.
There didn't seem to be anything out of place or unusual, other than various checks and papers scattered on the floor and the boot prints staining the rug. The safe hung partially open like a mausoleum, just above the fake fireplace.
Miles' wife was sponging several fresh stains from the carpet as I entered. It appeared that she and her husband had been having breakfast on the coffee table and had accidentally made a mess when the thieves had knocked in their front door. She was a small woman, wrapped in a blue bathrobe and pale in the face, although that anxiety might have been due solely to the circumstances. As she left the room to let me work, she sent me a cautious look – unveiled distrust.
Just the same, I tipped my hat at her in passing and moved to the safe. As I drew near, I saw that it had until recently been hidden behind an elaborate portrait that somewhat resembled Rick Miles.
/> "My grandfather," Miles offered helpfully, noticing where I was looking.
"Ah," I said, like I was really interested. The ears were definitely his.
I pulled on a pair of gloves and looked the safe over inside and out. I also took note of the contents that had been left behind. Several papers remained aside from the checks upon which I was standing: Mr. and Mrs. Miles' wills, a blueprint, and what turned out to be a land deed to some tract of land other than the 264 lot. As I examined the door, however, I found fabric oils in the shape of fingertips. As Miles had said, the thugs weren't stupid: they had obviously known what they were doing. Maybe they were professionals.
Good for me.
"Zilch," I reported as I slammed the safe shut.
Slyder allowed no reaction as I turned to face him. He stood, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me carefully – like he expected me to do a trick. Hopefully he would never do anything courageous. The man would make an ugly statue.
I removed my gloves and stuffed them into my coat pocket as I took one last look around the room. "Did anyone else see anything?"
Slyder shrugged. "We got a good description of the car, but nothing more. Apparently, they made a ruckus when they pulled out. Hit a car across the street. Witnesses couldn't say much about the perps."
"So no help there, in other words."
He said nothing further, and I had no more questions at the time. Which brought me back to square one, standing in 264's living room, empty hands in my pockets.
As I took in the officers standing all around, Rick and Sandy Miles huddled together by the sofa, and felt again the weight of the gun on my chest, it hit me suddenly how unreal all of this was: an actual case involving real crime and full police involvement. And I, a lowly private investigator from down the avenue, had been called within an hour of the theft to aid in the investigation. It was a dream, and it was a nightmare; it was the answer to prayer and punishment for not being more pious. I felt suddenly self–conscious, unprepared, unprofessional, lost. And Kevin Slyder just stood there, monitoring my every move, waiting for positive results – like I was going to check behind the sofa and pull a thief out from behind there by the scruff of his leather jacket.
For a moment, I actually considered looking.
"I'm going to go look out back," I announced instead, forcibly redirecting myself. The desire to make some sort of joke was almost overwhelming, but I was sure neither Slyder nor the Mileses would have appreciated humor at the moment.
Slyder gave no indication as to what he was thinking. Miles ushered me out of the living room and down the short hallway that led directly from the front door to the kitchen.
As we passed the closet on my right, I paused to admire the scads of framed pictures hanging on the wall, laid out in meticulously organized format. My eyes ranged over the many faces contained therein: many were recurring, but most only made cameos.
"Extensive family, Rick?" I asked Miles, jerking my head at his wall.
"Um, yes," he said, confused by my interest. "Sandy's and mine. Why?"
"Just curious." I pointed past him. "This way?"
He nodded and led me past the kitchen table to the sliding glass door, several feet to the left of the refrigerator. Several pairs of boots were lined up along the wall on the other side of the door. Miles pushed it open for me, and I stepped out onto their snow–covered patio, back into the cold morning.
A chain–link fence boxed in a decently sized portion of snowy earth. The patio was in the shape of a semicircle, enclosed with a waist–high railing. A set of chairs, a table, and a grill – all covered with snow and ice – were to my immediate right as I stepped down off of the platform and onto the rough path Miles had shoveled out.
"So do you think anyone you know would have done this to you?" I asked abruptly. "You didn't tell your creepy neighbor about your unopened collection of Pat Boone LPs, did you?"
Inwardly, I winced. The joke had jumped out without warning. And why Pat Boone of all artists?
"No, Mr. Stikup," he said with a sigh. I don't think he'd even noticed my sarcasm. "I've never really had any big disagreements with anyone. Ask Sandy. I'm an agreeable person. I can't think of any reason why someone would target me deliberately."
"No fooling," I said, sweeping the white yard with my gaze. "Did Chief take down a detailed list of the things that were taken, Mr. Miles?"
"Yeah," he replied softly, and I could feel him looking at the back of my head. "We had almost ten thousand dollars in there, Detective. In cash. We were saving it for my son."
I turned and finally looked directly at him. Up close, his features were haggard and drawn, thanks to the five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw and the lines of worry entrenching his forehead. A severely receding hairline and the bags under his eyes aged his appearance by a decade or more.
"I'm sorry, Rick," I said finally, and it was the first real apology I'd made that day. Interestingly enough, I had no real responsibility to confess in the matter. Maybe that was why it was easy to feel sorry for him. "I'm going to find them for you."
He nodded jerkily, because he was shivering, and said nothing.
We were both silent for a moment, and then I gestured vaguely at the backyard. "I'm gonna take a look around. Why don't you go back inside and get warm while I finish up here?"
It was apparent that Miles wanted nothing more. He beat a hasty retreat back into the kitchen without a parting word, leaving me to the crime scene and the cold.
I frowned as I thrust my hands into my pockets and began walking down the uneven pathway. Poor guy, I thought, maybe because being sympathetic for a change made me feel like a good person. Gotta be terrifying, being robbed.
Footprints were everywhere – from the cops mainly – but I did manage to find the two sets that the officer inside had spoken of. All the other prints skirted them by a good two or three feet, as no one had wanted to get close enough to mess them up. They continued in one direction and were spread out by a good yard–and–a–half, which suggested that the thieves had been running. At a point halfway along the fence, they had indeed climbed over and continued running behind the cover of the hedges.
I took quick measurements of the individual prints and recorded the information in my notebook, then vaulted the fence and continued to follow the tracks. They abruptly disappeared at the end of the sidewalk, and I thought I saw a faint trace of them in the slush and snow that coated the street, but I couldn't be certain.
After shooing away overly curious neighbors, I found where the footprints resumed themselves on the opposite side of the street. They led to a spot directly in front of number 269, behind a white GMC. It was possible that this was where the getaway car had been parked, but so many tire tracks furrowed the snow–covered road that it was all but impossible to tell.
I frowned, my hands thrust into my pockets. After a moment, I figured standing there wouldn't yield me any answers, so I stepped down off the curb and back into the mess of a street.
It just so happened, as I was crossing back to 264, that I stepped down on something hard that rang like metal – something partially hidden beneath the slush. Fate has a funny way of being benevolent when she's in a good mood, while other times she likes to mess with you. Today, as I stooped to see what it was I'd stepped on, I was on her good side.
The grin had spread full across my face before I even realized it. Bingo, I thought as I raised the prize to eye–level. It was a blue Jersey plate, dented and worn with age, stamped and approved by the Garden State.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, nodding rhythmically. Cops said the vehicle had no plates. It was somewhat of a big assumption, even to me, but then I turned the plate over in my hands and noticed the broken screw jammed in the top left hole. If this had come from the getaway vehicle then that would have to mean…
I turned to look back at the spot where I presumed the thieves' vehicle to have been parked, then at the white pickup again. Sure enough, there was a goo
d dent and a long, unsightly scratch along the GMC's length, showing where the bumper had grated against the other vehicle and the plate had ultimately broken off as the robbers' vehicle had fishtailed on the ice.
Paying for bodywork was going to be a bitch. Hopefully Mr. 269 had insurance.
I tucked the plate under one arm and turned in time to see Captain Slyder and another officer coming out of the Miles' house. "Hey, Stikup!" the Chief called, shattering the quiet morning. "Find something?"
I ducked beneath the tape and crossed the lawn to where he stood, the object of authority. I showed him the plate.