The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure)

by Jack Parker

  He took it in his gloved paws, and I caught the look he sent my way. It wasn't exactly impressed per se, but there was definitely some sort of acceptance there, like he recognized my potential. The Stikup Ego Meter spiked several notches: I was playing with the big boys now.

  "Good work, Stikup," he said, handing the plate off to another officer – who in turn carried it across the lawn to the nearest squad car. "We'll check this over at the station and give you a call."

  The rest of the officers were taking down the caution tape and heading for their vehicles. The news team had disappeared, and the streets were clear once again of pedestrians. The door to 264 had been forced closed, and the Mileses were looking out at us through their big front window.

  "It's a shame Scarlotti's still in remission," Slyder told me as I shook his hand, "but just the same, I'm glad to have you with us."

  "That makes two of us, Chief." Obviously, "glad" was a relative term, open for interpretation. I stuffed my hands back into my coat pockets, taking his words with a grain of salt. "By the way, whatever happened to Scarlotti? I hadn't heard."

  "Been in the papers," Slyder said, sounding surprised. He arched a thick eyebrow. "Where you been?"

  "I usually don't get to the paper until three days after it hits my doorstep, so that could explain something." I coughed a cloud of steam into the air. "Humor me."

  Slyder removed his hat and brushed snow from the brim with a gloved hand. "Took a bullet to the shoulder a week or so ago in that shooting over in Camden. It was kept quiet for a few days, but somehow information leaked. We haven't had very much trouble this month, so that's why you didn't hear from us sooner."

  I grinned. "Hey, someone's gotta break the peace. Wouldn't be the Christmas holiday without a little tension."

  Slyder smiled noncommittally as a squad car slid to a halt beside us. "I'll call you with information on the tag in a couple hours," he promised before climbing into the passenger side of the vehicle.

  And I appreciate it, Chief. I really do. I tipped the fedora at him as they pulled away.

  Chapter Three

  It was half past noon by the time I got back to the office. During the short ride across downtown Swedesboro, I thought exclusively about the case, and for the first time in a long time had no difficulty focusing. I'd already determined to get a good, early start and thereby prove my eternal value to SPD.

  I certainly didn't have much to start with, but beggars can't be choosers. I was simply thankful to be working again – even if it was for a humorless stoic like Kevin Slyder. The basics were this: at 6:30am, the thugs had broken into the Miles residence. They had taken approximately nine thousand dollars in cash and several potentially valuable trinkets, thanks to the Mileses' irrational paranoia concerning safety deposit boxes. The thugs had arrived in the same car they'd used to get away, and the only hard evidence they'd left behind was the license plate I'd found in the street. At about 7:45, Chief Slyder had put the call through to me at the behest of the DA, due to Scarlotti's unavailability. That meant that the thieves had already been gone for about an hour by the time I had gotten the call.

  They could be anywhere by now, I thought, narrowing my eyes. Maybe even out of state. 295 North would take them as far as New York, and lying low somewhere outside of Jersey would have been the smartest idea for them. I could only hope that they weren't actually that smart and that SPD could find a match on the license plate before they got that smart. Epiphany can strike without warning, after all.

  I pulled the Anglia up to the curb in front of the office and climbed out of the deep bucket seat. The sun was glaring off of the snow, having decided to come out for a little while, but there was no warmth to the day. The frigid breeze whipped cleanly through my coat as I trudged up the surviving "path" to the front door of the office.

  Jill met me in the front hall as I entered. "I was wondering when you were going to get back," she said irritably as I unbuttoned my coat. "You were gone for nearly four and a half hours."

  "Yeah, we caught a movie on the way back," I said casually, amused and a little surprised by her poorly hidden excitement. Jill wasn't the excitable type. She was possessed of a serene countenance and a good temperament, which was probably why I'd hired her in the first place – aside from her good credentials, which were really a moot point for her position anyway.

  The bottom line? I needed a girl with a cool head to keep my feet on the ground for me.

  Still, it's nice to know someone misses me on occasion.

  "Funny," she said, and although her voice dripped with sarcasm, she was smiling. "You go warm up and I'll go make us some coffee."

  "As ordered," I returned, peeling off my gloves and shoving them into my trench coat's pocket as she turned on her heel and re–entered her office.

  I hung the heavy jacket on the coat rack (neatly, so that Jill wouldn't feel obligated to fix it herself later) and headed down the hall. I hit the lightswitch without thinking, but – when the light failed to go on – remembered that the bulb was spent. Making a mental note to buy a replacement, I crossed the room to my desk, rolling up my sleeves and buttoning them at my elbows.

  After emptying my pockets on what desk surface was available, I went to the fireplace in the corner. It was difficult lighting the match with my numb hands, but I managed to get a cheery fire going after a few attempts. Finally, with all this accomplished, I flopped onto the moth–eaten sofa. As I lay there, the warmth from the fire slowly crept over me, purging the chill from the room and my body.

  If I had a thick blanket, I could fall asleep riiiight here, I thought drowsily. But then shook my head to clear it. No, no – none of that. You've got a job to do now.

  Jill entered the room a minute or two later with a steaming mug in each hand. She used a slender hip to close the door behind her, and then passed me one of the cups as I forced myself to sit up. It was my favorite mug – the one with the cartoon sperm whale on it. There's a good chance it might have been an old mascot from one of those Viagra commercials, but there was no writing anywhere on the mug to prove the theory.

  I raised the mug to her in thanks as she seated herself next to me, tucking one leg beneath the other. She'd left her shoes in her office and was walking in just her stockings. As a matter of fact, she probably hadn't been wearing them all day, since she was the type to go around shoeless all the time – no matter the temperature.

  "You're the best, Jill," I said.

  "Mhm," she said through her nose, sipping at her tea, completely disinterested in my gratitude at the present time. "So now that you've got your thinking drug, tell me what happened! Do you have any good leads? Is this going to be your big break?"

  I took a deliberately long pull from my sperm whale mug, waiting until she canted her head to one side and made a face. Jill prided herself on that fact I was greatly appreciative of her ideas and insight. Thus, she got to tell friends and family that she helped me solve cases, which I didn't mind at all. She helped more than she could possibly realize, and for that I was sincerely grateful.I needed a secretary to catalogue my thoughts as well as my paperwork, so it helped methink to lay the cards out on the table for her to see and organize. In fact, it would probably be quite accurate to say that Jill was the PI in the Stikup Agency and that I just took up space.

  And make messes.

  "Okay," I began finally, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. "There was a break–in at 264 Franklin Drive. That's the home of a Rick and Sandy Miles – their son is grown up and going to school somewhere out of state. Didn't get a chance to ask. Uh, the burglars took some cash from the Miles' safe. There were some valuable items of personal interest taken too."

  I cleared my throat. "The only piece of hard evidence I found was a license plate in the street that came from the getaway car. 'R-T-E-5'… or something like that. Anyway, Slyder – you know, the Chief of Police? He took it and is going to look up the owner. He'll be calling some time today when they get a hit in the records."
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  "Anything else?" Jill asked, as though all she needed to solve the case for me right then and there was one more miniscule detail. "Do you have any suspects?"

  I shook my head, absently swilling the coffee around the inside of the mug. "I wish, but there's really no one to suspect as of right now. I asked Miles the usual – if he had any enemies, bad blood, family feud, you know. He couldn't give me anything, so there's not much to go by." I sighed heavily. "Sooo, I'll just plan on visiting whomever it is that owns the car and then decide what to do from there."

  Jill leaned back, resting her head close to my shoulder. "Bet you'll be glad to be busy for a change," she said, studying the water–damaged ceiling.

  I inhaled that sweet scent of her hair and nodded mutely, distracted by something I couldn't quite identify.

  * * *

  As promised, Slyder called me later that day, sometime around 4:00.

  I was standing at the window, gazing out at the dying sunlight – purple and orange through the naked treetops – when the phone rang behind me. It was so great to hear that old phone ringing again. I picked it up without hesitation.

  "Stikup Agency." I almost added "how may I help you", but decided just in time that it sounded too much like fast food salutations.

  Slyder greeted me with his characteristic grunt. "Stikup?"

  "The one and only," I replied with a touch of humor. Lightly seasoned.

  "About the license plate you found."

  "The one and only," I repeated. I seemed to have already made it a personal creed to make the Captain laugh, at least once. Irritating him didn't seem like the best method even to me, but when have I ever gone the common route?

  He cleared his throat pointedly, but didn't seem quite to the point of outright frustration just yet. "Are you done?"

  I was suddenly struck by revelation as to why SPD didn't call me with work more often. "Sorry, sir," I lied, putting my wit on the back burner for the time being.

  No one likes a smart–ass.

  "Anyway," Slyder continued, and his tone discouraged interruption. "We found a match on that plate. The car belongs, or originally belonged, to a gentleman living at the southern end of Mantua. His name's Robert Mendoza. Lives on Jackson Boulevard, house number 13 – just beyond the high school. He filed a missing items report yesterday. His car is an '85 Ford sedan, red and in need of a paint job, with 150 thousand miles on it and expired registration."

  A connection, I thought, quickly scribbling the information down in my notebook. Oh, goodie.

  Slyder blew out a sigh. "Let's hope you can turn up some leads at his place."

  "Of course," I said businesslike, ready to bid him adieu. But then it occurred to me to ask an important question, one that I had – until present – neglected. "How much am I getting paid for this by the way?"

  "Miles agreed to pay the standard fee," Slyder replied evenly. "He seemed pretty bent out of shape when I told him your figures."

  I arched an eyebrow. Scarlotti gets paid at least three times what I do, but directly by the district. I suppose my status as a private eye, separate from the local precinct, dictated that Miles personally foot my bill, which was something I hadn't thought of before. He'd probably been pissed too, considering he hadn't requested a PI: the police had made the decision for him.

  With a shrug, I said: "Hey, I gotta eat too."

  "We all do," Slyder returned. "What do you plan on doing now, Stikup?" Calculating, again.

  "Oh, I don't know." I tucked the phone between my head and shoulder and turned to look back out the window again. "I was actually thinking about a nap and a doughnut. That's what you cops do, isn't it?"

  This time, he chuckled, a sound I didn't recall ever hearing before. It was odd and somehow out of place – like laughing at a funeral or shouting in a library.

  I grinned foolishly, like I'd just won the lottery. Stikup: one, Sylder: nothing, I thought. However, it hadn't been a real, full, belly laugh. It was good for a start, but I would have to keep trying if I wanted more impressive results.

  "Make sure you check out Mendoza," he ordered unnecessarily. "I'll let you go."

  I hung up feeling pleased. There was a good possibility that I would find enough information at 13 Jackson to bust the case wide open. And it hadn't even been a full day since the theft. Now, wouldn't that look good on the ol' résumé?

  Of course it was fantastical thinking. But when have I ever been a realist?

  Ten minutes later, I donned my coat and hat and headed out to the Anglia. Jill wished me good luck on her way in from fetching the mail. I started the car with trouble – something in the engine was dying from the sound of it – and headed off in the direction of number 13, Jackson Boulevard in Mantua Township.

  It took me about twenty minutes to find the place, and by that time it was almost five. I hated to make Jill lock up the office on her own, but I didn't want to waste time that could be spent on the case. She would understand.

  13 was a rancher: brick exterior, large bay window in the front, single car garage connected to the house itself. The front lawn wasn't all that big, but that eliminated the trouble of mowing, come spring and summer. In other words, it was my kind of property.

  At first I thought that maybe no one was home since nearly all the lights were out inside. However, when I rang the doorbell, a mustached man dressed in a checkered shirt and blue jeans answered. He was taller than me – probably somewhere around 6'3' – and looked to be about twice my weight to boot. His facial hair was dark black like Captain Slyder's, and shot through with silver, but his other features were more akin to those of someone that I had seen somewhere before.

  Hey, that's how it always is in the cop movies. Sounds more dramatic or something. Maybe I was just imagining it. Or maybe I had seen him in the deli downtown once or twice.

  Clearing my throat, I addressed the man. "'Evening, Mr. Mendoza. My name's Stikup – Private Investigator." I held out my left lapel to direct his attention to the snoop's badge. "I'm here investigating a break–in in downtown Swedesboro which we think might possibly be related to the recent theft of your vehicle. So, I've got a few questions for you – if you don't mind."

  "Ah." Mendoza opened the door wider to admit me. There was definitely reluctance in the action. "Thought you might be here to tell me you'd actually found my car. C'mon in."

  After stamping the snow off of my feet on the welcome mat, I thanked him and stepped inside. The living room was neatly furnished and looked comfortable, but my host led me to the next room over instead. A fire crackled in the library fireplace, and a tall–backed chair had been drawn up in front of it. Brown shag carpeting extended through the room back into living room, but the hall adjacent to the sitting room was hardwood. The faint smell of leather lingered in the air, hanging over everything.

  It was immediately apparent that Robert Mendoza was a hunter. Six or seven rifles stood in a display case against the far wall, and numerous deer heads were mounted on the library walls between bookshelves. The most magnificent of these was a 12–point buck's, which was mounted directly above the mantle. Its cold marble eyes followed me across the room.

  "You like 'em?" Mendoza asked, noticing where I was looking.

  I cleared my throat. "Er – yeah. Real… um… beauties."

  Mendoza grinned and gestured for me to have a seat in the tall chair. He pulled up another chair for himself and sat down facing me.

  "So, what's this all about?" he asked me once we were both seated. "The police were here yesterday to look around after I phoned in the robbery."

  I leaned forward and rested my arms on my knees. "Well, as I told you, there was a break–in downtown. I came here for clues since the criminals that stole your car were also the ones that broke into this other house."

  The man coughed loudly into a hand. "Goddamn thugs," he said in disgust, curling his upper lip. "Going on a crime spree are they?"

  "I s'pose." I fished around in my trench coat pocket and drew o
ut my notepad. "You probably already told the police this, but I need to know when your car was stolen."

  "Two days ago," Mendoza replied without hesitation. "I did tell them. They wrote up a report."

  "They haven't sent it to me yet," I said as I consulted the tiny calendar I'd drawn in the top right corner of my notebook. I'd scribbled one on every page, one for each month. That way I could keep track of events during the few cases I worked. Two days ago would place the theft on Sunday, November the 28th, approximately two weeks after Scarlotti Benson had been put out of commission.

  I jotted down the date. "When did you first notice the car was missing?"

  "I was home when it happened, Stikup. I heard them smash the driver's window. I got my gun and shot at 'em a couple times, but by the time I got there they had already hot–wired the car and were pulling out of the drive."

  Ooh – a tough guy, I thought. "Gave 'em what for, eh?"