by Jack Parker
As I sat, I tried to put myself in the shoes of Rick Miles, thinking about the theft from his point of view, and then I had attempted the thieves' mindsets. I could only assume that they'd just been interested in getting loot, but usually a B&E is based on the amount of valuables they think they can make off with.
And Miles' house doesn't look anything but middle class. It's nice, I guess, but I would never have guessed it to contain anything remotely valuable.
So had the crooks just guessed wrong? Randomly chosen a house to burglarize and ended up with 264? It was unlikely, but not impossible. However, it was only natural to assume that they'd run surveillance for a couple days prior to the break–in, and doing so would mean that they would have had to have prior knowledge of Miles' place…
Or a personal vendetta.
Maybe I was giving them too much credit.
I clapped my hands once and looked around the living room, deciding not to waste any more time. There was no sense in deliberating over things I couldn't decide definitely one way or another. It would just give me a headache and I would have to revise my theories when more evidence came through anyway.
So let's get to work. Shall we, hero?
I had investigated the living room on the day of the robbery, but it hadn't been a very thorough search. So I started there, going over every surface twice, checking the safe again for good measure, and dusting everything for fingerprints.
And what did I come up with? Absolutely nothing. The crooks had been clean. That or Sandy Miles had cleaned, but I was sure she had more common sense than to do that.
Now what? I thought. The back way?
On my way to the kitchen, I checked the short little hallway, since that was the route the thugs had taken to escape. I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for there – any type of torn fabric or personal items that the thugs might have accidentally dropped. But there was nothing, and although I wasn't surprised, I couldn't say I also wasn't disappointed. Sleuthing for SPD was turning out to be somewhat of a killjoy, because I was working in the CSI's wake. I guess you can't always get what you want.
Unless your last name is Benson.
The glass sliding doors to the patio were sparklingly clean, and the footprints in the back yard had been covered by last night's snowfall. It would have been foolhardy to dig around in the snow for anything, especially after Slyder's boys had searched there perhaps even more thoroughly than 264's interior the day before. Unfortunately, however, there really wasn't anywhere else in the house to search.
So once more, nothing.
Back in the sitting room, I stretched toward the ceiling until my back popped audibly. Placing my hands on my hips, I chewed my lower lip pensively. SPD had been through the crime scene with a fine–toothed comb already, so going back had really been a waste of time. But Slyder had been specific with his orders, and there really wasn't anywhere else to snoop at the moment anyway. Mendoza's place had been a dead end, and we had no clue what had become of the thieves, so there weren't any other options.
I could cruise around town looking for a red Ford with a smashed window, Remington M870 pellets in its hood, and no license plates.
Sighing, I walked into the dining room looking for Sandy Miles. She wasn't there, so I stepped back into the hall, looking up the flight of stairs to the second floor landing. There was no sign of her there either. I walked back down the hallway, trying to decide whether or not to wait around for her to return as I observed the many pictures of the Mileses' son. Junior was tall and muscular, with looks that could woo the whole cheerleading squad, and – as I observed from one particular set of photos – he had been captain of his high school football team. Rick and Sandy were obviously very proud of their youngster, considering their walls were covered with nothing but photos of him.
That or maybe they have separation anxiety, I mused as I wandered back into the kitchen.
The refrigerator was similarly covered with more magnets than I'd ever seen. Post–It notes and other papers decorated what surface wasn't covered by colorful plastic, and some of them had fluttered to the floor. I bent to pick them up so that Mrs. Miles wouldn't have to do it herself.
I straightened, about to replace the slips on the refrigerator surface, but paused with the sheets still in my hand. The topmost paper was one of those late notices from their mortgaging company, and as I briefly surveyed it and its fellows, I felt a sudden rush of pity for the Mileses: they owed more money to their creditors than I had ever possessed in my entire lifetime.
Wincing, I tried to hang the papers back on the 'fridge, but they wouldn't stay, so I instead crossed to the kitchen table and laid them next to the elaborate centerpiece of fake flowers.
Another slip caught my eye. This one was at the opposite end of the table next to a plate of half–eaten bacon and eggs and a cup of orange juice. I picked up this form, saw a warning of foreclosure, and immediately replaced the page where I had found it.
These guys are really up to their necks, I thought. And then, a sudden rush of guilt came over me, like I was prying in matters that didn't concern me. After all, I was a detective – not a tax consultant. I was here investigating a crime, not the Mileses' private information. I didn't have a warrant for that anyway.
I left the kitchen, but couldn't help dwelling on the information I had just accidentally uncovered. Since they were in debt already and had just been robbed of practically all their savings, the Mileses would most likely be applying for loans and more credit cards in the next few weeks if they could get them approved, which would only put them in even deeper in the long run. Their son's tuition was certainly not paid off, utilities in Swedesboro were famed for their price tag, and on top of all that, they were paying me a good amount to find the thieves.
I grabbed my coat from a hallway chair where Mrs. Miles had left it and headed outside, trying to shake that overwhelming sense of guilt. I closed the door behind me as best as I could and crossed the front lawn and street to my car. After climbing into the vehicle, I quickly turned on the heater and sat for a long moment, thinking.
"What to do?" I asked the steering wheel. "What to do?"
I always had been prone to talk to myself. Sighing, I gunned the engine and pulled away from the curb, considering a bite to eat. It was 12:45 after all, and my stomach was growling.
"Oh, wait,"I said aloud. There were only two crumpled dollar bills in my wallet.
Well, dadgum, I thought in response to myself. No fast food, then.
Ignoring my stomach's complaints, I headed back to the office.
Chapter Five
Thursday, December 2nd
It was late, sometime after midnight. I sat slouched in my comfy swivel chair, contemplating in the dark.
All the lights in the office were out. The only source of illumination in the room came from the dripping candle I'd placed in my "in" tray hours earlier – after vacating it of papers, of course. I still hadn't replaced the bulb in the overhead, and I was feeling too lazy to go turn on the hall light or start up a fire in the hearth. Jill had put the bills in the mail, and I'd already completed both the Sudoku puzzle and the crossword in the Wednesday paper.
And so I sat.
I steepled my fingers and gazed into the blackness. There wasn't much to see. Likewise, not much was happening in my head, although that wasn't really surprising. There wasn't much to think about anyway: I had two dead ends on my hands and nowhere to turn, considering my limited options and complete lack of any forensic evidence whatsoever.
The Miles and Mendoza folders lay open on the desk in front of me, roadmaps without signs or markers. And I just sat there, staring blankly at those police reports, as though expecting some sort of answer to reveal itself – as though I was studying some kind of 3–D dot puzzle. And even for me, that was some pretty serious wishful thinking.
As it was, the only substantial information I had were the two dates of the crimes (Nov. 28th and 30th), the approximated times of each (9:1
2pm and 6:32am respectively), and what had been stolen (Mendoza's '85 red Ford sedan and Miles' nine grand – also respectively). And concerning the thieves, I had nothing: no names, no addresses, no weapons, and no motives.
Nothing but a goddamn shoe size.
And so, my thoughts were left to wander.
Two things played foremost through my mind. The first was simply the odd nature of the Miles crime. It certainly wasn't some bizarre ordeal – nothing like the Main Line murder of '79 – but it still struck me as strange. For one thing, the crooks had hit the Miles house in the morning, when the majority of the working population was awake and could easily have observed the theft. For another thing – as Miles himself had attested – their residence wasn't the richest dwelling on the street. Why the thugs had selected 264 for their B&E was beyond me.
And the second thing about the case that bothered me…
I didn't really know what it was. There was something about the whole thing that was picking incessantly at my guts. Call it a sixth sense, call it paranoia, call it whatever you'd like. My mind was throwing up red warning signs everywhere I turned. There was something obvious there that I was overlooking – something so blatant that I'd missed it.
But what?
I growled in the blackness, furrowing my brow. I was probably just reading into something insignificant – making too much of a minor detail. But regardless of whatever it may have been, I simply wanted to shake that sense of frustration – that inexplicable feeling of being trapped. Which, of course, was irrational, considering no one had put a deadline on me.
Yet I was still treating the case as though I was working against the clock. To some, that might have been a good thing: getting an ambitious, early start on things can certainly be profitable. But I was getting ahead of myself, making mountains out of molehills and thinking entirely too hard.
I sighed heavily as I sat up in the chair. I needed a clue and a drink. Thankfully, I knew where to find one of them.
Jill's office was predictably dark and vacant when I entered. It was cold too, so I shivered as I entered, rubbing my arms furiously and praying Santa would bring me a better central heating unit come the 25th.
Before departing earlier that evening, Jill had tried to convince me to go home. Her argument had been perfectly logical, but logic doesn't necessarily mean anything to the demented mind. "There's no sense in losing sleep over it yet," she had said. "Why waste the time you could spend doing something productive? And besides, don't you do your best thinking when you're comfortable?"
Well, my house may have been warmer than the office, but that was all it had going for it. And to set the record straight, I actually do my best thinking with a mug of coffee in hand. Matter of fact, that's the only time I do any worthwhile thinking.
I fumbled with the switch and blinked rapidly as light flooded the room. Considering Jill was usually so unbelievably tidy, it immediately surprised me to find the coffeemaker still out, perched atop the file cabinet like some plastic bird of prey. But then I picked up the note she had taped to the pot and read the neatly printed words with a smile:
* * *
Mr. Stikup:
I figured you would want a drink with all that thinking you're doing, so I left everything out for you. Don't drink too much or you won't be able to sleep tonight!
Good luck – hope you come up with some answers.
See you tomorrow.
Jill
* * *
What a sweetheart, my secretary.
I grinned as I plugged the Mr. Coffee vulture into the wall and began fumbling with the bag of filters. Just as she'd written, everything was there for me: spoons, sugar, a mug, the tin of Folgers, and there was cream in the mini–fridge across the room.
The girl spoiled me rotten and I loved it.
I crumpled Jill's note in my fist and seated myself on the lip of her desk while I waited for the coffee to percolate. And as I waited, it was that sole sound in the dark office that suddenly brought me crashing back to reality. I found myself looking blearily around the room, suddenly realizing exactly where I was, what time of evening it was, and what I wasn'taccomplishing.
What are you doing, Stikup? My lips twisted themselves into a fair imitation of the frustrated knot in my guts as I answered my own question. You're wasting time that could be better spent sleeping. That's what you're doing.
I wasn't Sherlock Holmes who could simply compute things in his head: I was your average PI and nothing more. I needed facts, motives, and suspects – not ideas, gut feelings, or hypotheses.
Not to say that a better case wouldn't have been nice. I hadn't yet found the heart to tell Miles that most missing items cases are left unsolved. But beggars can't be choosers.
I filled the mug to the brim and blew on the surface of the liquid before taking a careful sip. Immediately, I retched at my handiwork and nearly sprayed the mouthful on the wall. I stared at the black crap in the mug, curling my upper lip in disgust.
"Gross," I said mildly, speaking directly to the coffee. I swilled it around – to make sure that it was really coffee I was drinking – and then tried another sip. There was no improvement, so I dumped the mug in the bathroom sink. That was all well and good, though: I didn't need to stay up any longer anyway.
I shut off the light and stepped back into the hallway, rubbing my eyes in the darkness. I really needed some sleep if I was planning on doing any investigating the next day.
Today, my brain reminded me mechanically, so I hit the glow button on my watch and checked the time.
2:03 in the morning, and it was the second of December already. Much later than I had expected.
Stretching, I yawned and considered my options. Regardless of its appearance, the sofa in my office was extremely comfortable, and I could light a fire to keep me warm. On the other hand, I could drive all the way home to sleep in my bed. But if I did that, I most likely wouldn't actually get to sleep until well after 3:00.
Office it is.
I brushed my hair out of my eyes and trudged back down the hall. I had barely stepped in the door when the old phone on my desk rang. The shrill, piercing shriek shattered the previous stillness and made me jump.
I frowned as a sudden sense of foreboding tightened my guts, rooting me to the spot. After a second and third ring, I realized I wasn't dreaming, so I crossed to the desk and picked up the receiver.
"Yeah?" I asked tentatively.
"Stikup?"
I immediately recognized Kevin Slyder's mouth–full–of–marbles voice but still felt uneasy about his call. What could be so important at two in the goddamn morning? "Y'ello."
"Stikup, this is Slyder," he said unnecessarily. He seemed agitated, which was funny, because I hadn't actually said anything yet. "Had a hell of a time reaching you – called your home and your secretary. We got to get you a fucking pager or something. Look, we need you – now. We've had another break–in: house is number 4 Whitefield Avenue in Richwood."
"Me?" I wasn't sure why I had asked for specification – it wasn't even a joke. My mind wasn't functioning, it seemed.
His tone darkened considerably. "This case is your baby, Stikup. Unless you don't want it, of course. I can find someone else who does."
My blood ran cold at the threat and I swallowed hard. "No, sir – sorry, sir. Same crooks?"
The apology seemed to have satisfied him, although it irritated me that he had almost sounded… hopeful. Like he was looking for me to quit. "Far as we know. Definitely the same getaway vehicle – red Ford, no tags. Glassboro cops responded to the 9-1-1 call and phoned us in. Didn't feel like cleaning up after them, I guess."
I was busy stuffing a few extra 9mm clips into my slacks pocket. "Cleaning up?" I repeated absently.
"We've got a victim this time," Slyder replied grimly. "A Jane Doe. Like I said, Chauncey's team got the routed 9-1-1 call from neighbors who heard screaming. He called us in about a half hour ago."
"I'll be right over," I said an
d dropped the phone onto the base.
Cursing under my breath, I hurried down the hall – only stopping for my coat and hat. The frigid air blasted me awake as I dashed down the frozen walk – slipping and sliding – and jumped into the Anglia. I turned the ignition, the car's headlights pierced the darkness, and I cranked the steering wheel hard away from the curb.
Thankfully, the snowy streets were vacant, so it took me only fifteen minutes to get to the place, marking my arrival at 2:23.