by Jack Parker
And even if the case remained completely up to me – which I already knew it wouldn't – I'd have next to no chance of finding answers once Harris and Thawyer disappeared out of state and we lost all trace of them. This was a wild goose chase with no signs of any end.
I slumped against the wall and let the back of my head smack against the bricks. If I could just find something – a hint, a defining piece of evidence, a roadmap that conveniently had Thawyer and Harris' hideout circled in red Sharpie with big arrows and a caption saying, "Look here, stupid!"
Again with the evidence. Stikup, evidence only helps put the badguys away – it doesn't help you find them. When you get that through your thick, stupid head, maybe you'll start getting somewhere.
Jill suddenly appeared in the bathroom doorway, one hand trailing on the doorframe. Her face was drawn in shades of anxiety. "Chance? Are you okay?"
I inhaled sharply, letting my head roll to the left so that it was almost resting on my left shoulder. "Maybe I wasn't cut out for this shit, eh?"
That wasn't all there was to it, of course. Sure, I was frustrated with myself over my failure to come up with anything useful to the investigation, but I was also disgusted with my behavior toward Sheldon and pissed at myself for destroying the relationship I'd had with Jill in one unintentional moment. And even though I knew I was being stupid – selfish and self–piteous – I couldn't think of a better way to fix things than to just let it all out.
Jill was forever patient. "You'll get through this," she said, and her voice cracked as though she had been up all night, although that certainly couldn't have been the case. Yet, her eyes were just as wearied. "You're doing fine, Chance – you just gotta keep doing what you're doing."
Her soft tone melted my insides and made me feel guilty all over again. I forced my face into a painful smile, then pushed off the wall.
"Yeah," I said softly, running fingers through my hair. She's right, and you're being an idiot. Get a grip and start doing your job. I cleared my throat painfully and jerked a thumb at the bathroom wall. "Sorry. I guess I'm not feeling quite myself."
She smiled faintly, almost coyly, backing out of the doorway so that I could re–enter her office space. "No, you're just tired and you're not used to this type of stress. You didn't plan on this job being easy, right? You just have to roll with those punches now and keep getting back on your feet."
I said nothing. Her uncommon wisdom was like rocket science to my foolish logic.
God, how hopeless am I?
Jill licked her lip to wet them. "Do you want some more coffee? I can make some. There's some more Advil in the cabinet if your jaw is still bothering you –"
"No, Jill – I'm fine." I sighed heavily. Truth be told, my face was still sore, but painkiller wasn't what I needed at the moment. As a matter of fact, pain was motivation. "You do enough as it is without having to babysit me every minute. It's… it's just been a really long day. I keep reminding myself that it's still Thursday."
She smiled. "Staying up late threw you off, huh?"
"Yeah, yeah," I agreed, pushing the hair out of my eyes. "I just need some time to think and rest."
"I guess that makes two of us," she said softly, studying her fingers.
We lapsed into uncomfortable silence.
Chewing my lower lip, I watched her for a moment. "Thanks for being here, Jill," I said finally, meaning every word. "You don't know how much I appreciate it. Sometimes I think you're the only one that stands between me and insanity."
Looking at the floor, she smiled again, but only barely. After a stretch of silence, when she still didn't say anything in response, I took it as my cue to back out of her office and leave her alone. It seemed that we both had some serious thinking to do, and it was quite possible that we were both preoccupied by the same thing.
Well, that didn't go so badly, I thought as I approached my door. You talked to her.
Stikup the Pessimist countered: Yeah. After making an ass of yourself.
But the point is, you talked to her, I returned. She obviously doesn't hate you or want you dead – she just needs some time to reconsider her thinking.
STP: But you still didn't… talk.
Me: Well, not in–depth, but there will be time for that later.
STP: Yeah, plenty. During all of 1994 – when you're still absently searching for leads that just aren't there.
As usual, Stikup the Pessimist won the argument. But on the plus side, that meant he would sink back beneath my subconscious for a while. Which meant I'd be able to think clearly until the disagreeable hour when he resurfaced.
Sighing, I re–entered my office and began picking up the papers that my shoe missile had sent all over the floor. As I searched for the sheets by touch in the darkness, I sorted my thoughts and reordered my priorities.
Regardless of the fact that I was operating on less than an hour's worth of sleep, and the fact that this was turning into the longest day of my life, I was still a detective. The "tired" argument was just an excuse, and it certainly didn't justify my attitude.
My problem had almost nothing to do with the right reasons and everything to do with the fact that I was a selfish bastard. My motivation for working on the case was all wrong. Instead of wanting to help the innocent people who had been hurt by the perps' crimes, I was more concerned with my reputation. I was counting on this case to be my big break, and while I did want to help Miles, Mendoza, and Jeff Daniels, it seemed that I was still more preoccupied with keeping my job and advancing myself up the food chain.
I frowned in the darkness.
Those priorities should have snapped back into order with the murder of Ruby Daniels. In some ways, they had: after all, I had resolved to see the case out to the end, even if I was removed from actively working on it. However, now that the shock of the murder had worn off (or rather, been replaced by other concerns), it seemed that I'd sunk back into my mindset of merely proving to everyone that I was worth keeping around.
But starting from now on, that's going to change. Yes, I want to keep doing this kind of thing. But more importantly, I have to remember why. I've always wanted to help people, but I've got to do it for the right reasons.
So it was time to get back to work. And foremost on that list were all the phone calls I had to make.
I needed to call Slyder again so he could contact the local court and get the Sheldon kid a lighter sentence. I needed to talk with Jeff Daniels, although I could at least wait for him to call me. And – on a more pleasant and completely unrelated note – I also needed to call my mother: she would want to know if I could take her to Mass on Sunday.
Shaking my hair out of my eyes, I stuffed the sheet of new information Slyder had given me on Thawyer and Harris into the case folder. Then, I grabbed my shoe from where it had landed – conveniently upsetting the trashcan – and pulled it back onto my foot.
All this accomplished, I dropped heavily into my chair, significantly more at ease. The pieces of my crummy case were back in place – as best as they possibly could be. For the time being, everything was under control, so I picked up the phone and punched in the SPD number, intending to inform Slyder of Sheldon's non–involvement in the rape and murder.
After all, I thought grimly at the darkness, I always keep my promises.
Chapter Eight
Friday, December 3rd
All things considered, it wasn't really surprising that I didn't get much sleep the night of December the second. I had plenty on my mind to keep me awake, after all. There was the lingering tension between Jill and me and details concerning my mud–stuck case, not to mention the uncertainty surrounding my position as head detective on the Daniels investigation. Persistent doubts gnawed mercilessly at my guts, the same time random facts from the investigation ricocheted around my brain, interrupting thought at random.
All–too–recent developments in the plot also had me torn.
Jeff Daniels had phoned the office sometime around seven the
previous evening – about the time Jill and I had been packing to head home. In fact, I'd already donned my coat when Jill called me into her workspace, speaking in a tone that clearly warned me of what was about to take place. Unsurprisingly, the chat – if it could be called that – had been anything but pleasant. Jeff had been just as vehement during that conversation as during our previous one – shouting, cursing, crying, ranting. After hanging up (but not on him this time), I found that the only consolation I had in the matter was that he knew no more about the criminals' current location than I did. At least he couldn't do anything reckless.
And Jill had almost cried herself as she'd stood by, watching me attempt to reassure the widower that I was doing all that I could – all while his distorted screams filled the entire office.
Then there had been my talk with Sam Dempsey, earlier. I'd never met the man in person, but prior to our conversation, I'd always assumed he was a nice guy. I knew he was married with children, and I'd always heard good things about what he'd done for Swedesboro police. He was known for his generous contributions to the borough, and the mayor had twice spoken of arranging a plaque for the man in city hall.
Reputations can be misleading, however.
Never prior, and never since, have I spoken to a more obnoxious man in my life. Sam Dempsey was simply the kind of guy who liked his control, and he enjoyed his right to disciplinary privileges. When it came to his role as DA, he was a condescending prick, a regular asshole – the kind of boss everyone loves to hate. The entirety of our conversation can be analyzed by the man's closing statements.
"This reflects badly on all of us, Stikup," he'd snarled. "This reflects badly on me. So here's what you're going to do: you're going to clean up this shitty mess you've made, and you're going to do me justice for putting you in command. You're going to stop giving Kevin Slyder a hard time and do everything exactly like he tells you. From here on out, this investigation goes by the book, dammitt. You can handle that responsibility, right?"
God hadn't blessed me with a lot of self–control when He'd knitted me together in my mommy's womb, but I exercised every last ounce of it by responding as plainly as I did. "Yes, sir."
"Good," he'd said abrasively. "I'll take care of Greg Sheldon's lawyer. If he starts hounding you, you tell me. I can't make this go away completely – not until the kid serves his time – but we're going to get through it."
"Thank you, sir," I said through gritted teeth.
"Don't mention it," he snapped, and then the line went dead in my hand.
I suppose my feeling of righteous indignation towards him was somewhat misplaced, because I was responsible for the mess, and it did reflect poorly on his position as the DA. But that didn't excuse the fact that the man had an ego the size of Texas, complete with cacti, tumbleweeds, and accompanying grit.
God, he was obnoxious.
But at least our talk was over with, and for that I could be thankful.
I woke at 6:00 o'clock sharp on the morning of the third with the feeling in my gut that there was something I'd forgotten to do. For a long moment I just lay there, trying to remember what that something was, staring at the ceiling in absolute apathy.
I'd parked myself on the sofa in the office again that night, which meant that the morning found me with a sore back, a black–and–blue jaw, and a befuddled mind. I lay there motionless, bathed in my own sweat, unwilling to move just because I felt so disgusting.
I need a freaking shower.
That shot directly to the top of my priority list, so I donned my coat and left a note in Jill's office, explaining that I'd gone home and asking her to forward my calls – if any – there. The morning was frigid I discovered as I stepped outside, but the scouring wind was a blessing. Gusty fingers raked the hair back from my forehead, freeze–drying the sweat there instantly, as I climbed into the Anglia.
I left the window down as I roared away from the curb and made it home in less than fifteen minutes. Three days' worth of newspapers was frozen to the steps, so I gathered them together before fumbling with my keys to open the door. It was freezing inside since I hadn't adjusted the thermostat for almost two days, but I cranked it up without complaint before heading directly for the bathroom.
After a long, long, long shower that drained the hot water tank, I felt much better, much more awake, and much more collected. The only persisting irritations were the soreness in my back and jaw and the complaints of my stomach, so I popped a handful of Aspirin and headed to the kitchen in search of something to eat.
My mind was atypically blank, as barren and bleak as the arctic tundra, as I consumed a bowl of staling cornflakes. The silence quickly started getting to me however, so I retrieved the newspapers from the front hall and unfolded them on the tabletop in front me.
In the December 2nd paper, there were several relatively objective articles pertaining to the rape and murder of Ruby Daniels, one of which began on the front page of the paper. At the same time I was tickled by the publicity, I recalled the way Slyder had earlier spoken of the press coverage. Yet for some reason, I tried to convince myself that it wasn't going to be as bad as he had implied. For some reason, I made myself believe that the media would be on my side – me, the guy from way out in left field, the underdog hero who somehow wins the affection of the masses and rides their shoulders into the sunset.
But finally I read the report on 8b for myself, and that initial moment of naivety rapidly bled into disgust. The cold descriptions of Ruby Daniels' murder discounted, it actually wasn't so bad until I got to the end of the article. There, the author recounted my little episode with Greg Sheldon with vividly inaccurate descriptions and directly questioned the decision of temporarily giving me Scarlotti's usual job – a decision he considered rash and unorthodox. The anonymous author concluded his article by indirectly suggesting that I be removed from command.
Three pages later, there was another write–up, including a statement given by Sam Dempsey.
He'd said: "Chance Stikup is an experienced private investigator who has temporarily taken point for Detective Benson. I apologize formally for the way Detective Stikup handled the affairs of the murder on Wednesday, and while I assume full responsibility for his actions, I assure you that his decision does not reflect on Chief Slyder or SPD. I can also assure you that a similar instance will not happen again. Detective Stikup has been given high recommendation by one of his peers, served time on the SPD task force himself from '84 to '89, and has never had a record of flying off the handle. I'm confident he will conclude this investigation soon without further incident."
The anonymous "peer" was obviously Kevin Slyder. At the same time his desire to remain anonymous amused me, it filled my guts with resentment. And despite the fact that Dempsey had defended me to the press, I still felt nothing but hollow aggravation towards the man. I couldn't honestly say I was thrilled by all the contention surrounding the case either.
10:30 rolled around presently, no one had called, and I was still sitting at the table, accomplishing nothing. Sighing, I got up and headed to the bedroom in order to pull on some real clothes before heading to the office. If I couldn't get anything accomplished at home, I could at least get some more paperwork done at the office or maybe peruse the classifieds over a cup of Jill's java.
And if I got really bored, I could call my mother. Maybe that was what I had forgotten to do.
Five minutes later, I steered the Anglia out into traffic, telling myself that there was no use worrying over what it was. After all, if it was truly something important, I would remember at some point – hopefully before it was too late.
I sighed as I sat at the red light at the end of my street, drumming my fingertips on the wheel. It took me several seconds to realize that I was mentally rehearsing a conversation that would never take place – one involving a certain secretary and a dashing young hero – a fact which immediately drove a spike of irritation through my brain. Grunting in frustration, I turned on the radio and
cranked up the volume to drive away those unwanted thoughts. Fortunately, no one distracts quite as spectacularly as Pete Townshend on that final refrain of Pinball Wizard, which was exactly what exploded from the dying speakers.
There is a God, I thought.
In the passenger mirror, I watched the beaten–up red sedan sidle up beside me to make the right onto Forest and then the light went green, so I hit the gas and –
– did a double take, craning my neck to watch as the wagon – an 80's–style Ford sedan lacking a rear license plate – disappeared around the snowy bend in the road –
With my heart in my throat, I slammed on the brakes, fishtailing the Anglia on the ice, and sped off in hot pursuit, leaving many angered drivers in the intersection behind me.
I roared around the bend where I'd last spotted the vehicle, then glimpsed it again in the distance, headed down Lakehurst. From my distance, I couldn't see how many people were in the vehicle or if there was cardboard covering a smashed driver's window, but I had a gut feeling that this was Mendoza's car. Why, I'm not sure. After all, Thawyer and Harris had to be smart enough to know they were wanted men, and Swedesboro was not exactly an ideal place for criminals to hide. It made no sense for them to come back – not unless they were planning another hit in the nearby area. Soon.