by Jack Parker
Sam Dempsey's words came back to me all of a sudden, as cold and hard as the ice on the road: from here on out, this investigation goes by the book.
Please and thank you.
"You got it, boss," I muttered aloud, and reached for the police radio attached to the dashboard (simultaneously killing Billy Idol in the middle of a rebel yell). I always kept the volume down because police chatter drove me crazy, but my profession demanded quick access to the authorities. As I cranked up the handset, I heard several voices breaking through intermittent bursts of static – something about a car theft in Mullica Hill – but that was of little interest to me at the moment.
Bringing the mic to my lips, I hit the call button and held it. "This is Detective Stikup of SPD requesting police assistance. Come in, anyone."
There was a brief pause, and then a male voice cut through the waterfall of electric pops. "Detective Stikup, this is Officer Vadder of the East Greenwich Police Department. What's your position?"
"I'm headed west on Lakehurst Boulevard in Swedesboro, south of King's Highway, in pursuit of a red '85 Ford Sedan – no plates. Suspect occupants to be culprits in the Richwood murder two nights ago."
Static, and then: "Copy that, Detective Stikup. How would you like us to proceed, sir?"
I rolled the wheel to avoid a particularly deep snowdrift which had migrated to the middle of my lane. "I'm following at a distance to remain undetected. If you can contact Chief Slyder at SPD and get together a B&E squad for me, I'll transmit my exact location when they get out of their vehicle. We're headed towards 45 – most likely headed north from there."
Static. "Acknowledged, Detective. Stay on the line." He began relaying the message in broadcast to all cops in the immediate vicinity.
Replacing the radio, I eased up on the gas and dropped back into a sleeper position so that the goons wouldn't realize they were being tailed. I wasn't really in the mood for a high–speed car chase on the icy back roads of South Jersey.
We did hop onto 45 as I'd predicted, and not much happened over the course of the next fifteen or twenty minutes after that, although I kept Vadder abreast of events as they happened. The vehicle ahead of me changed lanes frequently, but I kept steady in the fast lane, tracking the sedan carefully with my eyes and attempting to remain inconspicuous.
Eventually, they took a back road off of the highway and hung a left down 47. Separated by three or four cars, we headed further north for a fair distance before Harris and Thawyer finally pulled into an old parking lot on Almonessent, across the way from an eatery and an old hotel.
Our trek had taken us into the heart of Deptford Township, not far from Westville, almost twenty miles northwest of Swedesboro. Deptford wasn't really a "nice" area, per se, but they did have a shopping mall and two movie theaters in close proximity, so it was relatively crowded at the holidays. Today, the traffic was light enough to be tolerable, but dense enough to disguise my pursuit.
I cruised casually past the parking lot, watching discreetly as two men got out of the sedan and headed towards the front entrance of the hotel, each laden down with heavy bags. They had their backs to the street, but one of them was insanely tall and had long red hair.
I passed the place twice, watching the hotel entrance carefully on both passes. Once satisfied that they weren't coming back out, I parked around the corner from the parking lot on Clement's Bridge. There, I radioed Officer Vadder again to give him my exact position and to request a warrant for the old hotel – The Olde Hotel Deptford, according to the weathered sign by the street. Slyder would take care of everything, Vadder assured me, so I cut the transmission and jumped out of the Anglia, pulling my fedora down over my face in case Harris or Thawyer were watching from the hotel windows.
It was too much to hope for that they hadn't seen in the papers exactly whom it was that was tailing them. An amateur PI from South Jersey. Probably had a good laugh about it, too.
It had gotten colder, so I wrapped the trench coat closer around my legs as I walked quickly down the icy sidewalk. The hotel was actually a renovated Victorian style house, closer to a mansion in size than a single family residence. Over the years, the exterior had fallen into increasing states of disrepair: shingles from the roof were missing, and several upper windows were boarded with nothing more efficient than cardboard and duct tape. The porch was a wrap–around, guarded by dead plants hanging from the awnings.
I smiled to myself as I studied the place with careful scrutiny. Exactly the sort of place a thief would hide. A low budget hideout, certainly not main–line, probably not even listed in the yellow pages.
That was profiling – FBI crap, and perhaps it was unfair. "Politically incorrect". But I for one have never really been concerned about hurting criminals' feelings.
The inside lobby of the place caught me completely off–guard. It wasn't large by any means, but the whole setup was almost elegant – a mockery of its external appearance, an oxymoron of class boundaries. The tiled floor of the tiny lobby sparkled with cleanliness in the light from an overhead chandelier. An outcropping of fake tropical plants grew in the corner of the room. Comfortable–looking plush chairs were arranged against the opposite wall, flanked by magazine racks. Put simply, it was cozy, and the heat was a welcome relief from the temperatures outside.
There were only four other people in the room as I entered, so I caught snatches of conversation as I made my way up to the front desk. No one seemed interested in the eccentric newcomer, clad in a long trench coat and peering around suspiciously from beneath the brim of his Indiana Jones fedora.
Neither Harris nor Thawyer were in the lobby, so I approached the front desk. The bespectacled young woman looked up as I came to stand before her, absently twirling a lock of strawberry blond around an index finger.
"Can I help you?" she asked tonelessly, like she had nothing left in the world to live for.
I produced my badge for her to see. "Ma'am, my name is Detective Stikup," I said without preamble as she traced the badge with her eyes. "I'm working for Swedesboro Police on an investigation. We have reason to believe that the two men you just admitted into your hotel were culprits in a murder two nights ago, and I need to know which room they took. I've got a warrant on the way if you need one."
The girl's eyes widened as I spoke. "Oh my God," she breathed, suddenly awake. "Who are they – what did they look like?"
Damn, I thought furiously. Wish I had mug shots on me. There were several back at the office in the file stamped Daniels – freshly faxed over from SPD – but I hadn't even gotten a chance to look at them yet.
I cleared my throat, praising God that my memory was functioning properly. "One of them has got brown hair and beard, gold tooth in the front – pierced ears. The other's tall, got bright red hair and several facial piercings."
"Yes – yes, they're here." She quickly turned to her computer screen and clicked the mouse a few times. "S–second floor," she stammered finally, looking up at me again. "Last room on your right – number six."
I smiled at her thinly, attempting to reassure. "Thank you, ma'am. Police are on their way." Leaning close, I added in an undertone, "Carry on as you normally would – we don't want either of these two to get wind that we're coming."
She was visibly rattled, but nodded agreeably. The moment I turned away from the desk, she ducked into a room adjacent to the counter – probably to inform a higher–up of the situation. I didn't pay her any attention: it didn't make a difference who she told, so long as they didn't start a panic.
Instead of concerning myself, I headed back to the Anglia to wait for reinforcements.
Purely out of nervousness, I radioed Vadder again, warning him not to park directly outside the hotel. It might have annoyed him that I specified such an action, as he certainly knew how to do his job, but it reassured me to know he and a dozen comrades weren't going to come roaring down the street, sirens blaring.
The freaking cavalry, I thought distractedly, checking my
watch. SPD's response time was entirely too slow. Unbelievably slow. Sinfully slow. Come on – what's taking so long?
And the worst thing was that I could do nothing but wait.
Through the naked snarls of an oak tree's branches, I studied a window on the second floor of the hotel – a window I had picked out as potentially being number six. The curtains inside had been drawn, so I couldn't tell whether or not I had picked out the right room. I could have pulled up to get a closer look, but I didn't want to run the risk: if either Harris or Thawyer spotted me and got suspicious, the operation could be done for.
Roughly ten minutes later, a squad car cruised up behind my Anglia, crunching ice beneath its tires, and I leapt out of my car in a state of great impatience. Kevin Slyder climbed out of the passenger side of the car; an officer armed with a shotgun exited driver's side. Both wore Kevlar beneath their unbuttoned police coats.
"Sorry about the delay, Stikup," Slyder apologized, drawing his handgun from the holster at his hip. "You didn't give me much time to get a warrant together. Dempsey was beside himself."
I had been ready for action the moment I had seen the cop cars approaching in my rearview mirror, and I waved this apology away. "Yeah, yeah," I said impatiently. "Save the admissions of guilt for later. Let's just pull this bust. You did get the warrant, right?"
He held up a slip of yellow paper, so I unbuttoned the chest holster and led the way down the sidewalk. A squad of ten more officers met us at the front steps of the hotel – coming from the opposite direction – and I led the way inside.
The same four people were in the lobby as we thundered into the room, but their talking ceased the moment the front doors banged. A startled mother clutched her baby to her chest, and the two men conversing in the aisle hurried to get out of our way. Silence filled the room as we paraded in towards the receptionist station. The girl with whom I had spoken and an elderly man – perhaps the hotel's owner – were waiting behind the counter, watching us approach.
"Stay calm, folks," Slyder said loudly, addressing everyone in the room. "Stay calm and remain where you are." He directed two officers to remain stationed downstairs, and then nodded at me to begin the ascent to the second floor.
I led our troupe into the stairwell. We emerged in a decorated hall above the lobby – short with a low ceiling, lit with wall–mounted lamps and carpeted with Victorian rugs. A smell of cleanliness was in the air, and the very aura the place created was one of royal finery, the antithesis of the external décor.
Slyder and I led the way down the hall until we reached number six. The big police Chief banged a beefy hand on the door, rattling it on its hinges. "Open up! Police!"
When no one responded, I pushed past Slyder and slammed my shoulder into the door. The lock held, so instead I plugged it with two bullets. Wood splintered and I heard the high–pitched ring of metal as the bullet shredded the deadbolt on the other side.
Slyder kicked the door open, and his cops thundered past me into the room, weapons ready –
– and met no resistance but the curtains fluttering in the frigid breeze from the open window. The cops quickly dispersed into the suite, checking the closet and adjacent bathroom. Two officers even checked under the beds but I had already disproved that notion. The route the crooks had taken was immediately obvious.
Must have heard the commotion downstairs, saw us coming –
"They went out the window!" Slyder snapped, pounding a fist against his own thigh. "God dammitt, we're not losing them now!"
Chapter Nine
"Right you are, Chief," I said.
Shouldering past Officer Vadder, I swung my lower body out the window. There wasn't much purchase for my feet, save a rain drainage pipe that didn't feel quite secure. I took quick surveillance of my surroundings and propelled myself away from the wall. The alley floor rushed up at me, and I bent my knees to land in a crouch. It hurt like hell – even from a mere fifteen feet – but I bounced upright almost immediately.
The back way of the alley was blocked by a brick wall, although a dumpster provided a way up and over. However, the trash appeared undisturbed and there were no blemishes in the snow that coated it. In fact, countless sets of footprints led out the other way –
Swearing, I took off out the alley mouth, skirting a large patch of ice situated there. Once out of the small corridor, a whole plethora of new options presented themselves to me in the forms of buildings, restaurants, back ways, homes, streets, department stores, alleys, vehicles –
– and all of them were eliminated as I spotted fleeing figures to my right, headed down Clement's Bridge, shoving pedestrians aside as they went.
I took off, legs and arms pumping.
The man in the lead (head and shoulders above anyone else in the crowd, long red hair blowing out behind him) craned his neck to see if he and his companion were being pursued. He must have spotted me threading my way through the throng of Christmas shoppers, because he pointed backwards, shouting something to the other man – Thawyer. That individual turned to look, shouted something to Harris in return, and they flew with renewed effort.
I flashed past the parking lot where Mendoza's red sedan was still parked with barely enough time to notice the two police cruisers effectively barricading the exit –
The chase went down two blocks, then around a third. I had no time to check and see if Slyder or Vadder were following, but with Slyder's girth, I doubted he could have kept up.
People fell away in shock as the goons tore their way through the ranks of hapless bystanders, scattering their purchases in the snow. Shouts followed me as I followed them, breathing hard, muttering brief apologies to those folks whom I nearly bowled over.
Up ahead, I watched my quarries duck down a side street between a pet shop and an abandoned, graffiti–covered apartment complex. I grimaced at the pain in my cramping side and forced myself to speed up.
Slyder, where the hell are you?
I tore around the corner, following Harris and Thawyer's route and –
The blow from what could only be a two–by–four clocked me upside the head, showering my gaze with fireworks more brilliant than those from last Fourth of July. The blow was as effective as running into a clothesline. I sprawled backwards into the snow and my elbows hit the pavement hard. Snow instantly soaked through my coat, and blood trickled down the side of my face from a torn scalp. My vision flickered sickeningly and my body didn't seem to be responding to what commands my brain was giving.
I licked the blood from my split lip, gasping for breath. All I could see was the narrow strip of iron sky overhead, framed by the encroaching buildings.
I heard wood clatter as the broken board was discarded, and then a harsh voice muttering close to my ear. Hands grabbed me roughly by my shoulders and pulled me upright, shoving me painfully up against the brick wall of the pet shop, and I felt the nose of what was undoubtedly a gun jam into my ribs.
Suddenly I was sitting in a pile of snowy trash bags and the smell was fantastic; Harris must have deposited me there.
I blinked to clear the mist from my eyes. A blurry face framed by a shoulder–length tangle of red hair swam in and out of focus. The mouth, a lopsided gash across his gaunt face, was set in a grim line.
"How'd you find us?" Red–Hair demanded, pushing the gun painfully into my side.
I grinned, causing blood to dribble down my chin. "A little birdie told me," I heard myself say.
No one likes a smart–ass.
My jaw popped audibly with Harris' punch, but it was lost in the raucous the Philadelphia Orchestra was pounding out in my head – practice for their Broadway debut. The pain, however, was incredible, and I had to work my jaw to get it moving again.
Harris straightened me up again because I couldn't seem to do it myself, jamming my back against the cold brick again. "Who ratted us out?" he demanded, pushing the gun painfully into my guts. "That prick, Sheldon? The boss?"
"No – the dead lady's ghost,"
I said thickly, speaking through a jaw which didn't want to form words. "Paid me a visit last night to tell you to go to hell –"
"Shut the fuck up and answer the fucking question!" the other crook interjected, somewhere to my right – outside the ragged scarlet edges of my vision.
"Listen, man, I'm through playin'!" Harris warned.
"So am I."
I worked up a gob of saliva and blood and spat the mixture into his face. My aim was unerring, and the gob smacked him on the left cheek, splattering into his eye. His face went the shade of his hair as he dashed his sleeve across his cheek, and then he grabbed me roughly by the lapels of my trench coat, probably intending to do me some serious harm –