by Jack Parker
"He tripped on a fucking table in the hall, for God's sakes." Thawyer shook his head incredulously. "What good is that? If he's gonna work with us, he's gotta show a little backbone!"
"Hmm." I made the noise through my nose in interest, nodding as though what he had said made perfect sense to me. "And your definition of 'backbone' involves enjoying the brutal raping and slaughter of a defenseless woman?"
He held up manacled hands defensively, chopping them in the air as though conducting. "Hey, man, we were just having some fun with her and she wouldn't cooperate."
"Maybe you should look up the meaning of the word 'fun' in the dictionary," I suggested amiably. "I think it's supposed to be a mutual thing."
Thawyer shrugged, indifferent. "Her choice."
I shook my head in disgust, anger bubbling up in my stomach once more. "With an attitude like that, you're sure not going to win any women anytime soon. But then again, you're not exactly going to have much time for socializing with women where you're going. I hear the inmates are relatively friendly, though."
"Fuck you," Thawyer snapped.
I held up my hands defensively. "Just sayin', man. Hey, why don't you tell me what you know about your boss?"
Thawyer scraped at his beard, working his jaw in frustration. Apparently answering my questions was chafing. "Never met 'im," he grunted finally. "I don't even know his fucking name."
"Yeah? What a coincidence – neither do I."
The crook grinned, displaying perfect teeth – save for one golden incisor. "Maybe we could work out a deal here, man… A 'get–out–of–jail–free' for some dirt. What'dya say?"
"I'd say you're an idiot." I held up a hand to forestall the renewed yelling. "First of all, I don't have the authority to promise you anything but a lighter sentence if you answer questions and maintain good behavior. Secondly, even if I did, I wouldn't abuse the privilege because you're a dirtbag and I just plain don't like you. Thirdly, I'm not gonna bribe answers out of you when I can just get them from the interrogation later, and (fourthly) I thought you just said you didn't know squat. Do you honestly think I'm that stupid?"
Thawyer was instantly pounding on the mesh again. "Who fucking died and made you God?"
"Aside from Jesus dying to make me new, no one I know of," I said, expending little effort to actually make myself heard over his immature ranting. "I'm sorry you wouldn't cooperate. I'm sure it would have benefited the both of us."
I turned to the cop seated beside me and said loudly, "Don't let him push you around."
The officer shrugged as Thawyer continued screaming. "His bark is worse than his bite."
And I had sampled both.
The sky was threatening snow as I climbed out of the squad car and onto the crowded sidewalk. Nursing my lip with my tongue, I worked my way through the crowd of police and pedestrians, headed to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, where Slyder was surrounded by seven or eight reporters.
"We'll just have to wait and see," he was saying over and over again as I waded through the ranks of interrogators. "That's just something we can't answer right now."
"Chief has work to do, so you'll all have to excuse him," I said loudly, placing my hand over one reporter's microphone. I took Slyder by the sleeve and pulled him away from the little buggers even as protests arose and parting questions were shouted after us.
"C'mon, Chief – no time for publicizing." As my stride was quicker and I had longer legs, Slyder was soon several paces behind me. "I need to go through the hotel room before I get myself checked out."
Slyder nodded gruffly falling into my wake, walking quickly to catch up. "Thanks, by the way. Hate answering questions. Did you get anything useful from Thawyer?"
"No," I admitted over my shoulder, "although I'm completely desensitized to all forms of the word 'fuck' now. He couldn't tell me anything about their employer either."
The Chief sighed, but didn't quite sound put–out. "Well, I guess we'll be relying on that list you asked me for then. Once we get back to the station, I'll get warrants together so we can go through these guys' places. Oh, and Stikup?"
I paused in mid–stride and turned back to face him. "Yes?"
"I believe this is yours." Slyder reached up and gently placed the crumpled fedora on my bloody scalp.
Chapter Ten
"I take it I'll be writing out a check for damages for you," Kevin Slyder said as he examined the mangled remains of the deadbolt. With a thick finger, he traced the neat bullet hole, which had severed the crank mechanism and sprung the latch free.
"If you please," I replied sweetly. To tell the truth, I was relatively proud of my handiwork.
He grunted as he turned around to face me. "Well, I suppose I should thank you for at least taking the less damaging route. A splintered doorframe would be more expensive to replace."
I tipped my hat at him with difficulty: it was sticking to my bloody scalp. "Always looking out for you, Chief."
He flipped me the bird.
I was seated on the twin bed closest to the door, going through Red Harris and Finigan Thawyer's belongings. As of yet, all I'd uncovered were disorganized bundles of clothing and hygienic items, not to mention a complete set of lockpicks and other home–invasion paraphernalia.
The Deluxe Home B&E Kit, I thought with a thin smile, envisioning the plastic, Botox–ed faces of a QVC infomercial. Just $499 if you order now, and we'll throw in a free ham!
Across the room, Slyder began opening empty bureau drawers. As we worked, another officer with a penlight was searching the vacant closet, a third and fourth were checking the bathroom, and there was a fifth officer taking detailed notes out in the hallway. The majority of the criminals' possessions were still in the duffel bags lying at my feet: it seemed that neither Thawyer nor Harris had gotten a chance to begin unpacking before our untimely arrival, not that we'd extended them any particular courtesy.
I wasn't truly looking for anything in particular: anything that might have pointed us towards the mysterious "boss" would be immensely helpful, any further incriminating evidence against Thawyer and Harris would certainly be useful in court. I wasn't about to bypass anything like that. Honestly, it was strictly for the sake of being professional and not particularly because I was intent on leaving stones unturned.
I tossed a pair of worn boxers atop the pile of clothing I was actively creating and shoved the now–empty duffel bag to the floor. The next bag contained nothing out of the ordinary: just more clothes, a crushed pair of reading glasses, and an old Stephen King novel – for reading in spare time, I assumed. Ironically enough, I also discovered a miniature King James pocket Bible tucked inside an inner pocket of the bag. Wondering how a criminal could be religious, I placed the Bible in a plastic baggie and laid it on the bed with my other findings. Of course, it could have been purely ceremonious religion: Michael Corleone was a fine example of someone upholding that end of the piety stick. And if Thawyer was Catholic, it would explain why he didn't use rubbers.
The final duffel bag was extremely heavy. It took me two attempts to get it up onto the queen–size. "Oof," I grunted, attracting the attention of the other officers in the room. "Body in this one."
Slyder watched in interest as I unzipped the bag and pulled out…
…a gun.
Well, it was actually part of a gun – a collapsible rifle to be specific. The piece I held in my gloved hands was the twenty–inch, black metal barrel. Butt and handgrip were composed of treated wood instead of metal, and the weapon was complete with a detachable scope and silencer – neither of which had been removed from their packaging. The gun itself looked brand new; it had probably never been used.
I reached into the depths of the bag again and withdrew another weapon, a handgun. The handle was polished wood like its bigger brother; the barrel was finished with the same jet–black. I didn't know what size rounds the monster fired, but it was closer to the scale of a Magnum than that of a 9mm, and definitely packed
a bigger punch.
Slyder whistled low under his breath, coming to stand beside the bed. "Guess they don't do bag checks here."
I handed the weapon to him. "What do you think?"
The chief turned the handgun over in his thick hands, frowning in careful scrutiny. "I think this thing could take a man's arm off. Some kind of hunting toy. Jesus, you could drop a moose with this."
I fed him an amused look. "You'd shoot a moose with a handgun, Chief?"
Slyder continued as though he hadn't heard, although several of the other officers were trying to hide their smiles. "Why hunting equipment?"
I chewed my lower lip, heedless of the injury there. I just couldn't break the habit. "Good question. Low on funds? What do you think – does hunting equipment cost less than standard weaponry?"
Slyder handed back the gun. "Not particularly. Could be more expensive, depending."
"The rifle's convenient, I suppose," I said slowly, looking carefully at all the pieces I'd laid out on the bedspread. "Easy to hide or disguise. But if they're not planning on killing the President it's all kind of overkill, don't you think?"
Slyder didn't respond to my question and instead moved to the window I had climbed out of earlier to look out at the surrounding town.
Things weren't exactly making sense. I ran my fingertips over the heavy metal barrel of the handgun, felt the deathly chill through the thin latex gloves, and placed the weapon beside the collapsible rifle. I picked up the bag again instead.
"There's more crap in here," I said, and pulled out another handgun of the same size and caliber. A few crumpled scraps of papers came out with the weapon, stuck to the handgrip. I gathered them in a fist and cocked my head to one side in order to make out the words.
"Shooting manual," I told Slyder, giving the booklet a brief look–over before tossing it aside. "Not very detailed. Seems to me these guys wouldn't need the refresher. Not that they can read anyway…"
The second sheaf was a crumpled receipt, a narrow strip of waxy paper that had come from a cheapo receipt calculator. I scanned the cost – four figures – whistled, and then noticed that any charge had been cleared due credit rewards. Credit at the store, which could only mean either Thawyer or Harris – or both –were regular customers.
So they literally paid nothing for these?
But how could that be?
The name of the store was also printed at the top of the receipt, and I read it aloud for the officers' benefit: "The Shootin' Shack."
Questions immediately began ricocheting around my aching brain.
Isn't that the name of the hunting shop Robert Mendoza owns?
For a moment, suspicions of the man seized me, but after a quick review of what I had learned from him and police records, I couldn't logically involve him in the caper. First of all, it had been his car that was stolen, and second of all…
Well, I didn't have a second of all yet, so I couldn't honestly say that he wasn't involved, but as of right then, I couldn't put anything on him either. I would have to wait until I got something solid before I started hurling accusations. At the very least, my crooks had bought the guns from Mendoza and he hadn't known their agenda, or at least hadn't meant to facilitate said crime. The only charge he could potentially receive was the aiding and abetting of known criminals, but that was unlikely too. Assuming he owned a decent suit and minded his manners, there was no way a jury would indict him.
I breezed the faded ink again, then – just to be sure I was definitely thinking of the right place – looked up at Slyder. "Shootin' Shack's that little place just outside of Cherry Hill, right? Halfway down 77?"
The Chief turned away from the window finally, a fresh cigarette jammed beneath the bristles of his mustache. "Yeah, that's right. You think they just went there because it was convenient?"
I doffed the receipt. "Well, if they got this much credit, hell yeah."
He crossed the room and took the slip from me to observe. For a long moment, he frowned over the figures, then passed it back to me without saying anything.
"Shootin' Shack is probably the closest gun shop since that little place in Pitman went out of business," I continued once he was paying attention again. "So what have we got, then? One of these guys – maybe this mysterious 'boss' – has made quite a few purchases from the Shootin' Shack, works up some serious credit, decides that now is the time to use it, and buys the guns as precautionary? Or maybe there was more to their scheme than just robbing Miles. And how does this information help our investigation anyway?"
"I don't know how important the Shootin' Shack is in the long run, but maybe the owner could give us some information." Slyder snatched the cigarette from his lips and tipped ash into the dirty tray on the dresser. "Ahh, I always liked the Pitman shop better anyway. Broadway was such a convenient location."
"What is that place now, a spa or something?" I asked as I began labeling the guns for the police to photograph. "I haven't been down Pitman in a little while. Of course, if it's not a Dunkin' Doughnuts, you cops aren't interested, right? Man, what is it about cops and doughnuts anyway?"
"Please, Stikup." Slyder worked the space between his eyes with thumb and middle fingers. The cigarette smoldered at the corner of his mouth. "You're making my head hurt."
"Almost as bad as mine?" I asked innocently.
* * *
At least the routine search hadn't proved fruitless. Quite to the contrary, it had gained me a very good lead that could potentially develop into something more. Follow–up would just mean capitalizing on the idea while it was still hot. Put bluntly, it would require a lot of asking questions and a bare minimum of all that adventure hocus pocus plaguing cop movies set in the 80's.
For the time being, I could rest assured that there wouldn't be any more crimes committed for some time. Of course, that was assuming there was only one group of criminals hiding out in Swedesboro, but this was a possibility that somehow seemed unlikely in light of the day's events.
Before departing for the office, Slyder and I went through Mendoza's car. The vehicle stank of cheep beer and cigarette smoke, scents masked in no way by the faded cinnamon air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. I found a handgun under the back seat, which had perhaps previously belonged to Greg Sheldon.
Unfortunately, there wasn't anything else worth saving. The driver's window had indeed been smashed inward – to which the tiny pieces of glass everywhere bore witness – and the thieves had crudely covered the gap with a large piece of cardboard and black duct tape. The glove compartment had been emptied of all registration and papers pertaining to vehicle ownership. The vinyl cover on the steering column had been cut away crudely with a carpet knife – I found both items beneath the back seat – and the exposed wires had been spliced.
As for the car's exterior, the inspection stickers had been torn off the windshield, and, of course, the tags – the only other forms of identification – were missing. In fact, aside from circumstantial evidence, there was no proof whatsoever that it actually was Mendoza's sedan. We would have to run the VIN through the DMV database to ensure that fact.
After closing down the operation at the hotel (taping "caution" in yellow and black around number eighteen and posting a grunt outside the hotel on watch duty), I headed for my car and went back to the office. By the time I turned back onto Clement's Bridge and crossed Delsea, it was already 2:00p.
I arrived back at the office around 2:23. I let myself in and headed down the hall, shivering and thinking about all the things I needed to do. First and foremost, I needed to file the new information I'd gleaned from the encounter – or else I would start forgetting the connections I'd drawn up in my mind. Then there was routine paperwork to peruse and sign, not to mention all the stuff I'd left unfinished. As for the hard evidence, Slyder wanted to keep it at the station for the CSI team to analyze, but he was going to fax me copies of everything ASAP, including photographs of the weaponry.
I paused in the doorway of
Jill's office to say hi (and hopefully glean sympathy for my injuries). However, despite the fact that the lights were on, she wasn't in the room. I slumped against the doorframe dejectedly, exhausted and disappointed. Beyond Jill's desk, the bathroom door was shut. Assuming she hadn't left to run errands, she was probably in there.
When she gets out, I need Advil.
I scraped fingers across my eyes and winced as I felt the purplish bruising. The creep – Harris or Thawyer, whichever goon had been practicing his grand slam swing – had really clocked me. The entire left side of my face was black and most likely hadn't finished swelling. There was a fairly good chance I'd sustained a mild concussion too, judging by the vague dizziness tilting the world before me, but I refused to let it bother me.
After all, I'm a man.
I pushed off of the doorframe and trudged the remaining ten feet into my dark office. And there was Jill, bent over my desk, laying the mail and other assorted papers in my "in" tray, humming Simon and Garfunkle's number about the silver lady.