by Jack Parker
Sherry wiped her thin hands on her apron. "What's the gun for, Detective?"
I shrugged. "I was asking Rob here about it. He's something of a gun expert."
Mendoza shrugged. "I wouldn't say that… I carry some of these in my shop. It's a fine gun."
"I wouldn't know anything about that." Sherry dropped her voice to an undertone. "You'd better put that away, though, or Maurice will get upset. She hates it when you even talk about guns when other customers are around."
Maurice was Rita's head cook and the current owner of the restaurant. While I knew I wouldn't get in serious trouble with her for carrying a gun into her diner it would work Maurice's nerves. So I slipped it back into my pocket without argument.
"Would either of you like anything to eat with your drinks?" Sherry asked, changing the subject. "M's got some apple pie fresh out of the oven."
I whistled under my breath and shot a glance at Mendoza. "Hard to pass up that offer, eh, Robbie?"
The hunter patted his stomach. "It's tempting, but I gotta watch my figure."
Rolling my eyes, I turned back to Sherry and held up two fingers. "Two slices with plenty of vanilla ice cream. And take your time."
The waitress smiled and headed off into the back again.
"You'll have time to worry about dieting later, my friend," I said, returning my attention to Mendoza. "My gram – may she rest in peace – was the best cook on the face of this earth, but she never could best Maurice when it comes to apple pie. 'Sides, it's on me."
He shrugged. "Can't say no to free food."
"Cheers," I rejoined, taking a swig from my mug.
We sat in silence for a long moment, each of us looking around the near–empty diner. The only other occupants besides us were an older gentleman sitting alone in a booth across the way, and a young mother with her daughter – at least, I assumed it was her daughter due to slight resemblance and the way each treated the other. They both had the same smile and eyes.
Mendoza brought me back to earth. "So the weapons the thieves were using were purchased from my shop."
I swilled the frothy contents of my mug around with a spoon. "Something like that. I was a little skeptical that they would use hunting wares, however." The comment had a double meaning, but I covered up the otherwise obvious probe by interesting myself in the coffee.
Mendoza waggled his left index finger at me. "Don't be prejudice. GunMetal is a good brand. That's a powerful handgun you got there, and it's also a lot cheaper than your standard 9mm. I'd say these thieves of yours were actually pretty intelligent – it would be easier to trace them in a regular gun shop at any rate. You know you have to have an NRA license to carry, but at places like mine, we're required to accept a hunting license."
"Hmm." I took a sip from my mug and let the burning liquid slide slowly down my throat. "So a criminal with a history – who couldn't possibly obtain a gun license legally – could very easily get a hunter's license and still buy weaponry?"
He nodded, grimacing. "That's the way it works. No one ever said the system's perfect."
"Far from it." I shook my head. "Well, with these other two criminals in custody, I feel like I've actually made some progress. So I'm that much closer to closing this business up."
Mendoza nodded mutely, studying my face with a look that I couldn't quite interpret.
I laughed all of a sudden, propping myself on my elbows, crossing my arms on the table. "So, you see any shady characters wander into your shop and orders lots of powerful guns at any time in the recent past? Anyone give an evil laugh after making their purchase?"
"Not that I recall," Mendoza said, clearly avoiding the joke. "There was a guy named Hurtz who came in and bought a rifle a little ways back – maybe two months ago. I'll give you his number if you'd like. He likes to talk hunting, so he gave it to me. Never called him though – kind of an asshole. Another fellow bought a 12–gage a couple days ago, but he was from out of state and paid in cash. Not that I know of, no. Sorry."
I shrugged. "I don't expect you to remember every customer. Thing is, the receipt I found also said that these goons got all their weapons free of charge – good credit, or something like that – so the person that made the purchase must have been a regular. Now, it most likely wouldn't have been any of the three I apprehended, because they're all from out of state. Do you have anyone else working the register that might remember the purchase?"
Mendoza blew on his coffee and took a tentative sip. "Well, there's an older gentleman that works for me part–time," he growled, fixing me with a God–knows–why–I–suffer–him glare, "but his memory isn't worth a damn. I'll ask him anyway, if you'd like."
"Please," I said, but I was already prepared to get nothing for it. "And if you could get me some type of customer records from the last few months, that would be great."
"Of course." He leaned back in his seat, grinning suddenly – almost ferociously. "So, tell me what happened to you, Stikup. I know you didn't really walk into a door."
"So you were paying attention." I laughed offhandedly, toying with the rim of my fedora as I spoke. "Nah, I'm not really that clumsy. Actually, I got clobbered with a two–by–four. Like I said, I nabbed two more thugs down in Deptford yesterday, but before I got them under control, they were a little – er – hostile, so to say."
Mendoza arched an eyebrow. "Usually men who walk on the wrong side of the law are hostile. I figured you to have better judgment."
The comment stung a little, but I laughed it off. "Nah, I usually do things without thinking. You know, I didn't just walk into it – I had to plan the stupidity out. It's hard work."
For a moment, Mendoza didn't react – just looked at me in an intrigued sort of manner. And then he allowed a chuckle, like the sound of gravel beneath your boots. "I have to admit, I've never met anyone with quite your personality. Much less a cop."
"Well, you know I'm not technically a cop," I replied, although he probably wasn't interested. "I really run my own agency, if you can call it that. The real cops call me up whenever they need me. I'm the independent sort, I guess – at least, that's what my horoscope tells me."
"So what about you, Stikup?" Mendoza asked, leaning forward on his elbows. "Are you married?"
I displayed my naked left ring finger. "Nope. I was born to be a bachelor, although I'm not letting that discourage me. You?"
"Looks like we're in the same boat." Mendoza put his hand around his mug as though about to take a drink, but ended up just staring blankly into the cup. "Been single all my life. Girls never had a fondness for me."
"See, my problem is that the girls are attracted, but then they find out how annoying I am, so they leave." I laughed aloud, even though he didn't. "Not much I can do about my personality, although my secretary seems to put up with me well enough."
"Your secretary?" Mendoza brought his mug to his lips. "She eligible?"
"Not for me." I twisted my lips into a pensive knot, then shrugged. "I dunno. I'm interested, but I'm happy to just be friends, if you know what I mean. Better that than nothing at all."
"I don't know. I've always lived with one philosophy: no regrets." His eyes twitched back and forth between mine, searching. "What if you had asked her? What if she had said 'yes'? I wouldn't want to live the rest of my life asking those questions, Stikup."
"Who the hell are you, my shrink?" I asked, and this time we both laughed.
At that moment, Sherry appeared at my elbow and set plates heaped with Maurice's best in front of Mendoza and me. "Here you are, Detective. Mr. Mendoza. M says enjoy."
My guest had already spooned a generous portion and tucked it into his cheek. "No worries there."
I grinned at him, watching him chew. "Told you it was good."
He let a groan of rapture escape his throat. "'Good' is an understatement."
"We've got ourselves a convert." I winked at Sherry. "Our compliments to the chef, then."
Mendoza might have agreed if he hadn't been bus
y shoveling another heaping fork–full into his mouth.
Chapter Twelve
I took Hurtz' number from Mendoza and gave the man a call when I got back to the office that evening. I didn't know what would be profited by our conversation, but when you're a detective, it pays to explore all avenues.
Mendoza described Hurtz as a tall black man with a beard and a slight accent – he was British or something. The hunter had scribbled Hurtz' number on the back of our receipt, and beneath that, the words "good luck".
I chuckled to myself, holding the phone to my ear as I studied his practically illegible scribble. Guess he thinks I'll need it.
Hurtz answered after only four rings. His accent was actually thick and distinctly Australian. I made a mental note to give Mendoza a hard time about his cultural ignorance the next time I saw him.
Dropping the scrap of paper onto my desk, I leaned forward in my seat. "Yeah, hi. I'm calling for a Jerome Hurtz."
"Speaking," the man said, perhaps suspiciously. "Who's calling?"
"Mr. Hurtz, this is Detective Stikup, Private Investigator. I'm working with Swedesboro Police on an investigation, and I've got a couple questions I'd like to ask you if you've got the time."
Before I could even begin, Hurtz broke in. Had I been a lawyer, the man's panicked words might have represented a goldmine. "Detective, you've got the wrong man. I swear, I didn't do anything. Last time I was busted was when I was sixteen, I swear! I haven't even been near crack since then –"
The guilty conscience reveals itself, I thought. That didn't necessarily mean anything to my case in particular, but it did make me narrow my eyes.
"Calm down, mate," I said, trying the word on for size with just a hint of a phony accent. "I said I just want to ask you a few questions. I didn't make any accusations – did you hear any accusations? I just need you to tell me the truth."
As stated, the conversation was pointless. Either the guy was a very good actor or he truly was innocent. He answered all my questions without hesitation – truthfully, as far as I could tell – and insisted that he'd had nothing to do with the burglaries and murder. As a matter of fact, he hadn't even read about them in the papers and didn't remember giving his number to a Robert Mendoza either, although he did readily admit that he frequented the Shootin' Shack. He had alibis for the nights of November 30th and December the 2nd, and didn't remember much about November the 28th on account of being slightly inebriated.
It wasn't much, but I called Slyder just the same. I gave him Hurtz' information and told him to dig up any information on the guy that he could find, at the same time warning him that I wasn't really hopeful. Contrary to what I'd expected, the Chief seemed relatively pleased by the addition of another suspect, even if he too seemed doubtful that there was any sort of connection between the Aussie and the caper. I suppose he was just being optimistic, but at the same time it's always better to be safe than sorry. It certainly wouldn't hurt to double–check the man's stories.
My gut feeling as to Hurtz's innocence surprised me, considering I had never met him in person or sampled his character. I've always been suspicious of people I don't know, yet somehow I'd already determined that the guy was innocent. Well, perhaps not in the strictest sense of the word, but it seemed highly unlikely that he was in no way involved with the Miles or Mendoza robberies, or the Daniels murder.
And speaking of Mendoza, I'd driven the hunter to the impound lot to pick up his vehicle after our excursion to Rita's earlier that evening. He'd been extremely pleased to get it back, although the broken window and the $150 charge to remove the vehicle from the lot had dampened his spirits since his insurance wasn't going to cover either fee.
"Life sucks," I'd said mildly after he'd cursed out the officer behind the desk.
"Shove it, Stikup," he'd growled in return, angrily scribbling a check and thrusting it into the clerk's hand.
We'd stood shivering beside the pitiful sedan, complaining and small talking for a few minutes, and then I'd gone on to advise him to keep his eyes open and to keep me posted if he caught wind of anything fishy. From the driver's seat, Mendoza had assured me that he certainly would, before turning the raped ignition – without needing a key – and roaring off towards his home.
Seated at my desk once more, roughly forty–five minutes later, I found myself smiling absently. However impossibly, it seemed that I'd found a friend in Robert Mendoza, despite our polar opposites. Any major doubts I might still have harbored concerning his character were gone in light of the afternoon we'd spent together, and I knew he would be faithful enough to fill me in on anything that might aid my investigation. Certainly I was still suspicious, and rightly so. But sometimes doors open, and sometimes doors close, and I was no longer looking through the peephole in this instance.
I narrowed my vision. Ahh, the investigation. So how is this all fitting together?
Something had to point to the gang's employer. Criminals never cover all their tracks no matter how hard they try. As a matter of fact, it was highly possible that I'd already found the clue I was looking for and had simply glossed over it as inessential. But for the time being, I had to assume that I hadn't, because no logical connections were presenting themselves. I had no suspects to suspect aside from a crackhead Aussie, and even if I had had any, I was also lacking any type of credible motivation to pin on them.
So we're still assuming that it's a personal vendetta, I thought, tracing patterns in the dust on my desk. Guy's got something against Mendoza and Miles. He has Mendoza's car stolen, uses it to rob Miles and to possibly frame Mendoza for the job. He uses other crooks to ensure that his identity remains hidden, minimizes contact with them. But ends up not paying enough, and so he looses control. End of story?
It didn't all fit, but it was the best I had. Hell, it was all I had. The idea of a personal vendetta still struck me as a little over–the–top dramatically, especially considering Mendoza's reclusive lifestyle and Miles' decidedly less–than–confrontational personality. Creditors might have come after Miles for not paying his dues, but they generally attacked with lawsuits and phony smiles as opposed to guns and thievery. Although what had been stolen made me think something to do with creditors, but even if one had gone rogue, it still seemed that he'd get his money faster by simply foreclosing on the house than holding a will for ransom.
I raised my hands in the air and slapped them down hard on the arms of my chair. If I could just identify the corporate mind behind it all, that would solve all my problems. Motive might simply click if I had someone upon whom to paint a target, and then I'd be able to put the rest of the puzzle together. As yet, I was still wondering about so many different details: the coordination of the thefts, where Miles' papers had been hidden away, how much of the thieves' stories was accurate and believable, and what in hell all those guns had been for anyway.
Some type of heist?
There had only been five items on the receipt I had found – the two rifles and three handguns I'd found in the same duffel bag – but why had they been necessary? After all, it was only natural to assume that the criminals were smart enough to have their own guns. Perhaps to prevent the ease of being traced? But that didn't explain the need for weapons of such high caliber – especially when there were only the three cohorts to begin with. Was there another job on the agenda that they hadn't completed? And did the thieves even know what it was, or had their boss not revealed the next task before the arrest?
I sighed, rubbing the sore side of my face with a palm. I certainly wasn't going to find the answers sitting and musing. Unfortunately, I wasn't quite sure just where to look next – aside from paying Harris and Thawyer a visit at the county jail, and visiting hours were sure to be over at this time on a Saturday evening.
Jill came into the room.
I snapped out of my reflections and immediately checked my watch. It had been well after seven when I'd gotten back to the office; now, it was close to nine.
"Hey!" I growled,
fighting a smile. She probably couldn't have seen it in the darkness anyway: her eyes would still be adjusting. "What the hell are you still doing here?"
She wiped her hands on the front of her skirt – plain black, just veiling her knees. "I figured a couple extra hours couldn't hurt. Less to do tomorrow."
I rubbed a hand over my eyes, suddenly exhausted. "Oh, you're a good lady, you are. What's new?"
"Other than the chance of another snowfall within the next two days, everything's good." She was still watching as I lowered my hand and looked back up at her. "How's your head?"
"A lot better than it usually looks." I sighed. "Still sore."
She pouted, that ridiculous lower–lip–touching–the–chin look I'd taught her over the years. At least she'd learned something under my employ. "Wish there was something I could do."