The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure)

by Jack Parker

  Slyder actually leaned forward in his seat as I said this and rested his elbows on the desk, genuinely intrigued and not a little amused.

  I plowed on before he could say anything. "So, from there, when I realized that Mendoza had obviously written both notes – which would obviously indicate that he was behind everything – I started trying to piece together a motive. You know, something more than just circumstantial speculation. Sooo, as I was thinking about everything, I realized that – uh, do you remember that wall in the Miles household with all those pictures on it, right in the entrance hall? Well, I remembered seeing a picture of Robbie on their wall. Yeah, I know – crazy, right?"

  He nodded, drone–like.

  I cleared my throat. "Anyway, um, what with him robbing Miles, I tried to think of a credible reason why Mendoza would rob someone he was obviously friends with or related to – especially if he knew that Miles was suffering financially. Well, from there, things just sort of… developed. I started considering the possibility that it hadn't been a real robbery – which it kind of was, although the thieves themselves didn't know it…"

  He looked confused, but I had planned on explaining anyway.

  "Mendoza told me that he and Miles had hired the thieves to do a job, told them what it was, but not anything else. Seems that they wanted to tap into Miles' insurance to get some quick money since they both were having a hard time. Their plan was to have the thieves do the job and then either Mendoza or Miles would plant the license plate from Mendoza's car so that we would hunt the thieves down, arrest them for the theft of the vehicle – even though they didn't actually steal it. And then we would find and return Miles' money. Once all the hubbub had settled down, he and Mendoza would gradually begin quietly paying back the loan they'd gotten from homeowner's."

  I grinned. "So, the thieves actually ended up being on the butt end of a bad joke: they were completely in the dark the whole time. But then they accidentally dropped the plate before Mendoza could plant it, which actually was to the thieves' advantage since it caught Mendoza and Miles unprepared. It was fortunate for us too: if that hadn't happened, we wouldn't have had all the questions and variables that clued us in to the fact that the whole thing was bigger than a simple robbery."

  For a moment, I was silent, watching his shocked expression and wondering just how badly this was blowing his mind. "According to Mendoza, it was supposed to be an 'everybody wins' situation – they would get their money from homeowner's, the thieves got their pay up front, and SPD would, in turn, get the thieves. Now, granted, I didn't figure that all out by myself, you know – just the basics. Mendoza and I had actually kinda been… buddies before two nights ago, I guess. After I shot him, we talked things over and he confessed everything. That was only about fifteen minutes before you arrived."

  I slapped my thighs. "So, end of story. D'ya think I'll get a Pulitzer if I publish it?"

  He slumped back in his chair weakly. "Was there any way we could have figured it out if they hadn't knocked the plate off the car?"

  "I doubt it." I shrugged. "We would have eventually hunted down the thieves, they probably wouldn't have said anything about a 'boss', and even if they did, there would have been no evidence, no nothing to connect anyone to anything, and the courts would have dismissed the case. But since the thieves dropped that license plate early, and since we caught Greg Sheldon and heard his story, we got a leg–up. Quite honestly, if I had thrown away that paper with Mendoza's phone number on it, we wouldn't have pulled the bust the other night, my secretary would possibly be dead, and we would probably be chasing Mendoza for the next couple of months, unless he was stupid enough to get caught sooner."

  Slyder posted his chin on his fist. "Any idea why did he kidnapped Ms. Fereday, anyway?"

  There were details pertaining to that factor that he didn't need to know, so I glossed over them. "I called Miles on the phone to give him an update that same evening, right after we found the note at Thawyer's place but before CSI checked it for prints. He got scared hearing we were so close, so he called his cousin, who, in turn, took it upon himself to do something about me."

  I waved a hand vaguely in the air. "I guess Robbie thought he could blackmail me – using Jill as leverage. He probably was planning on calling me to tell me that he had her, and demand I forget everything I knew about the case. But at the same time he was kidnapping her, I was working things out in my head, so I was able to get there before he got a chance to even make the call."

  "She's pretty, your secretary," Slyder said suddenly, catching me off–guard. "She single?"

  "Hands off," I growled, only partly joking, and then changed the subject. "So, is that all you wanted me for? Can I go now?"

  He raised his empty hands as though in worship and then let them fall back to the arms of his swivel chair. "Stikup, I can't stress enough how impressed I am with you. You have a cool head, a good rational mind, and you act quickly without second–guessing yourself. I must admit that – in the beginning – I wasn't so sure you were up to the job, but you really pulled your weight around." His black eyes were twinkling as he leaned forward, folding his hands on the desktop. "Would you like a job?"

  I held up a hand in protest. "No thanks – just finished one."

  "No, seriously." He glanced out the doorway through which I had entered, perhaps checking for eavesdroppers, and then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Scarlotti's talking about retiring early. He's been doing this for twenty–five years, after all, and the bullet did more damage than the doctors initially thought. So what do you say? If he quits, do you want in?"

  My heart was suddenly ticking faster. The offer had its pros and cons, and it both intrigued and excited me. On one hand, it would indeed be the break I had been looking for. Better pay, publicity, and responsibility, not to mention greater involvement in the majority of police activity in Gloucester County and the chance to work with a great CSI team and learn alongside them.

  It was a dream job – my dream job. It was what I had lusted after for so long.

  On the other hand, it would be a gigantic step backwards in terms of the direction I had been trying to take my life. The whole reason I'd set up the agency on the corner of Union and Crescent had been to get away from standard police work and yet still do what I loved. This would be the biggest, quickest promotion I would ever be offered and/or receive, but it would completely defeat the purpose of the last two years of my life.

  If I accepted. It was tantalizing, frustratingly so.

  I licked my lips. "How long do I have to decide?"

  The look in his eyes told me Slyder was satisfied to see me tempted. "Well, like I said, it's not definite yet, but it's certainly looking that way. I'd say a week or two, no longer than that."

  Well, that was plenty of time. I could discuss it all with Jill, my mom, and – most importantly – myself. I could relax in my old office for a couple weeks, bounce ideas off of my wall, and finally come to a decision the hard way. And what with this past case in the bag, I now had enough money to cover self–employment for a couple months.

  Of course, if I accept the offer, I'll never have to worry about that ever again either.

  I cleared my throat. "Well, thanks for thinking of me, Chief – I'm flattered, really. Uh, yeah – let me think about it and I'll get back to you."

  "Absolutely." Smiling for real, he got to his feet. "Again, thanks for all your help, Stikup. By the way, you are aware that you're most likely going to be subpoenaed, right?"

  "Thanks," I said sarcastically, shaking his hand and grimacing. "I was trying not to think about it."

  * * *

  Monday, December 20th

  - - -

  The trials were not all that bad, even though I dreaded them every hour of every day leading up to them. In fact, in the hearings of the three thieves – Thawyer, Harris, and Sheldon – each pleaded guilty and my testimony was not deemed necessary. The charges were hefty: breaking and entering, assault & battery and murd
er in the first degree, and the cumulative sentence was twenty–five–to–life for both Thawyer and Harris. It seemed as though the pair would spend the rest of their days behind bars.

  Sheldon, on the other hand, was sentenced to a year and six months. I was a little surprised to see him being tried as a minor. I had paid little attention to his file during the investigation, as he had been safely behind bars since nearly the beginning, but if I had perused the records, I would have seen that he was only seventeen. Juvie would be a nice place for him – to teach him the ways of the world.

  Robert Mendoza also pleaded guilty. He confessed everything voluntarily and was sentenced to only six years of low security on good behavior. He might even have gotten less if it hadn't been for the kidnapping charge, which was inexcusable.

  Rick Miles' hearing was the one that was somewhat interesting. Of all five men that we had arrested, he was the only one who pleaded not guilty. It was pretty much obvious from the beginning that he had no case, and if I was reading his lawyer correctly, she hadn't wanted to pursue much of anything aside from a plea bargain, considering the evidence we had against him. After all, Robert Mendoza had confessed in full, which left Rick with very little credibility.

  On the third day of deliberation, I was finally called upon to give my testimony. The prosecutor – a man named Clinton who, as Slyder warned me, was Sam Dempsey's poster boy – basically had me reiterate the little speech I'd given to Kevin Slyder in his office. For the benefit of the court, I focused mainly on Miles' part in the story, so as to keep from confusing the jury with inessential details. After hearing my piece, Miles' lawyer tried to play up the circumstantial evidence, arguing that Rick had been coerced into everything and Mendoza was just dragging Rick down with him. The jury, however, felt otherwise, and Rick was sentenced to four years for insurance fraud.

  What would happen to all the criminals' families was something with which I refused to concern myself – not because I didn't care, but because I knew I wouldn't be satisfied with what sanctions the government would grant to them. While I wasn't close or even remotely friendly with any of the criminals' immediate families, I knew that if I were to do time for whatever reason, I would want my wife, mother, sister – whomever – to be cared for adequately. As it was, Sandy and Patricia would have a hard enough time just because of the separation.

  After his sentencing, Robert Mendoza – flanked by two court officers and his lawyer – had approached me in the courtroom aisle, his grizzled face passive – even humble. He'd managed a thin–lipped smile and extended his manacled hand to me in what could only be interpreted as a gesture of respect for the prey that had bested him. I'd momentarily considered spitting on his hand, but gritted my teeth instead and grasped his hand firmly. We didn't exchange any words: there was nothing I could say that would have been ample consolation, and likewise, nothing he could offer would have been ample apology. Yet somehow, with that gesture, we managed to forgive each other anyway.

  There had been a lot of press coverage at the trials as the public was dying for information on the biggest scam to hit Swedesboro in over two decades. True to my character, I offered them very little, despite their constant badgering. Usually Kevin Slyder was there to save me, but more often then not, the reporters cornered me in hallways, or – even once – in the bathroom of the city municipal building. Dempsey, on the other hand, had a whole lot to say about the affair, and I knew for a fact that my name had been on his lips a lot during the days of the trials and following. Sure, all the publicity was nice for a change, but it was also nerve–wracking for someone of my social stature, and when all was said and done, I was greatly relieved when the whole ordeal had been completed.

  All things considered, I'd gotten a relatively happy ending.

  Nearly two weeks had passed since the big arrest, and during that time, I'd seen very little of Jill. We had crossed paths in the office a couple times, but there had been relatively little work to do after officially closing the case, so I'd only entered the building when demanded by necessity. Also during those eleven days' time, Scarlotti Benson had indeed announced his plans for retirement, a story that had been exploited all over local newspapers and even in the Gloucester County Times, a big paper.

  Unfortunately, I'd had very little time to think about taking up Benson's job, as I had been worrying about – when not attending – the trials. Now that it was official, I had received no less than three calls from Kevin Slyder – urging me to make up my mind quickly, because the district was already looking to fill Benson's post – and one from Sam Dempsey himself, asking me if Slyder had approached me about taking the position yet. Apparently all was forgiven between us, although that still didn't change my opinion of the man. Working directly under him would certainly take some getting used to, and I'd have to learn to control my tongue.

  Interestingly enough, regardless of his position as the presiding Chief of Swedesboro police, Kevin Slyder had very little say in the appointing of a new sheriff, which meant that I would still have to appeal directly to Dempsey if I wanted the position. Publicity had everything to do with my nomination, obviously. A month ago, my name wouldn't have been a worthy candidate even as a joke. In fact, Dempsey might have fired anyone for even suggesting me because my reputation as a pretentious asshole tended to precede me. On top of that, a lowly sleuth being promoted to district sheriff would have been unheard of.

  But now I'd done a trick, and for that, I deserved a treat.

  There was a lot of pressure to take that offer – so much, in fact, that I was growing increasingly more anxious. I couldn't organize my pros and cons and I didn't have an accurate scale with which to weigh them – not with all the media attention, Dempsey's persistence, the rise of potential competitors for the slot, and Kevin Slyder's hopeful anticipation all crowding my mind with every waking moment. And so, needing a quiet place to think, I headed over to the office on Monday, the 20th of December, sometime after lunch, five days before Christmas.

  The day was quiet and beautiful, sunny and bright, warm in comparison to the previous weeks. The snow had been in a state of gradual melting for the past few days, and I could almost see the cracked cement walkway leading up to the front door of the office. The temperature inside was chillier than usual, but I could immediately smell that the furnace had been running up until recently. The lights were all off, the doors shut, the coat hangers bare, spare boots pushed neatly up against the baseboard.

  No Jill.

  I headed down the hall to my office, wondering if she was going to come in at any point that day. I had explicitly ordered her to take a few days off in the light of our recent success, but knowing Jill – Ms. Overachiever – she would probably stop by to file papers or to do whatever other unnecessary task she'd forgotten to do.

  I was sort of hoping she would. It felt like eons since I'd last seen her.

  As I entered my office, I slapped the light switch without thinking and immediately felt stupid for forgetting again, but – miraculously – the bulb overhead instantly flared to life. Surprised, but not unpleasantly, I clicked the switch up and down a few times – just to make sure I wasn't imagining things – and then chuckled. Jill must have gotten fed up with me postponing a trip to the hardware store and gone herself.

  Sweet of her.

  It was at that moment, as I crossed the threshold and came to stand in the middle of the room, that I noticed that something else about the office was different – very different, and completely out of place.

  The room was clean. I mean really, really clean. Almost spotless.

  The big desk seemed almost naked without the numerous stacks of paper hiding it from view. The oak surface gleamed with cleanliness, completely dust–free. There were no more brown rings from coffee spills, no more crumbs, no more empty candy wrappers. The "out" tray was empty, and although the "in" tray was not, the contents were no longer stacked precariously, as the nonessential items had been weeded out. The old telephone somehow see
med like it belonged there now, gleaming, just as clean as everything else.

  The dusted curtains on the big window behind the desk had been pulled wide, the blinds and glass had been scrubbed, allowing sunlight to flood the office as a result. The rug had clearly been vacuumed, as well as the couch, and the old coffee table actually looked fit to eat off of. The trashcan was empty, waiting quietly beside the desk to be filled again. The old cabinet by the fireplace had been dusted; the glass panels in the upper doors had been Windexed and were now sparkling. The numerous books visible behind the glass were neatly reorganized and the drawers below the shelves were all closed instead of hanging open precariously.

  Well, that's different, I thought dazedly. My jaw had dropped, and all I could do was stare.

  In a daze, I crossed to the cabinet and slid open the top drawer, only to find that the folders it contained were straightened and neatly alphabetized. I turned around again slowly, mouth still hanging open, taking in the fact that she had even dusted the old landscape that hung above the sofa – so much that the oil paint shone. As a matter of fact, the colors were much more vivid than they'd been when I'd purchased the landscape at a yard sale three years prior.