The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (22 page)

"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.

As I crossed the threshold, she heard me and turned around, smiling warmly. "Hey, boss," she said. And then her eyes widened as she beheld my black eye and bloody face.

I grinned. "Honey, I'm home."

She crossed the distance between us in three steps, staring in abject horror at the purple swellings that made up the left side of my face. "Chance, what
happened
?"

Progress on the case had me in a good mood despite my injuries, so I decided to be facetious. "Funny story, really. See, I was at the supermarket and I grabbed the last can of Jolly Green Giant stringbeans. Next thing I know, this old lady is beating me with her cane, yelling something about respect to elders. Craving for stringbeans can be a bitch, I guess. Don't trifle with old farts craving their veggies."

Jill was laughing before I'd even finished. I swear to God, it was the most beautiful, melodic sound I'd ever heard – the very one I'd been longing to hear ever since the day prior. She wasn't laughing at the joke, however: it wasn't funny. She was laughing because relief and rectification mixed together create volatile giddiness in your guts.

"I'll go get an ice pack," she said, placing hands on my chest and pushing me forcefully into a sitting position on the sofa. "You sit here and warm up. Don't let me catch you doing any work."

I wonder if God will say that in Heaven?
I thought. Maybe I was as close as I was going to get, in which case I had no alternative but to obey orders and relax. There might not be an eternal opportunity towards which to look forward, after all.

I closed my eyes and rested my head on the cushions. The throbbing there had not subsided. Instead, it had lapsed into a dull rhythm, like a metronome. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart," I mumbled, but of course Jill had already left the room.

She'd lit a fire in the hearth some time ago, and the warmth was simultaneously thawing me out and making me drowsy. I pulled my arms out of my trench coat and rested my hands on my belly, suddenly exhausted. There was something romantic about the whole scenario: saving lives, returning to the office after getting the stuffing beaten out of me, enjoying the care of a beautiful woman.

But I wouldn't quit my day job for it – not simply for the thrill of the chase.

Jill returned about ten minutes later to find me teetering on the edge of sleep. I felt her sit down beside me but kept my eyes shut, hovering at the door of unconsciousness and ready to tumble over that blissful edge into nothingness.

I jerked awake, however, when she gently pressed the ice pack to the sore side of my face. "Jesus Christ!" I yelped, jerking away.

She laughed, trying to push my hands out of the way. "C'mon – stop being a baby. It'll keep the swelling down."

"Swelling, my ass," I muttered, but relented.

She pushed the matted hair away from my forehead and gently laid the pack along the bloody split on my scalp. It had long since stopped bleeding and crusted over into a large, unsightly scab. "What happened, Chance? Seriously?"

I winced as she applied pressure with the ice pack and began reaching for the first aid kit with her free hand. "
Ouch
. I caught up with the murderers. The rest is history."

Jill's eyes flashed as she managed to unscrew the cap off the bottle of Peroxide with one hand. "Humor me."

"Well, we busted their hideout over in Deptford, but they got out before we got in, so we had to chase them down. I got ahead of the other cops, ran into their ambush alone. They beat me with a board." I shrugged, trying not to grin. "I've had worse, though."

She fixed me with a look that, loosely translated, said: "God knows why I put up with you, your antics, and your goddamned machismo". But it wasn't a serious look and there was a sweet little smile following it up, even as she sponged dried blood from my temple.

"You certainly have a way with people," she murmured.

I let the grin split my lips finally, unhindered. "You know it."

Keeping the ice pack against my skull, Jill dunked a cotton swab in the Peroxide and swapped the previous look for something much sterner. All of a sudden, her resemblance to my mother was uncanny. "Now, I'm warning you: this is going to sting –"

I had already begun groaning, so she had to speak over my protests.

"– so
hold still
!"

Chapter Eleven

Saturday, December 4th

Saturday dawned cold and gray with the promise of more snow. I wasn't sure whether or not to trust the forecast – which called for clear skies until late afternoon – so I threw my boots into the back seat of the Anglia before departing at the usual hour for the office.

My body was somehow managing to stay alert and awake, despite the beating it had taken the day prior. I prayed that I wouldn't quit on myself halfway as I turned down Crescent, headed towards the office. After all, there was a lot I needed to do before calling it a day.

I parked in my usual spot and hurried inside to escape the cold. Jill was already waiting for me, and understandably so – I was a good twenty minutes late, according to the clock on the wall. Jill told me she'd left a 16–ounce Poland Springs and two Aspirin on my desk.

"I wasn't sure if you still had a headache or not, so I got it out for you just in case," she said as she helped me out of my coat. "If you need more later, you know where to come."

I winked at her. "Thank you, Doctor Fereday."

She momentarily raked her gaze over my disheveled appearance, the worst of which was my purple jaw – shaded by both bruising and unkempt stubble. I hadn't been brave enough to risk shaving over the sensitive areas, so I'd neglected cleaning up altogether. I fancied that it gave me a rugged Indiana Jones type of look, but that was probably just delusion. There was also that possibility that I had a mild concussion and my brain was addled, but odd and random thought patterns were normal for me.

"The swelling went down since last night," Jill observed, sounding pleased.

"Certainly doesn't
feel
like it," I grumbled as I headed for my office.

But Jill said it looked better, and I figured she was a better judge of appearance than I was. When I'd observed myself in the mirror that morning, I'd honestly wondered whether it would be wise to go walking around in public. My left eye had finally decided to open again, but the entire socket around it was completely black. My lower lip was also darkened by dried blood – despite the fact that I'd cleaned it up as best as I could – and my scalp was scabbed over from left forehead and upward about five inches. But I could conceal the worst of that with my fedora – which I'd stuffed with crumpled newspaper the previous evening so as to restore its shape.

As I stepped into my office, I clicked the light switch up and down twice, stupidly wondered why the light wasn't going on, and then headed directly for the fireplace, feeling ridiculous.

Must get new light bulb,
I thought.
Must get new light bulb.

Lunchtime came and went so fast that I wondered if I'd gone through a time warp. Jill offered to run down the street to the Heritages to get sandwiches, but I declined. After a brief back–and–forth argument that I won (a Pyrrhic victory, but a victory nevertheless), she let me get back to what I'd been doing. Ten minutes later, she reentered with a salami sub in hand. I pretended to be outraged when she laid it on top of my paperwork, then promptly devoured it when she wasn't looking.

Kevin Slyder rang me up around two thirty. "Reviews are up," he said by way of greeting, characteristically abrupt.

I smiled wearily, leaning back in my seat. "We're the most–watched public broadcast now, are we?"

He ignored the joke. "Dempsey's thrilled with the progress. You just might have redeemed yourself, Stikup."

"Or at least bought myself a few more days," I said, determined as always to be cynical. "We've still got a lot to do."

And that was the truth. There was still at least one criminal still at large, and as of that morning, we didn't have a clue. Our conversation was brief and largely unimportant. I hung up barely four minutes after answering without really knowing why he'd called in the first place. Yet my mood had improved somehow, and that was something for which to be thankful.

At four o'clock sharp, I wrapped things up. I had a house call to make so to say, and I wanted to hurry before it got dark out. As it was, the sun was already sinking wearily when I slammed the Anglia door against the frigid wind and pulled away from the curb, headed south towards 295.

It took me about thirty minutes from my office to get to the Shootin' Shack. The sky was beginning to pink with nightfall – the beginnings of a spectacular sunset – as I pulled into a faded parking place outside the shop. The air was frigid and sharp, like a heartless reprimand, and I hurried towards the front door without lingering by the Anglia.