The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (23 page)

77 was a four–lane highway, heavily traversed by commuters and vacationers alike. The Shootin' Shack itself was one story, a run–down little building with wooden siding painted white. The big front window, which looked out onto the street, was in need of a good cleaning, but the velvet beyond displayed some fine–looking hunting wares. The sad little parking lot obviously saw a lot of wear from the weather and frequent u–turns in addition to the regular traffic from paying customers: it badly needed to be re–paved.

Pausing at the entrance with my hand on the doorknob, I briefly checked the hours in the dirty window. The store was open every day except Sundays and Wednesdays, and hours ran from 3 to 10 on weekdays. Saturday's hours were 10 am 'til 5 pm.

I checked my watch. It was two minutes past 4:30, so I made to enter the shop: assuming Mendoza was in, I'd made perfect timing. However, I found myself hesitating once again. As I mentally reviewed the facts, some of my suspicions of Robert Mendoza were resurfacing.

Damn it,
I thought furiously, fumbling in my coat pocket for my notebook. Once I'd managed to get it out, I flipped through the pages to the ones containing the observations I'd gleaned during my initial interview the hunter. He had told me that the robbery had occurred on Sunday the 28th at precisely 9:12, so if I cross–referenced that with the times in the window…

A cool relief filled me. Mendoza's alibi held true – the shop was closed on Sundays, which meant he could indeed have been home at the time of the robbery.

So you can only assume he was telling the truth. Stop worrying – you're not here to arrest the guy, after all.

I let myself into his shop.

The smell of oil and leather met my nostrils as I let the door swing shut behind me. Somewhere in the back, a bell tinkled faintly upon my entrance. Other than that, there was no sound in the store – not even the radio was playing over the ceiling–mounted speakers. Just the now–muffled hum of traffic from the freeway behind me.

I stuffed my hands into the trench coat's pockets and wandered down the cramped aisles towards the glass counter. A moment later, a familiar–looking man came out of the back room to meet me. His face lit up when he recognized me, but then clouded again almost instantly.

"Detective Stikup," Robert Mendoza said by way of greeting. He was clearly preoccupied. "You were the last person I expected to see walk in my door. What happened to your face?"

"I'm trying something new," I said offhandedly. "I'm thirsty. Do you want to go get a drink? I'm buying."

Mendoza seemed taken aback by the offer – not that it was so much an offer as a relatively polite "suggestion" – but then he grinned and nodded. "Sure." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Let me go get my coat."

"I'll wait," I said.

Rita's was a nice little diner close to Glassboro that I often frequented. I knew all the waitresses employed there – funny how none of them were named Rita – and they all knew me. In a weird sort of way, it was kind of like having a second family: the girls all knew the type of coffee I preferred, my favorite spot in their restaurant, my opinion on sports, and my profession. Mendoza had never heard of the place. He told me he generally stuck to making his own coffee because it was cheaper. I told him he needed to get his priorities in order as I pulled the Anglia into a spot between a blue Buick and a black Lincoln. We climbed out and hurried inside, eager to get out of the cold.

As always, the diner was filled with the scent of pancakes. The aroma filled my head the moment we stepped inside. I inhaled deeply and began unbuttoning my trench coat.

"Come here when you have a cold," I advised Mendoza sagely. "Clear your nostrils right up."

Upon our entrance, a pretty, blonde–haired waitress came over to greet us, abandoning her seat on a barstool by the counter. Sherry Heights had a baby face, rosy cheeks, and dimples when she smiled. She still bore the naivety of an adolescent despite her twenty–six years, but when it came to book smarts she was a wiz.

"Welcome back, Detective," she said pleasantly, fumbling with an armful of menus as she approached. "You haven't been in since… Sunday? Sunday afternoon – you came from church with your mother. A week's absence is pretty abnormal for y–" Suddenly, as she looked up again, she caught sight of my mug and almost took a step back. "
God
, what happened to your face?"

I smiled wearily. "Ahh, I walked into a door. Wasn't watching where I was going. Actually, I've been working on a case since Tuesday, so I've been a little busy." I shot a sideways look at Mendoza, who was busy studying the menu over the bar and wasn't paying attention.

Sherry arched an eyebrow, still staring insensitively. A lesser man than me might have been offended. "You've found something more important than coffee? I didn't think that was possible for you."

"Hey, my secretary makes a decent cup," I said with a shrug. "I'll refer her to you guys if she ever gets tired of my tyrannical ways."

We shared a laugh, and then I introduced Mendoza. He was polite and shook Sherry's hand, and then the young waitress showed us to my favorite table – the one with the biggest window that looked out onto the bustling route 45, now engulfed in evening. I ordered my usual and Mendoza ordered his black.

"You like the pure stuff?" I asked as Sherry headed into the back.

Mendoza returned my grin with one that was almost wolfish. "It's what I live on."

Somewhat uncomfortable with small talk, I removed my coat and hat and then leaned back in my seat. "So, how's business?"

He sighed and ran fingers through his graying hair, suddenly looking years older. "Nothing to brag about, that's for damn sure. Sales have been steadily dropping, so a lot of the big companies I buy from have become too expensive for me to keep. I only have a few name–brand things left on my shelves."

Somehow, I wasn't surprised. To me, it didn't seem like a tiny, no–name hunting shop could survive for long in New Jersey, the industrial garden state.

I dug into my coat pocket and pulled out one of the handguns that I had gleaned from my search at the hotel, now contained in a marked plastic baggie. Slyder had leant it to me for the day along with the gruff admonition not to lose it.

"Is this one of those brands?" I asked, setting the pistol down on the polished tabletop. I watched him carefully for a reaction – guilt or surprise perhaps, but I was hoping neither. The connection between him and the weaponry was inevitable, but there was the chance that he had simply been an innocent bystander.

A good citizen. The nameless extra who gets stepped on by Godzilla.

The hunter blinked once and took the weapon in his gnarled hands when I slid it over to him. He knew it was evidence, and was therefore smart enough not to open the bag. "I think so.
GunMetal
… Yeah, that rings a bell. What does this have to do with my shop?"

I folded my hands and leaned forward, watching him intently. "We arrested two more of the thieves yesterday, and all the guns they had on them were of this same type. The receipt was still in one of their duffel bags, and it was from your Shootin' Shack."

"No kidding." Mendoza had been turning the weapon over in his hands, studying its contours. He stopped and looked me in the eye. "So you got 'em then? Does that mean you have my car back too?"

I nodded. "Yeah, but it's impounded. We can head there next to pick it up if you'd like."

Mendoza chuckled. "Kind of a dumb question, Stikup."

I hesitated with a retort on my tongue, but then sat back instead. "Right. Anyhow, I just need to nab these guys' employer, and then this case'll be closed. I only have a few leads right about now, but I'm pretty confident in 'em."

"Oh yeah?" Mendoza started to say, but at that moment, Sherry came over with our coffees.

"Here you are," she said, setting steaming mugs in front of each of us. "Black for the nice gentleman, and a Dick Tracy for the detective."

"Dick Tracy" was the name we had given to my specialized coffee. I wasn't sure entirely of how the girls made it since it had been specialized
for
me and not
by
me, but I
did
know for a fact that a shot of whiskey went into it. The owner of the diner was actually thinking about putting it on the regular menu – not for minors, of course. Fortunately, I was off the clock for this errand.

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."