The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (9 page)

"Stikup, this is Slyder," he said unnecessarily. He seemed agitated, which was funny, because I hadn't actually said anything yet. "Had a hell of a time reaching you – called your home
and
your secretary. We got to get you a fucking pager or something. Look, we need you –
now
. We've had another break–in: house is number 4 Whitefield Avenue in Richwood."

"Me?" I wasn't sure why I had asked for specification – it wasn't even a joke. My mind wasn't functioning, it seemed.

His tone darkened considerably. "This case is
your
baby, Stikup. Unless you don't want it, of course. I can find someone else who does."

My blood ran cold at the threat and I swallowed hard. "No, sir – sorry, sir. Same crooks?"

The apology seemed to have satisfied him, although it irritated me that he had almost sounded…
hopeful
. Like he was looking for me to quit. "Far as we know. Definitely the same getaway vehicle – red Ford, no tags. Glassboro cops responded to the 9-1-1 call and phoned us in. Didn't feel like cleaning up after them, I guess."

I was busy stuffing a few extra 9mm clips into my slacks pocket. "Cleaning up?" I repeated absently.

"We've got a victim this time," Slyder replied grimly. "A Jane Doe. Like I said, Chauncey's team got the routed 9-1-1 call from neighbors who heard screaming. He called us in about a half hour ago."

"I'll be right over," I said and dropped the phone onto the base.

Cursing under my breath, I hurried down the hall – only stopping for my coat and hat. The frigid air blasted me awake as I dashed down the frozen walk – slipping and sliding – and jumped into the Anglia. I turned the ignition, the car's headlights pierced the darkness, and I cranked the steering wheel hard away from the curb.

Thankfully, the snowy streets were vacant, so it took me only fifteen minutes to get to the place, marking my arrival at 2:23.

Number 4, Whitefield Ave, was a two–story home with blue siding, set back a hundred yards or more from 322. The sprawling front lawn and surrounding homes were bathed in flashing red–and–blue lights from numerous squad cars and ambulances parked in the street and driveway. I made an attempt at parallel parking between a jeep and a squad car, failed as usual, but jumped out anyway and tore across the yard.

There were people – neighbors I assumed – standing out in the snow, shivering and murmuring amongst themselves. Various police seemed to be attempting to send them back to their homes; other cops were refusing questions and conversing amongst themselves.

I didn't have time to worry about bystanders.

Slyder and two other officers met me at the front door as I leapt up the front steps – all five of them in one bound.

"Sorry I'm late," I panted, leaning heavily on my knees to catch my breath.

The big cop gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. "Go do your thing," he said, negating the need for any greetings either of us might have otherwise offered. He wasn't much for deliberation.

I would have made a comment if I'd had breath in my lungs. Instead, I gave him the thumbs–up and gulped in air.

Police officers clogged the rooms and hallways, examining everything from the snowy boot–prints on the floors to the rumpled throw rug behind the front door. I could tell immediately that there were several districts represented besides Glassboro: I saw officers from Deptford, Mullica Hill, and two from East Greenwich aside from SPD's small task force. There had never been much vying for investigatory rights in the past amongst South Jersey cops, although word of my incompetence had probably started making its way up the various chains of command, and someone was bound to complain sooner or later.

Now, with this newest development, our case had instantly escalated into something more significant than a backwater B&E. The varying districts would certainly want their share of the action, but not if things were going to get messy. Which was probably why the DA, Seth Chauncey, hadn't staked a claim on the crime scene that night.

I shouldered through the crowd, following Slyder and an unshaven officer – who looked like he hadn't slept for days – up the carpeted stairs to the second floor of the home.

Visible evidence suggested a hurried getaway: a table in the upstairs hall was overturned, one of its three legs broken off. A portrait had been knocked off the wall, scattering glass fragments all over the hall floor. Again, snowy footprints were everywhere, further evidencing the thieves' presence.

Slyder ushered me into the second room on the right, a room with a white door. I stepped inside and took in the signs of a struggle at a glance.

Bed sheets were torn off the king–sized bed (a canopy bed; these folks were rich) and scattered on the floor. Books had been knocked from the shelves. The chair to a large writing desk was overturned, and stationery and pens were scattered everywhere.

A naked woman's body lay in the middle of the floor. Paramedics were preparing a stretcher to cart her out, and several cops were taking pictures. Someone had traced a chalk outline of the woman on the floor beneath her, and plastic numbered tags were all around the room, labeling evidence. A sheet covered the lower half of the body, but left one blue–veined leg uncovered. A pillow lay next to her head, along with the shredded remains of a nightgown.

Photographers were snapping photos – two from the press (
How the hell did
they
get here?
I thought, both annoyed and impressed) and one from the Swedesboro CSI unit. Several officers were taking notes in a corner, two more were conversing out in the hall; another man was kneeling next to the body beside a paramedic, and a woman CSI lieutenant was looking over the bed behind them.

When Slyder and I entered the room, she came over to greet us.

"Detective Stikup," I said, shaking her hand and doing my best to sound professional. "What can you give me?"

"The house is under the name Daniels," the lieutenant answered with a sigh; she didn't bother introducing herself, but I didn't really notice. "She's got a ring on her left hand, so she's married as far as we can tell, but her husband is not home. We're going to try and find him ASAP. He'll need to identify the body."

"Yeah," I said softly, not really listening. "Yeah, you do that."

The Daniels woman appeared perfectly normal. In fact, if I hadn't known beforehand that she was dead, I would have assumed she was just sleeping. There was no blood, no bullet–entry wounds, no marks on her neck to suggest strangulation – nothing but a few cuts and scrapes on her arms, plus severe bruising on her wrists and legs and above her left eye. If the perps had beaten her to death, there would be a lot of blood, not to mention a caved–in skull. That left suffocation or internal symptoms as the cause of death, but after my quick observation, I had already formulated my hypothesis.

I blew out a breath through my nostrils and crossed my arms over my chest. "Rape."

Slyder and the lieutenant looked over at me. "How do you figure?" the Chief asked me, although he seemed to have come to the same conclusion. "Maybe she just slept nude."

"Little cold for that," I said pointedly. "Look at the bathrobe – and check out the bruising. You think she had some sort of self–mutilating fit? If they had just wanted her dead, they would have plugged her without a struggle and she'd still be in bed, lying in a pool of blood."

I growled low in my throat, against the lump that was rising there. "They wanted some fun, so they held her arms and legs while they did their thing. Looks like she wouldn't cooperate."

A man in a CSI uniform – one of the Glassboro team – nodded in agreement to what I had said. He pointed at the pillow. "We think that they suffocated her with this pillow to cover up her screams, but we'll need to investigate further back at the lab."

"At
our
lab," I heard the lieutenant mutter.

"Think they were stupid enough not to use protection?" Slyder ventured, eliciting chuckles from the other cops in the room.

Ignoring them all, I crossed the room, scooped up one of the bed sheets, and dumped it on top of the dead woman, hiding her female parts from view.

"We're not done the examination yet, Detective," the Glassboro cop snapped. The name on his chest read Cready, which I recognized immediately. He was their staff sergeant – probably the highest ranking officer from Chauncey's team on–site.

But rank meant nothing to me, because I was a PI. I was above and beyond ranking.

"You are now," I said loudly as I began looking around the room, indifferent to his protest. "
I'm
here. That means all activity stops and you all bow down and worship me." I turned to face Slyder. "You said that neighbors made the call?"

"Yeah," he replied, hooking his thumbs in his belt. He was sending pointedly apologetic looks to the other cops in the room, and the gaze he gave me was anything but happy. "Frank Dudson. He and his family live in that rancher next–door."

"Are they still here?" I questioned, ignoring the look as I righted the desk chair.

"No – their daughter was with them." Slyder indicated the dead woman with a nod of his head. "Apparently Daniels was like a second mother to her."

I'll want to talk to them later.
I pulled on my gloves and began examining the desk surface. "Give me the rundown."

Slyder wedged a cigarette into his mouth and began patting his pockets in search of his lighter. "Glassboro got the call at 1:20. Sergeant Cready was first on–site, and by that time the murderers were already gone. Someone outside saw the car leave, though – said the driver's window was covered with cardboard and there were two occupants in the vehicle. According to the witness, they took off towards 55. Cready sent three squad cars out after them, but they couldn't find any trace of them."

I was about to make a derogatory comment about the general competence of Jersey police, but then something hit me and I stopped dead with a few random scraps of stationery in my gloved hand. "Only two people?"

Slyder took a drag from the now–lit cigarette and nodded. "That's what the witness said." He took the butt from his mouth and held it in two fingers. "Does it make a difference?"

Everyone in the room was watching me as well, wondering why I was so keen on the number. I dropped the stationery instantly, and instead reached into my chest holster for my weapon. "Miles and Mendoza each told me there were three crooks that robbed them. If these same three did this – and we're operating under the assumption that they
did
– then why weren't there three people in the car?"

Judging by the look on his face, Slyder immediately saw where I was going. "Stikup, don't jump to conclusions. Who's to say only two of them went out on this hit tonight? Or maybe the witness was mistaken? 'Sides, we've been tearing this house apart – I don't think one of them could still be here."

Yet even as he disagreed, his thick hand dropped to ride the handle of his 8mm.

"Have you checked
this
room?" I demanded of the CSI lieutenant, indifferent to Slyder's protests.

"Not thoroughly, no – it's the crime scene," she answered, studying my face carefully. "I think Sergeant Cready might have done a preliminary check –" she looked to him for visual confirmation, which he gave "– but Kevin wanted us to wait until yougot here before –"

"Then he could be watching us right now." I dropped to my knees and peered under the bed, then quickly stepped over the body of the dead woman and wrenched open the white closet doors –

– and caught a fist straight to the jaw as a tall man wearing a ski mask staggered out. Jab or hook, it didn't matter: he got me right in the jaw, snapping my head around. Flashes of light exploded before my eyes and I stumbled backwards, giving my attacker ample time to push past me and make a break for the door –

– the floor rose up to hit my shoulder hard, but I was already rolling over, watching the man dart past the cop standing closest to me –

– who merely
watched
–

– but the masked man was limping; he wasn't going to get far on his injured leg –

Kevin Slyder suddenly filled the escape route with his considerable girth. Unable to stop in time, the man slammed shoulder–first into Slyder's chest. Instantly, the big cop wrapped his arms around the smaller man, catching him in a bear hug that could have crushed bone.

"
Cuff him
!" he bellowed, lifting the man off of his feet and holding him there.

The spell broke suddenly and the other officers unfroze. One of them hurried forward, fumbling with handcuffs, while the rest went for their weapons.

The masked man resisted the cuffs, thrashing wildly, but it was obvious that his leg was seriously injured, and Slyder was also a lot bigger than he was. The other officer got the cuffs on – with difficulty – and Slyder dumped the thief unceremoniously into the desk chair.

By this time, I had gotten to my feet with the help of one of Cready's lieutenants. Dizziness forced me to steady myself against the bedrail, but gradually the room came back into focus. Massaging my jaw, I crossed the room to the desk.

"A little hostile there," I croaked. My head was pounding. "You should do yoga… some kind of relaxation therapy.
Jesus
…"