The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (18 page)

My mind was atypically blank, as barren and bleak as the arctic tundra, as I consumed a bowl of staling cornflakes. The silence quickly started getting to me however, so I retrieved the newspapers from the front hall and unfolded them on the tabletop in front me.

In the December 2nd paper, there were several relatively objective articles pertaining to the rape and murder of Ruby Daniels, one of which began on the front page of the paper. At the same time I was tickled by the publicity, I recalled the way Slyder had earlier spoken of the press coverage. Yet for some reason, I tried to convince myself that it wasn't going to be as bad as he had implied. For some reason, I made myself believe that the media would be on my side – me, the guy from way out in left field, the underdog hero who somehow wins the affection of the masses and rides their shoulders into the sunset.

But finally I read the report on 8b for myself, and that initial moment of naivety rapidly bled into disgust. The cold descriptions of Ruby Daniels' murder discounted, it actually wasn't so bad until I got to the end of the article. There, the author recounted my little episode with Greg Sheldon with vividly inaccurate descriptions and directly questioned the decision of temporarily giving me Scarlotti's usual job – a decision he considered rash and unorthodox. The anonymous author concluded his article by indirectly suggesting that I be removed from command.

Three pages later, there was another write–up, including a statement given by Sam Dempsey.

He'd said: "Chance Stikup is an experienced private investigator who has temporarily taken point for Detective Benson. I apologize formally for the way Detective Stikup handled the affairs of the murder on Wednesday, and while I assume full responsibility for his actions, I assure you that his decision does not reflect on Chief Slyder or SPD. I can also assure you that a similar instance will not happen again. Detective Stikup has been given high recommendation by one of his peers, served time on the SPD task force himself from '84 to '89, and has never had a record of flying off the handle. I'm confident he will conclude this investigation soon without further incident."

The anonymous "peer" was obviously Kevin Slyder. At the same time his desire to remain anonymous amused me, it filled my guts with resentment. And despite the fact that Dempsey had defended me to the press, I still felt nothing but hollow aggravation towards the man. I couldn't honestly say I was thrilled by all the contention surrounding the case either.

10:30 rolled around presently, no one had called, and I was still sitting at the table, accomplishing nothing. Sighing, I got up and headed to the bedroom in order to pull on some real clothes before heading to the office. If I couldn't get anything accomplished at home, I could at least get some more paperwork done at the office or maybe peruse the classifieds over a cup of Jill's java.

And if I got
really
bored, I could call my mother. Maybe that was what I had forgotten to do.

Five minutes later, I steered the Anglia out into traffic, telling myself that there was no use worrying over what it was. After all, if it was truly something important, I would remember at some point – hopefully before it was too late.

I sighed as I sat at the red light at the end of my street, drumming my fingertips on the wheel. It took me several seconds to realize that I was mentally rehearsing a conversation that would never take place – one involving a certain secretary and a dashing young hero – a fact which immediately drove a spike of irritation through my brain. Grunting in frustration, I turned on the radio and cranked up the volume to drive away those unwanted thoughts. Fortunately, no one distracts quite as spectacularly as Pete Townshend on that final refrain of
Pinball Wizard
, which was exactly what exploded from the dying speakers.

There
is
a God,
I thought.

In the passenger mirror, I watched the beaten–up red sedan sidle up beside me to make the right onto Forest and then the light went green, so I hit the gas and –

– did a double take, craning my neck to watch as the wagon – an 80's–style Ford sedan lacking a rear license plate – disappeared around the snowy bend in the road –

With my heart in my throat, I slammed on the brakes, fishtailing the Anglia on the ice, and sped off in hot pursuit, leaving many angered drivers in the intersection behind me.

I roared around the bend where I'd last spotted the vehicle, then glimpsed it again in the distance, headed down Lakehurst. From my distance, I couldn't see how many people were in the vehicle or if there was cardboard covering a smashed driver's window, but I had a gut feeling that this was Mendoza's car. Why, I'm not sure. After all, Thawyer and Harris had to be smart enough to know they were wanted men, and Swedesboro was not exactly an ideal place for criminals to hide. It made no sense for them to come back – not unless they were planning another hit in the nearby area. Soon.

Sam Dempsey's words came back to me all of a sudden, as cold and hard as the ice on the road:
from here on out, this investigation goes by the
book
.

Please and thank you.

"You got it, boss," I muttered aloud, and reached for the police radio attached to the dashboard (simultaneously killing Billy Idol in the middle of a rebel yell). I always kept the volume down because police chatter drove me crazy, but my profession demanded quick access to the authorities. As I cranked up the handset, I heard several voices breaking through intermittent bursts of static – something about a car theft in Mullica Hill – but that was of little interest to me at the moment.

Bringing the mic to my lips, I hit the call button and held it. "This is Detective Stikup of SPD requesting police assistance. Come in, anyone."

There was a brief pause, and then a male voice cut through the waterfall of electric pops. "Detective Stikup, this is Officer Vadder of the East Greenwich Police Department. What's your position?"

"I'm headed west on Lakehurst Boulevard in Swedesboro, south of King's Highway, in pursuit of a red '85 Ford Sedan – no plates. Suspect occupants to be culprits in the Richwood murder two nights ago."

Static, and then: "Copy that, Detective Stikup. How would you like us to proceed, sir?"

I rolled the wheel to avoid a particularly deep snowdrift which had migrated to the middle of my lane. "I'm following at a distance to remain undetected. If you can contact Chief Slyder at SPD and get together a B&E squad for me, I'll transmit my exact location when they get out of their vehicle. We're headed towards 45 – most likely headed north from there."

Static. "Acknowledged, Detective. Stay on the line." He began relaying the message in broadcast to all cops in the immediate vicinity.

Replacing the radio, I eased up on the gas and dropped back into a sleeper position so that the goons wouldn't realize they were being tailed. I wasn't really in the mood for a high–speed car chase on the icy back roads of South Jersey.

We did hop onto 45 as I'd predicted, and not much happened over the course of the next fifteen or twenty minutes after that, although I kept Vadder abreast of events as they happened. The vehicle ahead of me changed lanes frequently, but I kept steady in the fast lane, tracking the sedan carefully with my eyes and attempting to remain inconspicuous.

Eventually, they took a back road off of the highway and hung a left down 47. Separated by three or four cars, we headed further north for a fair distance before Harris and Thawyer finally pulled into an old parking lot on Almonessent, across the way from an eatery and an old hotel.

Our trek had taken us into the heart of Deptford Township, not far from Westville, almost twenty miles northwest of Swedesboro. Deptford wasn't really a "nice" area, per se, but they did have a shopping mall and two movie theaters in close proximity, so it was relatively crowded at the holidays. Today, the traffic was light enough to be tolerable, but dense enough to disguise my pursuit.

I cruised casually past the parking lot, watching discreetly as two men got out of the sedan and headed towards the front entrance of the hotel, each laden down with heavy bags. They had their backs to the street, but one of them was
insanely
tall and had long red hair.

I passed the place twice, watching the hotel entrance carefully on both passes. Once satisfied that they weren't coming back out, I parked around the corner from the parking lot on Clement's Bridge. There, I radioed Officer Vadder again to give him my exact position and to request a warrant for the old hotel –
The Olde Hotel Deptford
, according to the weathered sign by the street. Slyder would take care of everything, Vadder assured me, so I cut the transmission and jumped out of the Anglia, pulling my fedora down over my face in case Harris or Thawyer were watching from the hotel windows.

It was too much to hope for that they hadn't seen in the papers exactly whom it was that was tailing them.
An amateur PI from South Jersey. Probably had a good laugh about it, too.

It had gotten colder, so I wrapped the trench coat closer around my legs as I walked quickly down the icy sidewalk. The hotel was actually a renovated Victorian style house, closer to a mansion in size than a single family residence. Over the years, the exterior had fallen into increasing states of disrepair: shingles from the roof were missing, and several upper windows were boarded with nothing more efficient than cardboard and duct tape. The porch was a wrap–around, guarded by dead plants hanging from the awnings.

I smiled to myself as I studied the place with careful scrutiny.
Exactly the sort of place a thief would hide. A low budget hideout, certainly not main–line, probably not even listed in the yellow pages.

That was profiling – FBI crap, and perhaps it was unfair. "Politically incorrect". But I for one have never really been concerned about hurting criminals' feelings.

The inside lobby of the place caught me completely off–guard. It wasn't large by any means, but the whole setup was almost elegant – a mockery of its external appearance, an oxymoron of class boundaries. The tiled floor of the tiny lobby sparkled with cleanliness in the light from an overhead chandelier. An outcropping of fake tropical plants grew in the corner of the room. Comfortable–looking plush chairs were arranged against the opposite wall, flanked by magazine racks. Put simply, it was cozy, and the heat was a welcome relief from the temperatures outside.

There were only four other people in the room as I entered, so I caught snatches of conversation as I made my way up to the front desk. No one seemed interested in the eccentric newcomer, clad in a long trench coat and peering around suspiciously from beneath the brim of his Indiana Jones fedora.

Neither Harris nor Thawyer were in the lobby, so I approached the front desk. The bespectacled young woman looked up as I came to stand before her, absently twirling a lock of strawberry blond around an index finger.

"Can I help you?" she asked tonelessly, like she had nothing left in the world to live for.

I produced my badge for her to see. "Ma'am, my name is Detective Stikup," I said without preamble as she traced the badge with her eyes. "I'm working for Swedesboro Police on an investigation. We have reason to believe that the two men you just admitted into your hotel were culprits in a murder two nights ago, and I need to know which room they took. I've got a warrant on the way if you need one."

The girl's eyes widened as I spoke. "Oh my
God
," she breathed, suddenly awake. "Who are they – what did they look like?"

Damn,
I thought furiously.
Wish I had mug shots on me.
There were several back at the office in the file stamped
Daniels
– freshly faxed over from SPD – but I hadn't even gotten a chance to look at them yet.

I cleared my throat, praising God that my memory was functioning properly. "One of them has got brown hair and beard, gold tooth in the front – pierced ears. The other's tall, got bright red hair and several facial piercings."

"Yes – yes, they're here." She quickly turned to her computer screen and clicked the mouse a few times. "S–second floor," she stammered finally, looking up at me again. "Last room on your right – number six."

I smiled at her thinly, attempting to reassure. "Thank you, ma'am. Police are on their way." Leaning close, I added in an undertone, "Carry on as you normally would – we don't want either of these two to get wind that we're coming."

She was visibly rattled, but nodded agreeably. The moment I turned away from the desk, she ducked into a room adjacent to the counter – probably to inform a higher–up of the situation. I didn't pay her any attention: it didn't make a difference who she told, so long as they didn't start a panic.

Instead of concerning myself, I headed back to the Anglia to wait for reinforcements.

Purely out of nervousness, I radioed Vadder again, warning him not to park directly outside the hotel. It might have annoyed him that I specified such an action, as he certainly knew how to do his job, but it reassured me to know he and a dozen comrades weren't going to come roaring down the street, sirens blaring.

The freaking cavalry,
I thought distractedly, checking my watch. SPD's response time was entirely too slow. Unbelievably slow. Sinfully slow.
Come
on –
what's taking so long?

And the worst thing was that I could do nothing but wait.