The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (26 page)

Slyder glared at me, but he wasn't really angry. Or maybe I just hoped he wasn't. "When did your boss first contact you for this job?" the Chief asked pointedly, directing the question at Thawyer – who was still standing close to the bars.

Distracted, Fin raked fingers back through his hair, momentarily revealing a recent scar hidden beneath his bangs. "I dunno, man – sometime like… I guess it was the twenty–fifth. Maybe."

"And how did he find you?" Slyder pressed, noting the approximated date with a question mark.

"The classifieds," Harris interjected as Thawyer opened his mouth to respond. "Fin, you don't have to kiss their asses. Look, we already told you he didn't tell us anything, so we can't tell
you
anything. It's not that unusual, really. I done plenty of jobs without knowing why. It's the money that talks, man."

Slyder sent the man a cold, calculating look. "Well, humor me then. What were the exact instructions you were given?"

"God," Harris groaned, throwing his head back in frustration like an over–privileged, longsuffering teenager. "264 Franklin? Get what's in the safe, don't linger, don't ask fucking questions. Simple as that, a'ight?"

"What about the car?" I asked before Slyder could even open his mouth again. "13 Jackson. Did you have instructions for that one?"

Both criminals were silent, exchanging confused looks. "Man, we picked the car up," Thawyer said finally. "We didn't steal it. Thought you knew that."

I drew my brows together, fearing the worst. "And where exactly did you pick itup?"

"That old cannery outside Swedesboro," Thawyer replied after gleaning nonverbal permission to speak from Harris. "Boss dropped it off there, gave us a phone call to tell us where to get it. Not much more to it."

"Great," I muttered to myself, thinking hard and fast. So either there had to be more than one group of thieves involved or Thawyer was lying through his teeth. I couldn't see a logical reason for him to deceive me right then and there, so I decided to move on and concern myself with that particular detail later.

"What about the money?" I asked instead.

Harris lay back on his bed and crossed his hands behind his head again. "What about it?"

Despite my relative frustration, I managed to keep my tone neutral. "I want Miles' money back," I said firmly. "Where is it?"

"Man, we don't have it." Thawyer's tone had dropped to a dangerous level. He took a step closer to the bars. "We just did what the boss told us to – drop it off where he could pick it up. Whether or not he did isn't my concern. So, if you can't connect the dots on your own, man,
we don't fucking have it
–"

"I'm perfectly capable of doing children's puzzles," I said, feigning indignity. "So, where'd you drop it off? Same place you got the car – the cannery?"

"Yeah, so what?" Thawyer demanded, cocking his head to one side.

"When was the last time you talked to the boss?" I asked him, ignoring the obvious threat.

He shrugged carelessly. "I don't know, maybe a week ago."

That would place the time of last contact to a few days prior to the Daniels murder. That would mean, interestingly enough, that the employer hadn't checked in on his henchmen since that debacle. Maybe he'd gotten cold feet. "And what were his instructions to you at that point?"

"Lay low, wait for the next call," Thawyer recited. He put a shoulder against the bars. "Not much else, bud. Only talked for a minute in case the line was tapped."

"He gave you no instructions of any sort to hit 4 Whitefield Avenue in Richwood?" Slyder interjected brusquely.

"Nope," Thawyer returned. Apparently he was the one dictating the dialogue now because Harris was saying nothing. "Toldja that already. Are we done here?"

With my peripheral vision, I saw Slyder close his notebook, so I turned away from the bars. "Let's get out of here."

"Thank you for your cooperation," the Chief told the two crooks, more out of habit than genuine gratitude. To me, he said, "Let's get forensics over to the cannery – see if we can't find anything there. If this guy was basing his operation there, then he's got to be local, probably within a ten–mile radius. Also, let's check the phone records at the Pitman hotel and see if we can't come up with a time and place where he might have reached them."

Behind us, I heard Harris chuckle. "Gotta hand it to you cops," he said loudly, affecting an arrogant, sing–song tone. "You really try your hardest."

The Chief and I had turned to leave, but Harris' comment spun me back around. Unsurprisingly, I've never been one to take condescension well, especially not from a murderer and rapist. Christ may have condescended on my behalf, but at least He'd done it lovingly. Slyder reached out and caught my arm as I turned back towards the cell, restraining me – as if there was anything I could do to them when unarmed and separated by bars.

"Forget it, Stikup," he growled in my ear, but the anger was already boiling in my guts, ready to explode.

"Daniels forgives you," I blurted at the pair, past the tense shoulder of the interposing security guard.

Harris stared at me in confusion. "Who?"

I probably was in violation of some victim/criminal confidentiality–bullshit–liaison law, but plowed on without caring. "Daniels – the husband of the woman you butchered. He forgives you." I glared hard at the man. "Don't know if you still have a conscience or not, but if you do, I hope you think about that while you're rotting in this cell. Your goddamn lust has ruined this guy's life, but he's decided to forgive you and not press any charges."

Silence fell, interrupted only by buzzing fluorescents and distant grumblings from the surrounding inmates. Neither criminal said anything, and neither did Slyder or the security guard. There was a strange tension hanging on all of us suddenly, an air of poignant conviction manifested in all present – regardless of guilt or innocence. I wasn't satisfied, but there was no sense in screaming at the bastards. After all, you can't change someone's mind for them, no matter how vehemently you argue.

"Dammitt, let me go," I growled at Slyder, tearing my arm from his grasp and turning once more to leave.

He followed wordlessly in my wake as I stormed down the hall, still wearing his characteristic frown of perpetual indifference. Yet I caught a glimpse of a peculiar look in his eyes as we checked out of security and headed back to the car, a visible revelation that tore away all my perceptions of the man in an instant. I'll never forget it until the day I die.

That was the one time in my entire life that I've ever seen Kevin Slyder show signs of that human weakness called emotion.

*  *  *

Even the combined strength of coffee and Aspirin failed to cure my head of bothersome thoughts and a fortified headache as I sat in my office chair that afternoon, feeling exhausted despite the early hour. It was about 2:00 and the sky outside was overcast, but a fire was still dancing in the hearth, warming the small room against the chill. Down the hall, Jill was singing
Hotel California
while she worked, and meanwhile I was getting nothing accomplished.

Needless to say, I'd been thinking about the conversation with Thawyer and Harris earlier at the penitentiary. Sure, I'd managed to embarrass myself again, but more importantly, I kept feeling like there were questions I hadn't asked – or at the very least, answers for which I hadn't dug deep enough. As Slyder had said, it seemed that the sphere of this crime was relatively small and close to home, which rendered the lack of any clarity somewhat inexplicable.

But maybe we'd find something at the cannery. Forensics was probably there even as I sat.

Get something done in the meantime,
I told myself.
Redeem the time, for the days are evil.

Somehow, I was sure using the Scripture in this instance was out of context, but I scooped up my pen again anyway. Motivation is motivation, after all. Unfortunately, my hand seemed to have forgotten how to write coherent words, so I tossed the utensil down again within minutes and got to my feet instead, wincing as my head pounded in protest. I hate those apathetic moods. Normally, it wouldn't have been a major problem, but now – with a hot case on my hands – it was like having writer's block.

For the last chapter of the novel you've been working on for years.

The telephone rang suddenly, a blessing in disguise. I smiled at the interruption: now I wouldn't have to feel guilty about wasting time. Hopefully it was someone with something long, boring, and unnecessarily detailed that they wanted to discuss.

I picked up after the first ring. "Stikup agency."

"So I
didn't
forget your number," the woman at the other end said. "I couldn't remember whether it was –
8
543 or –
9
543. Just goes to show that my memory isn't
all
that bad."

"Well hi there," I said, seating myself on the windowsill. "What's up?"

Her tone of voice was genial and carefree, which meant the medication had effectively taken the pain out of her knees for the day. "I forgot to ask you yesterday if you'd be able and willing to take me out shopping sometime this week. Only if you feel like it, mind you – if you don't have time, I'll take the bus."

"Oh, anything for you, Ma." I swept my gaze up and down the street outside, trying to remember what Swedesboro looked like without snow covering everything. "When do you want to go?"

My mother had always been one to drop subtle hints rather than ask directly for whatever it was she wanted. For a long moment, she acted as though she was thinking. "Well, whenever
you're
up to going, Chance. I just need to get there sometime this week."

I'd already begun donning my coat, which had previously been draped over the arm of my sofa. "Tell you what, I'm not even busy right now. It's the damndest thing – all the work I was just doing seems to have gone away… Weird. How's twenty minutes sound?"

She laughed outright, pleased that her tactics had worked and simultaneously amused that I'd seen through them. "Thank you, Chance. I really appreciate all you do for your ancient mother."

I grimaced and words I never meant to say escaped my lips. "Just doing what Dad neglected to."

Her voice lost some of its good humor, but she refused to let me change the subject to one of unpleasantness. "I'll be ready when you get here. If I don't come out when you beep the horn, just assume that I fell asleep on the sofa."

"Righto."

I hung up and headed down the hall, wondering why I'd chosen that particular moment to drop an emotionally laden bomb on my mother. It didn't make any sense, considering we rarely spoke about my father and I hadn't been in one of my depressed I'm–this–way–because–of–my–neglected–childhood moods recently. Sure, I had a lot of baggage left over from that relationship (or lack thereof), but I never let it flare up in my face when it was unwanted. In fact, on most days it felt like I'd never even had a father, and it was better that way.

There was no sense dwelling on the matter – not now. I'd picked apart the past and compartmentalized it over and over again, stripping the skeleton of memory like a vulture. It didn't need another rehash because there was nothing left to glean.

Before leaving, I stopped in Jill's office. She was busy sorting through various folders in her cabinet and didn't look up immediately when I entered.
Probably reorganizing,
I thought distractedly, smiling at her when she noticed my presence.

"Is the magical coffee cabinet empty again?" I asked.

"Probably," she replied. "Considering you drink so much."

"Careful there, Ms. Fereday," I growled warningly, falling heavily against the doorjamb. "You should be thankful I'm not an alcoholic."

"Trust me, I am." Reaching up over her head, she pulled opened the cabinet where we stored the coffee and assorted snacks. Behind a box of staling granola bars there was some Folgers and a can or two of Maxwell House. It wasn't Starbucks, but it was something.

"We should be okay for a few weeks," Jill said, closing the cabinet again.

I winked at her. "I'll be back in a few hours – dearest mother requires my free chauffeuring service."

She yawned heavily, reaching for the ceiling. "Ugh. I might take a nap while you're gone. Oh, I meant to ask you if you wanted me to file the new case info for you."

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. "There
is
some junk that requires your superb organizational skills, but I doubt that you'll be able to find anything amidst the mess. And I don't want you cleaning anything up because then I won't be able to find anything. I'll get it all to you when I come back."

"As ordered." She waved, then yawned again. "See you then."

"Sofa's open if you wanna sleep," I called as I headed for the front door.

The Weatherby Apartment complex in downtown Mantua was nicely landscaped with sprawling gardens of flowers and trees and there was a security station at the entrance to keep out any troublemaking delinquents who weren't residents. It was a nice little environment for the elderly to relax after suffering through life for so long. I showed the tollbooth guy – as I called him – the card that proved I was a relation to a resident and parked the Anglia in front of building A a minute later.