The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (27 page)

My mother lived in apartment 12 on the second floor of building A. She stood on the balcony outside her door waiting for me, a shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders against the frigid day.

"I didn't fall asleep!" she called proudly as I got out of the car, as though she deserved an award for the feat. "I would have put this off until tomorrow if I'd known it was this cold out, though."

I held out my arms, looking up at her. "Jump down, Ma – I'll catch you!"

She laughed and instead headed for the stairwell. I'd always been proud of the way I could make her laugh with the simplest joke. Maybe she just humored me because I was her son, or possibly just had a lousy sense of humor, but it still was a nice feeling regardless. I met her halfway and helped her down the rest of the flight and over to the Anglia.

She was only 62 and didn't walk with a cane despite her arthritis, but stairs made her nervous. She was shorter than me by a good ten inches, rounder about the middle, but possessed of the firm energy my father had always displayed. Her graying curls fell just past her chin, brushing her shoulders, and blue eyes twinkled at me from behind a thin pair of spectacles: her eyesight had always been another strong point.

"Anywhere in particular you want to go?" I asked as I opened the passenger door for her.

She grunted as she dropped heavily into the Anglia. "When are you gonna get a new car, Chance? This one's too low. Oh, I don't care where we go – whatever's closest and
cheapest
."

"That's the real trick, isn't it?" I got in the driver's side, gunned the engine, and headed back the way I had come.

The only reason she hadn't demand an explanation for my black–and–blue countenance was because she'd already done so on Sunday, the last time I'd seen her. I'd given a simplified, censored version of what had transpired, although I suspected she knew I hadn't told her the whole story. Truth be told, my injuries
were
getting better, and although they remained sore and relatively unsightly, they were bearable. Passersby weren't staring nearly as much anymore, and that was something.

Our ride to the market was short but enjoyable. My mother and I had always gotten along admirably, and we chitchatted about anything that came to mind, from the awful weather to traffic to finances. It was around 3:30 when we pulled into the treacherous Acme parking lot in Woodbury. Snow was pushed up against the curbs and over the islands to make room for the cars. Slush and ice made the lot into a slippery deathtrap.

I helped my mother out of the car and kept an arm around her waist as we crossed the lot. It was a relief to get inside, both because the heat was blasting and because there was no more immediate danger of falling. We set about our shopping tasks without incident; she headed to the meat aisle while I headed in the opposite direction in search of cereal.

Dividing and conquering.

Regardless of one's background and personal eating habits, selecting cereal remains the hardest of all shopping decisions. Too many options plus too many opportunities for decoder rings always kept me juggling boxes of Cheerios and Kix for unnecessary amounts of time.

Of course, I've never really been able to make up my mind about anything.

"Struck by indecision, Stikup?"

I almost thought that the speaker was my mother for a moment, but two things clued me off. One, she and I weren't on a last name term basis, and two, she didn't have a deep and gravelly masculine voice. I turned to face the speaker and blinked in surprise as I saw Robert Mendoza standing there, dressed in his usual checkered flannel and faded blue jeans.

He grinned at my surprise.

"Oh – yeah." I held up the box of Apple Jax. "I was just trying to decide whether excessive amounts of sugar in the morning would actually help wake me up faster or just clog my arteries. But then again, if it tastes good, you can't go wrong. What are you doing here, Robbie? This is the last place I'd counted on running into you."

He shifted several packages of bacon from one arm to the other so as to shake my hand. "You don't think that I just go out back and kill squirrels for dinner, do you?"

I showed him my teeth. "Actually, that possibility did occur to me, believe it or not."

"Chance! Be a gentleman and introduce me to your friend!"

I turned to greet my mother, who had just come down the aisle pushing a cart laden with coldcuts and packaged meats. I gestured with a hand in Mendoza's direction. "Mother, this is Robert Mendoza. Robbie, this is my mother, Ellen."

Mendoza gently shook my mother's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Stikup."

"Ellen is just fine." My mother smiled up at the hunter, who towered over her. "And the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Mendoza. How do you know my son? He has so many people he knows because of his job that I lose track."

I winked at her. "I'm trying to find the guys who stole his car."

My mother chuckled as she reached out to give my forearm a squeeze. "He's such a nice boy. Always trying to help people."

"Yeah, well I get paid for it," I said.

The three of us shared a chuckle at my rather lame joke, and then my mother continued the polite conversation. "So where do you live, Mr. Mendoza? I'm assuming you're local."

He shrugged, somewhat awkwardly. "Around near the edge of Swedesboro. I own a shop in Cherry Hill. And yourself?"

My mother rolled her eyes at the reference to work. "I've been retired for about fifteen years now, though I work hard every morning just to get out of bed. I live in the Weatherby Apartment complex just down the way."

Mendoza nodded. "Okay. I know where that is. My cousin and his wife used to live there." He glanced over at me. "It's a good place."

I jerked my head in my mother's direction. "At least she likes it. Usually she's so picky about everything."

My mother slapped my arm playfully, arguing that she was an appreciative woman, but Mendoza laughed. "I think all mothers are, Stikup," he said, and then checked his watch. "I've got to be going. It was nice talking to you Stikup. Nice to meet you, Ellen."

He shook my hand again, then departed for the checkout, shoulders hunched as he walked.

My mother took the cereal boxes from my hands, relieving me of the burden, and dropped them into our cart. "Don't worry about the cereal, Chance – I have a coupon." She gave me a motherly smile. "Mr. Mendoza was a very nice young man. I'm pleased that you hold with such good company."

I smiled as I began pushing the cart down the aisle. "Well, I wouldn't exactly call him
young
, but I guess that's a relative term." I waited until she had smacked my arm again, then continued. "Yeah, I do know some pretty nice people. You should meet my secretary."

My mother threaded her arms through my right and gave me a playful nudge with her shoulder. "That pretty young lady who works for you? I think that you should take her out to dinner one of these days, Chance. You can't stay single
all
your life."

Unfortunately, I'd already been giving the matter an inordinate amount of thought. I sighed as I dug an undamaged jar of peanut butter off the shelf to my left and dropped it into the cart. "Ma, I'm thirty-two years old. I don't think anyone is interested in starting a relationship at my age."

My mother consulted her shopping list as she spoke. "You never know. You remember Grandpa Eddie? He got remarried at fifty–five."

"…to a hooker who divorced him in half a year," I finished – because she wouldn't. My father's father had never been very intelligent man, as evidenced by his expansive collection of bottle caps. He'd also been a diehard Cubs fan. "Do you
really
want me to end up like him?"

My mother smiled almost sadly as we turned the cart down the produce section, still arm–in–arm. "Okay, bad example. But still, you never know. God has a plan and a purpose, so we can only hope. You have a chance, Chance."

For a moment, I thought about breaking the news to her that I was sick of that god–awful name, but decided against it. We made our way towards the cashier together, arguing instead about splitting the grocery bill and dreading the cold that awaited us outdoors.

Chapter Fourteen

Tuesday, December 7th

"What a
dump
."

I found that I had to agree with Kevin Slyder's pronouncement, even if it was rude and blunt.

The ramshackle cottage was built on a gentle incline, a narrow plot of land wedged between split–level ranchers on the left and right. Finigan Thawyer's residence was even smaller than the shack I called home and looked to be at least thirty years older to boot. The roof was missing more shingles than still clung to it, and the wooden siding on all four walls was rotting – in some places falling off. The once–white window shutters had faded to gray and the paint had all but peeled off; when contrasted to the snow covering everything, they were almost black.

It was 1:30 in the afternoon, December the seventh. Slyder and I had driven in the Chief's squad car to 183 Stanton Drive in Fairfax, Delaware, not far from route 95. The day was sunny and bright, and the snow covering everything was slowly melting in the sweltering 38Ú temperature. It was the perfect day for staying inside and watching a good movie, perhaps sleeping in, or maybe even cracking open that novel that's just begging to be read.

I glanced at Slyder as we mounted the three front steps to the Thawyer residence. "Seems like the kind of place a criminal would live, huh?"

He grinned at me in return. "I wouldn't know – I don't stereotype 'em like you do."

It was somewhat contradictory to his previous statement, but I decided not to give him a hard time about it. We had a long ride home, after all.

A woman answered the doorbell.

Shorter than me by a good six inches, Finigan Thawyer's wife Patricia immediately struck me as someone upon whom time had not doted. Sure, she might have been pretty long ago, but now her face was prematurely lined and she appeared haggard. As a matter of fact, her entire countenance was…
wasted
. The skin hung loosely on her body and the flesh had a sallow tint to it. At first glance, I suspected she had Hep, or maybe even AIDS, although that information hadn't been in any records. Of course, she could have only become symptomatic recently, and both of those diseases tended to work abruptly. However, the firm tone with which she spoke immediately chased any notion of illness from my mind.

"Can I help you?" she asked grimly, taking in our cop apparel for what it was worth.

"Afternoon, ma'am," Slyder said, trying on a smile for size. "I'm Kevin Slyder, Chief of Swedesboro Police in Jersey." He turned to indicate me. "This is Detective Stikup. We have a few questions to ask you, if you don't mind?"

Her countenance fell as she beheld us – not that it had terribly far to fall. "Fuck, what's Fin done now?"

The question might have been rhetorical. Even if it was, the words hung awkwardly in the air for long a moment before Mrs. Thawyer opened the door wide and allowed us to step inside.

The place stank of cigarettes. The curtains were not drawn over the big bay window across from the sofa, but the panes of glass were so grimy that the room was still cast into dark shadow. The brown carpets appeared to be coated in layers of dog hair, as were the coffee table and two chairs that stood in corners.

Thawyer's wife crossed her thin arms and waited, watching mutely as we surveyed the small room.

Slyder began without deliberation, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "Ma'am, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your husband was arrested five days ago – charged with rape and murder, not to mention breaking and entering. We're here to continue our investigation."

I watched for a visible reaction from Patricia Thawyer, but got none. Her dark eyes flashed for a moment, but she merely blinked and continued listening.

Slyder produced the search warrant. "We're just going to look around the place," he grunted. "You know – check things out and whatnot. We just need to see if we can trace anything back to your husband's employer. I'm sorry. I know you probably don't like the idea of us searching through your house to find evidence against your husband, but –"

"No, he deserves it." Mrs. Thawyer sank slowly into an armchair, sighing heavily. "
God
, I've been telling him for three years that he needs to quit working on the wrong side of the law. Now look where it's landed him."

I cleared my throat pointedly. "Um, there is the chance that your husband might be freed – not for a long,
long
time, that is. After all, he's being charged with manslaughter. That's usually punishable by a life sentence. Or worse. Unless he gets off, that is."

Pat Thawyer nodded. The muscles in her jaw were working, but her tone remained even. "I know. It will be tough working things out."

Slyder cocked his head to one side and I winced at the next words that came out of his mouth. "Pardon my bluntness, Ma'am, but you don't seem very upset or surprised by this news."

She gave us a wan smile that held no humor or warmth to make it credible. "I've always known that this would happen. Lord knows I've sometimes
hoped
it would – so he'd come to his senses. 'Sides, I knew something was up since he hasn't called for almost two fuckin' weeks."