The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure)

by Jack Parker

  AMAZON KINDLE EDITION

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  PUBLISHED BY :

  Jack Parker

  Also by the Author :

  Perfect Crime ( Mystery & Adventure )

  The Apocalypse

  Something Blue

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2012 by Jack Parker

  Cover and internal design © 2012 by Jack Parker

  The Thrill of the Chase

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced, in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  « Stories are true to our common experience; they are statements which concern the human condition... Stories are not subject to the imposition of such questions as true or false, fact or fiction. Stories are realities lived and believed. They are true »

  - N. Scott Momaday, The Native Voice -

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  Contents

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  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter One

  Monday, November 29th, 1993

  Swedesboro, New Jersey

  It was snowing.

  The space between earth and sky was full of ice, a maelstrom hanging in limbo. The blizzard had been growing continually worse with the passing hours, showing no signs of letting up – much less stopping. As a matter of fact, the storm had begun the previous night as little more than gentle flurries; it had grown in intensity as it continued into late afternoon the following day.

  The houses lining Crescent Street, which was actually a perfectly straight block, contrary to what the name suggested, appeared to have been taken straight out of an oil–on–canvas depiction of Christmas Eve. They must have been warm and cozy inside to look so homey, like gingerbread houses thrust up out of sugar snow.

  Yet, beyond these romantics, one quality of the evening pronounced itself with equal fervency: the cold. The biting, freezing cold. The unstoppable, penetrating, biting, freezing cold. The unstoppable, penetrating, freezing, biting, chilling, relentless cold. The terrible, bone–gnawing cold of winter.

  I freely confess I've always been a complainer, and I've never harbored much love for winter. I suppose I should have been used to such weather, having lived in Jersey practically my entire life, but there you have it. During my lifetime I've been called a lot of things, but never a "fast learner".

  So there I was, and that's where I begin: outside my office on the corner of Union and Crescent, shoveling the snow off my walkway, longing for summer. Of course, in summer I'd have to mow the grass, and that wasn't much fun either. Autumn meant raking, because the neighboring houses were bordered by oak trees, and spring would just mean more mowing. You just can't win when you're lazy, and I suppose that's been one of my greatest vices.

  It was my sincerest desire to abandon my task and hurry over to one of those little cottages and thaw out by the fire. I longed for a cup of coffee or some hot chocolate, if only to drive out the ice that had surely taken up residence in my belly. I swore under my breath as I stubbed my toe on the uneven sidewalk. The pavement was hidden beneath nearly a foot and a half of snow, and my boots were old and worn through in several places. Needless to say, my feet were soaked, and I couldn't feel my toes at all.

  Did I still have toes?

  God, it's cold, I thought furiously, as though blaming the Almighty would make Him rescind the storm.

  Due to the weather, there was a minimum of traffic on the road. The roads were steadily becoming impassable, a fact pronounced by the frequent sound of revving engines and the squeal of tires on ice. The occasional passing vehicle was evidenced only by its headlights, visible only as indistinct yellow orbs through the curtains of falling snow.

  Across the street, two young boys where having the time of their lives, packing snowballs and hurling them at each other mercilessly. A big black dog barked loudly as he chased them back and forth around the yard, wagging his tail happily. His booming barks echoed in the still evening air.

  I rubbed my gloved hands together vigorously, and then slapped my face and nose to restore at least a trace of circulation. That was easier said than done, of course, so I gave up almost immediately and hefted the shovel. The blade scraped as it met resistance on the hidden sidewalk, a sound I hated almost as much as I hated the cold. But by now, I had hit that point of optimism (or maybe apathy) that comes near the completion of a difficult task, and – quite honestly – I no longer gave a shit. Once I had cleared some vague semblance of a path, I could go inside and watch it fill again.

  I really needed to get a TV in the office.

  It was at that moment, when I was less than four feet from the main sidewalk that I made the mistake of glancing back at my handiwork. Immediately, I felt my heart sink, not necessarily with disappointment, but there was definitely a sense of loss there. It was like losing an old friend.

  The path over which I'd agonized was already filling with snow, fast enough that by the time I "finished", the walkway behind me would have disappeared again.

  Before I could even begin swearing, divinity intervened, and the front door to my office burst open. Artificial golden light spilled forth over the snowy front yard, and a lone figure stood framed in the doorway, her body silhouetted by the light within the office.

  "Mr. Stikup!" The voice was like a shot in the stillness – a rifle crack, but warmer and much more pleasant. "You've been out here for an hour! Come inside before you get sick."

  Yes, ma'am, I thought, shouldering the shovel and wading back through the snow toward the front door. It didn't really matter that no one could get up the front walk. It wasn't like I'd be doing any business any time soon. Especially not at this time of year.

  After propping the shovel against the side of the building, I stamped the snow off my boots and stepped into the warmth of the office, closing the door against the cold. Jill Fereday was instantly there, helping me pull off my snow–stained overcoat. She hung it on the coat rack and then bent over to help me take off my soaked boots.

  I laughed as I kicked them free and stamped my bare feet on the wood floor to restore circulation. "I don't pay you to be a butler, y'know."

  "Huh, that's funny," Jill said, pausing to consider. "You don't pay me much for being a secretary either."

  "Touché," I returned. "You don't have to do this all. Seriously."

  She filled my eyes with a sweet smile, veiling mockery. "I know – I'm just looking for a raise."

  More sarcasm. Was it sarcasm?

  She unwound the red scarf from around my neck, literally cutting off any reply I might have made. "I'll go make some coffee," she announced, draping the scarf overtop of the coat and kicking the dripping boots up against the wall.

  "Don't yo
u want a tip?" I called after her as she headed down the hall to her office space.

  "Are you offering?" she asked over her shoulder as she disappeared through the first door on the right. "Didn't know you carried spare change."

  "I just don't have any ones," I shot back, still standing in the doorway. "I know you collect those at your other job."

  "Oh, don't worry about that," she called, and I could tell she was smiling. "I'm still loaded up with what you gave me last night."

  The comeback was on my tongue, and then… It wasn't.

  "Dammit," I said, and then she was laughing for real.

  Despite our close relationship, Jill didn't have any nicknames for me. My name is indeed Stikup. Chance Stikup, as a matter of fact. Like that dog from that book. And yes, it is pronounced "stick–up". It was sort of an oxymoron (or an irony, whichever it is; who the hell really cares?) with which I amused myself whenever I got bored: a detective involved in a heist? Never. God forbid.

  At any rate, I'd always considered "Stikup" a fairly suitable name for a fairly decent private eye, and that was indeed my profession. Obviously, I would prefer to go by gallant or daring, but that would just be presumptuous and fantastical. Stikup suited me fine. At least, it would have to until my dear mother – bless her heart – passed away. Then I could change it without hurting her feelings.

  Jill was my secretary. She was the complete opposite of me in nearly every respect. She had warm green eyes, a petite and perfectly centered nose, and the type of smile that could make a man's insides melt. Most importantly, however, she made a killer cup of java, and that was primarily why I kept her around.

  How a girl like her had ended up as a lowly secretary for a fool of a PI was a mystery even to me. The only recollection I still retained from her early employment was her showing up for an interview, if it could be called such, dressed to the nines and looking distinctly out of place standing in the undeniably crooked doorframe, surrounded by the water–damaged walls of my office. She'd made some offhanded joke about the relative informality of our meeting, and I'd hired her on the spot. Then, abruptly, it was two years later and she was making coffee while I dripped all over the hallway floor.

  Either she's got a hell of a lot of patience, or she's a glutton for punishment.

  From experience, I knew it was the former. Jill was one of the most sweet–tempered women I had ever met. God would bless her liberally for putting up with me. Maybe she'd get a condo next to Moses.

  I removed my dripping fedora and hung it on the rung next to my coat. Swiping at my running nose with a sleeve, I padded down the hall toward my office, wishing I had a dry pair of socks somewhere on the premises. My mother would have fussed. Jill would too, but I wasn't about to let her know.

  I stopped in my doorway for a moment, just to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The bulb in the overhead had gone out and I didn't have a spare, so I was making due by exercising my night vision.

  Needless to say, the the room was a mess. Papers, papers, and more papers cluttered everything, stacked twelve inches and higher, and the dust cushioning the desk beneath them had to be an additional inch thick. The wastebin next to my desk was overflowing; paper wads were piling up on the floor around it, and several tortured envelopes had made a valiant attempt at freedom during my outdoor excursion. As a matter of fact, the clutter was getting so bad that it was starting to migrate from my desk to the dusty coffee table, which stood in front of the threadbare sofa. Here was where the empty coffee mugs resided. Jill usually came in to get them after I started building pyramids with them.

  An old–fashioned dial phone sat on the corner of the cluttered desk, the least–used object in the room. Maybe that had something to do with why I had never gotten around to replacing it with something more modern. But then again, maybe I just liked the rustic look – like something out of the old cop movies. Jill often yelled at me for entertaining such melodramatic fantasies, like I could really curb them. Maybe if I took a steady dosage of Ritalin and kept myself distracted by whatever reality set before me. Problem being that reality is oftentimes more boring than anything, and I hate boring almost as much as I hate the cold.

  Jill did her best to keep me sane, though. Aside from humoring me, she ran my errands and made me coffee every other hour. On occasion, she bought me lunch too.

  Now, weren't we the epitome of stereotypes? Sloppy male boss looked after by his neat, mother–like secretary. See also: every detective flick set in the 80's. I definitely got the better end of the bargain, but Jill would have just directed that benevolence in someone else's direction if I hadn't been the recipient, because that was just who she was: a sweetheart. And I was a mooch, so our relationship was perfect, if somewhat symbiotic.

  Isn't that a beautiful image?

  Loosening my tie, I crossed to the big oak desk, which kept its back to the big bay window. The blinds were open to allow the maximum amount of light, and through the wooden slats I had a clear view of the winter wonderland that was Crescent Street. I dropped heavily into the swivel chair behind the desk, brushing aside several Tastycake wrappers to make room on the desk surface as I did so. Jill had brought in the mail and had dumped it in the "in" tray on my desk. Reluctantly, I scooped up the pile and rifled through it in disgust.

  Bills, bills, bills.

  Stupid bills. Nasty, disgusting, stupid bills.

  Jill came in a moment later with the afore–promised mug of coffee, blowing on her fingers to keep from burning them. She smiled at me as she set the mug on my desk – right in front of me in the space I'd just cleared, like a fresh airstrip.

  Like the Berlin Airlift.

  "Here you are," she said, somehow managing to remain cheerful despite the dragging afternoon hours. Optimism was a neat little talent of hers.

  "Thanks, Jill."

  "Anytime," she replied with a mock curtsy.

  She knew just how to make me smile. Women are funny creatures, you know? Perceptive when it comes to the emotions of others, but dense when it comes to their own. But what do I know? I don't have a woman. I'd never been able to keep one.

  As Jill left the room, I reached for the nearest stack of bills, and – screwing up my face in preparation for the worst – slit open the one from General Electric. A quick scan told me all that I needed to know, so I offered my best wince and dropped the envelope and its contents onto the desktop.

  Most people would be skeptical if I were to divulge the details of my financial crises. After all, people in my line of work get paid big time for their services. But I was no Sherlock Holmes. What I was was average. And in a quaint little 1800's town like Swedesboro, part of a South Jersey county called Gloucester, where relatively nothing happened, there wasn't much demand for a man of my profession. As a matter of fact, there isn't much demand for an average PI anywhere in the modern era. You've got to be the best of the best of the best when you do the kind of stuff I do, or you get glossed over for the bigger guns. Besides, I wasn't even part of the local police force – I ran my own agency which consisted of two people: Jilly and me.

  On the plus side, it was nice to be able to randomly take days off, show up late without fear of retribution, and sometimes even shirk the nice dress. So long as I had money to pay the bills, doing what I did was easy and relatively painless. The Swedesboro police would call me to assist with cases on occasion – either ones too small for the local sheriff to concern himself, or cold cases upon which SPD didn't feel like wasting any more time. The district was selective, though: resorting to the assistance of a PI was a last–ditch attempt. It was the final, most desperate measure.

  Sure, I resented it. But hell, I'd chosen this line of work, and I'd known well ahead of time that it would mean living on the back burner. The majority of my "cases" came from the random citizen down the avenue who wanted me to find his debtors or creditors, dig up old friends years removed, keep an eye on his spouse while he was at work, or even search for records on his ancestors. Unfortunately
, those jobs couldn't be counted as under–the–table and therefore non–taxable (even though they were paid for with personal checks and sometimes cash). And on top of that, they didn't really make me all that much to begin with.

  Running a private agency, I collected a minimal amount of money from Self–Employment. However, the big, bad government only gave me money if I was earning money with which to pay them back, and I hadn't had a real client for nearly a full year. Bottom line, if I didn't start getting hired for more and bigger jobs, my self–employment funding was going to be slashed. If I didn't keep getting that check every month, then I wouldn't be able to pay my bills would lose my office – not to mention my job. If I lost my office and my job, then I would lose the shack–o'–crap in which I lived and be forced to move in with my mother. If I had to move in with my mother, well…