by Jack Parker
Mendoza's smile became fixed. There was a warning look in his eyes that I didn't like, but I took the hint anyway.
I shifted gears again. "About what time did the theft occur?"
My host thought for a long moment, staring at the fire. "I'd say around 9:00 in the evening. Quarter past, maybe half past."
I scribbled the time down on my notepad next to the date of the theft, wishing that I had more interesting questions to ask. "Have the thugs returned at any given time since the theft?"
"No."
"Have you noticed your car being driven around anywhere – or seen it parked somewhere?"
Mendoza leaned forward in his seat. "If I did, don't you think I would have taken it back?"
"Good point." I frowned, looking into the fire absently. I wasn't getting anywhere and was beginning to think my coming had been a waste of time – a big waste of time, considering that I had sat down barely five minutes ago.
"'Fraid I can't help you much more, Mr. Stikup," Mendoza said when I didn't continue the discourse. He leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak beneath his weight. "The thieves were wearing ski masks, so I couldn't see what they looked like, and they didn't leave anything behind."
"Can you describe them at all? Uh, about how big were they?" I wasn't sure how that would really help, but I figured I might as well leave no avenue unexploited. But it's not like I'm gonna go around with a scale weighing everyone who looks shady…
My host thought for a moment, staring into the fire. "Well, the one looked really tall – upward of six feet, I'd imagine. Taller than me. The other two were shorter, but big too. There were only three of them. Like I said, I can't tell you what they looked like."
I wrote that down, and was pleased to note that Miles had at least said something along the same lines. 'Said something about a tall guy, although he only mentioned two thieves. But I assume one would wait in the car for the others to do the dirty work. So there's really no question that Miles' and Mendoza's thieves are the same individuals.
What else was there to ask?
The question that suddenly popped into my mind struck me as relatively unimportant, but I decided to ask it anyway. "Did your vehicle have tags on the front and back?"
Jersey law mandated both, but contrary to what I had thought, Mendoza didn't seem surprised at all by the question. "Just the back. Did you see a car like it? After the robbery today, I mean."
"Not really." For some reason, I didn't disclose the fact that I had found one of his car's license plates at the scene of the crime. He already knew about the related theft, after all. Maybe I just didn't want to give him false hope.
I sighed and gazed around the dimly lit room for a moment, then turned back to my host. "What line of work are you in, Mr. Mendoza?"
My host spread his arms to take in the entirety of the room. "I'm a hunter, Mr. Stikup. I run a hunting supplies shop up in Cherry Hill when I'm not out shooting ducks myself." He smiled at me toothily. "Pays the bills."
I nodded. "Right." There was some useless information that I would never use. And so much for small talk. I chewed my lower lip for a moment, and then asked, "Mind if I take a look around?"
My host shrugged and got to his feet. "My house? Yes – it's finally clean and the thieves weren't in here anyway. The garage? No. Have fun."
There was something about his statement that irked me – perhaps his condescending attitude – but I tipped my fedora at him just the same and got up to follow. I could have gone to Slyder and gotten a warrant, but this lead wasn't turning out to be much of a lead at all. It simply wouldn't be worth the trouble, because Mendoza was apparently just the unfortunate victim of a carjacking. Besides, I would need good cause (reasonable suspicion or ample evidence) to obtain a search warrant, and I had neither of the above. I could make do.
Mendoza led me down the short hallway and unlocked the white door at the end of it before pushing it open. This, he held open for me, and I could feel the temperature drop immediately as I took the three steps down to the cement. Behind me, Mendoza hit the lights and I blinked to clear my vision.
I found myself standing in the relatively spacious single–car garage. A workbench stood in the corner, covered by tools and bottles of Mobil oil. Stains on the concrete suggested that the stolen vehicle had been parked here at one point or another. The parts of the garage not reserved for the missing automobile were crowded with lawnmowers, weed–whackers, tools, and excessive amounts of junk.
It looked a lot like my place, actually – except I didn't have a garage. I would have said that Mendoza and I would have gotten along admirably, but they say that two slobs can't coexist.
And who am I to argue with psychologists who invent that crap for a living?
I turned around slowly, taking in every detail. Mendoza watched from the doorway to the house, sizing me up. Although I didn't like the scrutiny he was giving me, I ignored him.
Unsure of exactly what I was searching for, I crossed the garage and rummaged through a cardboard box. There was nothing but some jumper cables and a few dirty golf balls. I pushed the box aside and looked in a second of its type.
Old broken milk bottles. I picked up a jagged piece and held it up in the light, observing it. Then, with a touch of humor, I scooped up one of the old golf balls and held both items aloft for my ever–present host to see. "Practicing your swing?"
"Very funny." Mendoza shrugged. He had his hands on his hips, and I could see his breath as he spoke. "I forgot those were even in there. Must have broken when I moved all those boxes here from the basement. If you have any milk bottles lying around, you should save them – those things are valuable antiques, you know?"
"Not anymore." I dropped the broken piece back into the box and sighed. Nothing there; nothing useful. I pointed toward the garage door. "Can I look out front?"
"No problem." Mendoza descended the short flight of steps and walked quickly over to the garage door. I came over to stand beside him as he grasped a pull–cord dangling overhead. "The lock's broken," he said, "but the door still opens fine."
Might explain the theft, I thought as the door ascended before me.
The evening air hit me like a solid wall of cold steel, but I stepped outside nevertheless and looked around, blinking in the darkness. It was hard to see since the sun had disappeared behind the houses some time ago, so I took out my penlight and traced the thin beam along the snowy ground.
Mendoza had shoveled the drive extensively since the snowstorm the night previous, which gave me a good look at the driveway. There were skid marks visible where the pavement showed through the snow, tire imprints in the ice, and more oil stains on the drive surface as well, all of which told me that a vehicle had sat there up until recently. There were also a few broken fragments of glass glittering in the slush, and more were in the snow bank that Mendoza had created to clear space for his car.
Although he's got no car to park here as of right now. So it was outside when it got stolen, then.
I swiped my coat sleeve across my nose; the cold was causing it to run. At least I knew the guy was telling the truth. I looked around a bit more, looking for anything that would give me a hint to the identity of the robbers. A bit of fabric, a crowbar or whatever it was that had smashed in the window, anything of that sort. But there wasn't anything of interest. If the police had found something, Slyder would certainly have told me earlier when we'd spoken on the phone. So either the thieves had been very careful – as they had at the Mileses' – or I just wasn't looking hard enough.
That or Mendoza's lying.
But why would he lie when it was his car that had been stolen? That wouldn't make any sense, and despite his bravado he seemed like a nice guy. Sometimes it paid to be suspicious of everyone, but it went beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mendoza hadn't burglarized his own car from his own property or smashed the window himself.
What would that gain him?
I walked back into the garage, hands thrust deeply
into my pockets, thinking.
"Find anything, Stikup?" Mendoza asked gruffly when he met me at the door into the house.
"Nope." I didn't have any details to offer. "It's all clean, sooo…" I left the sentence hanging.
Something flickered in his eyes. Relief? Worry? Pity? I wasn't sure. I'm not a mind reader. If I wanted to read minds, I would be a psychic.
But I'm not. I'm a detective.
"Thanks for your help, Mr. Mendoza," I said with a sigh.
"Glad to be of service." He extended his hand, and I shook it. He had an iron grip, which I felt distinctly through cold–induced numbness.
Hiding a wince, I smiled politely and headed back out to my car.
Chapter Four
Wednesday, December 1st
So I had gotten no farther whatsoever. Without any distinct possibilities upon which to orient myself, I was being led down the rabbit hole, with a million different tunnels leading off in a billion more directions.
I couldn't honestly claim to have felt like this before, since most of the jobs I'd taken in the past hadn't been this involved. Or, for that matter, this hopeless. The beginning must be the toughest, I assumed, considering you had so many options and so few suspects. It wasn't like those old cop movies where everything just sort of worked out and your sidekick picked up on every ridiculously subtle detail.
I caught myself wondering what Scarlotti would have done had he been in my situation, but immediately shut down that train of thought. He had gone and gotten himself shot in the arm, and I hadn't. The question was not to ask what Benson would have done, but what I should do.
You're a good PI, I told myself. If you're going to be a good detective, you're gonna have to take initiative. Think for yourself, be confident, be smart.
Like most things, it was easier said than done, and I went to bed late on the last night of November with more on my mind than I cared to think about at once.
The second morning of the case, December the first, dawned sunny and freezing. I somehow slept through my alarm, and instead of getting up promptly at five as I had for the last twenty years of my life, woke to the telephone instead at 7:14.
At first I thought I was still dreaming, but the noise persisted, so I threw myself out of bed and trudged out to the hallway. I didn't have an answering machine, so the phone rang about three times more before I managed to pick it up.
"H'lo?" I croaked into the receiver, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
"Mr. Stikup?" It was Jill. "Sorry to bother you, but… um, where are you?"
I considered panicking as I realized I was an hour and fourteen minutes late for work, but ended up yawning instead. It wasn't worth the bother, and I was still too sleepy to be flustered. "Sorry," I said to Jill. "I slept through my alarm. Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"
She laughed like I'd said something funny. Which was rare. "Not unless you consider paperwork weekend entertainment. I was just wondering what had happened to you."
I managed a preoccupied grin. My mind was still concerned with whether the sheets were still warm. "Sorry 'bout that. I always sleep late when I have a case. You know that."
"Riiiight," she said indulgently, and I'm fairly certain she was rolling her eyes too. "Well, you'd better get over here soon. You've got a phone call to return and I haven't made a cup of coffee in over twelve hours, so I'm a nervous wreck."
I made a face. So much for going back to bed.
I showered in a flash, dressed haphazardly, and slid across a new dusting of snow to my car. The cold kept it from starting on the first or second try, but the third time the engine roared to life violently.
"Three's the charm." I yawned compulsively as I shivered, waiting for the motor to warm up, then pulled slowly away from the curb. Not only did I have to see about that phone call, but I also needed to think. I had always assumed that the first stages of a police investigation didn't require a whole lot of thinking – just a lot of wandering around until one finds a lead. But I didn't know where to wander.
So I'll wonder where to wander.
I told myself to shut up and stepped on the gas.
Jill helped me take my coat off when I entered the office at 7:46. "I got lonely without you," she said in a miserable tone, absently brushing snow from my shoulder. "It gets empty in here."
I chuckled. And yawned. "Glad to know somebody misses me sometimes."
Jill flashed her beautiful set of white teeth at me, then headed for her office. "Coffee'll be ready in a jiffy."
"Thanks," I said in passing as I headed down the hall to my HQ.
I hit the lightswitch without thinking, and cursed when nothing happened. The stupid bulb was still out – not that it would magically repair itself – so I lit a fire and sat behind my desk, wondering where to start my day. Jill had laid the Wednesday paper on my desk along with an index card, upon which she had neatly written the caller's name. The paper, I moved aside; the note card, I picked up and studied with bleary eyes.
Call back Captain Slyder.
The Boss. The Big Cheese. El Numero Uno. God.
Jill had only written his name, of course; I'd embellished with the titles. Scooping up the old phone, I dug in the layers of papers in my desk drawers for my phone book. Once I'd found it, I looked up the SPD station's number and punched it into the phone. I asked the receptionist to connect me to Slyder's desk, and she put me through right away when I identified myself as the PI on the Miles case.
He answered after the third ring. "This is Slyder."
"Hey, Chief," I said gleefully. "It's your favorite comedian."
Captain Kevin Slyder was not a man who amused easily, but it amused me that he could tell who was calling by that greeting. "I was expecting your call last night, Stikup," he growled, but didn't sound pissed, which was something in and of itself. "What did you find?"
"Not much, I'm afraid." I cleared my throat and consulted my notebook with the scribbled calendars. "Vehicle was stolen the twenty–eighth, Sunday, it happened around 9:00 in the evening, and he hasn't seen hide or tail of any strange activity since then. Three crooks; they smashed the driver's window and hotwired the car. He discharged a 12–gauge at them in self–defense, missed, called you guys yesterday."
I dropped the notebook onto the desk and leaned back in my chair. "'Fraid that's a dead end."
"So nothing new. Figures." Slyder didn't sound surprised, and – as a result – no angrier than usual. "Well, I'm giving full responsibility for that investigation over to you too. So you'll have full access to SPD information related to those two cases. I assume you can handle the responsibility."
"Do I get paid for it?" I asked, trying to be funny.
Jill had come in to drop off the coffee. She rolled her eyes at my comment as she retreated from the room, forcing me to choke back laughter.
"Of course," Slyder replied to my ignorant question, missing the humor or choosing to ignore it. "In the meantime, maybe you could snoop around Miles' place some more?" He made the suggestion into an order. "I don't think he'd mind. I'll have the reports faxed over to you along with the stuff on Mendoza."
I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder and lifted the steaming mug to my lips. "I should hope he doesn't mind," I said after a good sip. "I am the one who's trying to find the bad–guys who stole his money."
"Right." Slyder suddenly sounded like he was in a hurry to get off the phone with me. Maybe he was more annoyed than he was letting on. "Get your ass over there and report back when you're finished."
Had we been speaking in person, I would have given him a salute. "Right away, Chief."
* * *
264 seemed almost derelict when I arrived an hour later, possibly due to the visibly damaged front door, but the miserable air surrounding the house didn't exactly render it hospitable either. There was a squad car posted several hundred yards down the street, to keep tabs on things, although I suppose it was more for the Mileses' sense of security than actually keeping an eye
out for the burglars – should they return.
They always say goons never return to the scene of a crime. Or shouldn't.
It was 8:54 when I stepped out of my car and crossed the slush–strewn street to the Miles property. The sun was out for the time being, but failed to bestow any warmth upon the day.
A weary looking Sandy Miles answered my knock and let me in. I judged by her waxen complexion that she hadn't slept much of the night, but exhaustion did not bleed the anxiety from her eyes. She still seemed fully alert and fully frightened. After closing the door with difficulty, she took my coat and promptly disappeared. Whether she wanted to let me do my work or search through my pockets for gum, I wasn't sure.
For several minutes before climbing out of the Anglia, I'd sat with the Miles folder open on the steering wheel before me, studying the detailed police reports and Miles' written statement – both of which Slyder had faxed over from the station. Jill had brought them into my office only a few minutes before I'd left for the crime scene. I'd stuffed my own sheet of jotted observations into the hodgepodge of documents and photographs, contributing little information that the police hadn't already gathered.
