by Jack Parker
Probably has to, being Chief of Police, I thought.
"H'lo?" he mumbled groggily.
"Chief!" I exclaimed, doing my best to blast him awake. "It's Stikup. Listen, I –"
"Stikup?" he interrupted, sounding – more than usual – like there was some obstruction in his throat, keeping him from speaking in anything but a growl. "It's three in the morning. What the hell do you want?"
Steeling myself for whatever his answer might be, I threw out the last remaining question to the riddle I'd been working on for a little more than a week. "Chief, is it possible to get money from home insurance if your house is robbed? A lot of money?"
A pause.
Then: "What? The hell you asking me for –?"
"Dammitt, this is important," I growled in agitation, almost jumping up and down with excitement. Maybe I would have if my knee hadn't been aching. "Can you or can't you?"
"I suppose if you got the right company and signed on the right dotted lines," he said slowly. "Mind you, it would only be a temporary loan and the interest would be fantastic –"
"Chief, I need warrants for arrest – two of 'em. Send a squad to 264 Franklin to pick up Rick Miles, and one to 13 Jackson to pick up Robert Mendoza." I said all this very rapidly, and was dressing as quickly as I could. The phone cord was nearly snapping, as I had dragged it all the way back into the bedroom with me.
"Miles?" He sounded completely confused now – and skeptical. "And the hunting shop owner –?"
"Chief, if I'm wrong about this, I will personally hand you my badge, chauffer you anywhere you want, and give up coffee forever," I said, frantically searching for my clothes. "Look: Mendoza and Miles are cousins – I can prove it. It's no secret they've both got money problems, either. So, they conspired to get themselves out of debt, and came up with a plan to hire thieves to rob Miles' house – only, it wasn't a real robbery. It was only to draw the money they needed from insurance. I can only assume that they planned on double–crossing the thieves they'd hired in order to close the case and pin everything on them. That's why Thawyer and Harris couldn't really tell us anything: they didn't know anything!"
I fell silent, allowing him extra time to process all that information. After all, it was late – well, early – and I'd just thrown an immensely complex, completely hypothetical theory at him. Finally however, I could remain quiet no longer. I'd found my shoes and pants, and was working on locating a pair of boxers.
"Listen," I said impatiently, "I need you to hurry – there's the possibility that they know that I know, and they might skip town –"
"Are you sure about this Stikup?" He sounded more alert now, angry yet excited. "You have to be goddamn sure, 'cause Dempsey's going to need more than just your opinion –"
I paused with one foot in my pant leg, attempting to put them on backwards. "Do I sound like I'm sure? Trust me on this one, Chief – I'll explain in detail later."
He sighed, what sounded like a rush of static over the phone. "Alright, I'll put the call through –"
"Okaygottagobye."
I simply let go of the phone, allowing it to snap back across the room and smack into the hallway wall. I thought that I might have heard Slyder shouting something about not doing anything stupid, but I kept on dressing haphazardly just the same.
Time was of the essence.
Cousins, in league to commit crimes on themselves. They had taken a desperate gamble – certainly brilliant, but also incredibly dangerous. They'd thought the thing through meticulously, covering up the obvious details, taking care to completely distance themselves from the criminals and the acts they committed. But in the end, the minute details that no one would ever consider had sold them out.
I was buttoning my shirt, still thinking fast. They really tried to save as much money as possible though – using Robbie's car and guns from his shop but making everything look normal. I was so stupid to assume there were two gangs when we'd only heard about one. So, factoring in the 26 thousand they did put out for the thieves, Miles and Mendoza must have been expecting a hell of a lot from homeowner's.
I suddenly realized that there was a sour tang lingering on my tongue, and it took me a moment to decipher exactly what it was: bitter regret and humiliation. I'd befriended Mendoza. I'd let down my guard completely. In fact, I'd forgotten what was perhaps the most fundamental rule of the sleuth, and that was to trust nobody. In lowering my defenses, I had potentially risked the case and the lives of those around me – not to mention putting my own safety in jeopardy. I had compromised myself, and that was why I felt the way I did: hurt that a man whom I had come to call "friend" had been sleeping with the enemy all along.
And that was when the sharp pain tore through my gut, beginning as a hollow ache, growing within seconds to pure agony. It winded me, nearly doubled me over. It was like being shot, a sensation like something was in me that didn't belong –
It was the feeling of absolute dread and horror.
I dashed a hand across my sweating forehead in absolute disbelief. "God. I even introduced him to my mother! And I told him all about Jilly –"
Jilly.
The dream – a premonition?
My heart pounded into fifth without a clutch, leaving me winded. I staggered against the bed, feeling helpless anxiety surging up in my chest.
Mendoza knows that I know!
I leaned heavily on the back of the desk chair for support, breathing heavily. My gaze drifted upwards, and I found myself staring hard at the photograph of Robert Mendoza, which was smiling wolfishly down at me from the bulletin board despite the thumbtack I'd driven through his eye.
And Miles – Goddamn it, I called Miles and told him –
Jilly
Fear overrode my reason and crushed my common sense, much as I trampled the bathrobe – which now lay in a puddle on the floor – in my haste to get to the telephone in the hall. I slapped the receiver back onto the cradle and then put it to my ear, punching in Jill's number with a trembling hand at the same time. I already knew what I was going to say –
– get out of your apartment. Go somewhere with lots of light and plenty of people around – a restaurant or somewhere – anywhere. Stay there until I come and get you – don't talk to anyone – watch out for a guy who looks like Paul Bunyan and anyone else who looks shady –
– and I ran through it again and again in my mind, listening to the phone ringing on the other end. Maybe Swedesboro itself wasn't safe for her right now, because who knew what Mendoza would do to protect himself? He'd acted in desperation when striking that deal with Miles and the thieves. How much more violently would he react now that I had him cornered?
She didn't pick up.
As I listened to her cheerful voice recorded on the machine, telling me to leave a message, that it was important to her and she would get back to me, a heavy hammer fell on my heart, stopping it instantly. My ears rang, my mind raced, my limbs felt cold and numb.
"Jill?" I stammered after the beep, into the perfect silence that followed. "Jill? Are you there? It's Chance – this is important. Are you there? Hello? Hello?"
No answer.
No –
"Shit!"
I hung up and called her back immediately, swearing more vehemently when I got the answering machine again. I didn't bother leaving a message this time. Instead, I slammed the phone back onto the cradle and – lashing out in pure frustration – punched the wall as hard as I could. Trying to regain control, I bit the knuckles of my left hand – hard – and breathed heavily through my nose.
I had to think rationally. Mendoza didn't know where Jill lived. Sure, her number and address weren't unlisted, but would he really be able to find them in time to act? Jill had obviously just slept through my call. Maybe she'd gotten up to use the bathroom, or was watching TV and hadn't heard –
But I was arguing with myself in vain. Somehow, inside, I already knew that Mendoza had gotten to her. Unwitting of Rick's liaison with Mendoza, unwitting of eith
er of their involvement, I had called Miles mere hours ago and told him myself how close we were. He'd probably lost control and called Mendoza, unsure of what to do –
And what will Robbie stop at to ensure his secrecy?
I packed my 9mm in the chest holster and donned my hat. Tearing out of the house, I raced down the sidewalk to the Anglia, which sat silently, awaiting the journey ahead. I jumped in, turning the ignition with a hand that was as unsteady as the racing of my heart, and tore off into the night.
I'd finally gotten my wish. It was time to be a hero.
Chapter Nineteen
The fifteen–minute drive to 13 Jackson was perhaps the longest ride of my life.
The roads were mercifully empty, wide open before me as I flew. Everything was a blur: the only thing that remained distinct was the road before me. It seemed to elongate, as though I was moving backwards, but I pressed on in desperation – willing myself to move forward. I had never tested the Anglia's top speed before, but the dying little four–cylinder reached somewhere around ninety–six before the engine started sputtering, refusing to go any faster. I was driving like a madman, yet was externally at peace. Someone in the passenger seat would not have sensed any of my distress through body language. It was through my wild eyes that they would have glimpsed my paranoia.
Images floated before my vision – across the windshield, it seemed. Jilly's beautiful face highlighted for but an instant by yellow glow from a street lamp, Mendoza's grizzled leer of bloodlust chasing her smile across the dirty glass, only to be replaced by Miles' innocent shrug, his face momentarily thrown into sharp relief by the headlights from a car flashing past in the opposite direction.
I heard trails of past conversations haunting me, as though the speakers were in the back seat, hissing in my ear.
Red Harris: I'm going to make sure you pay for this one. Cops ain't supposed to overstep their bounds…
Robert Mendoza: What if you had asked her? What if she had said 'yes'? I wouldn't want to live the rest of my life asking those questions…
Rick Miles: I'm an agreeable person – ask my wife, Sandy, she'll tell you…
Kevin Slyder: It's gonna get put on the back burner – I'll tell you that right now. We've got other things to work on besides a hopeless mystery…
Well, it wasn't hopeless anymore – not if I wasn't too late.
I was gripping the wheel hard enough to completely numb my hands. It was my fear that was driving the Anglia at forty–six miles per hour over the speed limit. Fear of the worst, fear of being too late. Fear of failure. Perhaps this was the moment I'd lived for my whole life. Maybe this was the grand finale, the last scene of the play.
Maybe it was only the beginning.
Either way, I knew fate had brought me down this road. I was a religious man and always had been, yet somehow prayers seemed all but useless. My breath caught in my throat every time I opened my mouth to beseech the Almighty, and in the end, all I could gasp out was: "God… please…"
That was it, but I was sure God heard me. I'd never doubted before and wasn't about to start.
At long, long last, I was bearing down upon Jackson Boulevard. The faded sign was suddenly approaching at an alarming rate, looming out of the darkness like a forest–green, rectangular harbinger of doom. Heart in my throat, I rode the brake hard, rolling sharply around the curb and onto Mendoza's street.
There was no activity in the neighborhood as I crunched to a halt on the ice a block away from number 13. The night was illuminated by sentry lampposts and the brilliant reflection of moonlight off the snow. The air was freezing but ghostly still, and each crunching footfall on the snowy sidewalk was magnified to a bazillion times, causing me to wince with every step I took towards Mendoza's house.
The rancher was dark, as silent as the rest of the block. The red Sedan with the smashed driver's window was parked diagonally across the drive – as though Mendoza had rushed in and not bothered to park correctly.
I hesitated on the sidewalk, breathing the sharp winter air through flared nostrils. Adrenaline tightened my hands into fists, rushing through my veins with every frantic beat of my heart. I was ready for action and I was simultaneously terrified because the police were as yet nowhere in sight. I growled low in my throat, reaching into my coat for the 9mm.
Dempsey's probably being a bitch about the warrant. I didn't give Slyder much to go by. Guess I'm on my own for this one.
In the back of my mind, I knew I could get in serious trouble for going in without that precious invasive scrap of paper on my person, but I pushed that rationale away. There was no time to wait, waste, or sacrifice – not when the life of an innocent bystander depended on immediate action. Besides, I've always been a responsible man: I'd answer for my actions if it came to light.
With effort, I took my first step towards the house.
When I tried the front door, it was locked – unsurprisingly. I was frustrated regardless and swore softly as I leaned over the handrail to peer in the big living room window. Mendoza had drawn the curtains, but I could see through the gaps in the blinds that all was blackness inside. I wouldn't have been able to make out much anyway.
The garage, I thought. The lock's broken.
"But it still opens fine," Robbie's voice added helpfully in my mind.
Perfect, I replied, but does it open quietly?
This time the hunter did not reply, but I'd already descended the stairs and picked a careful path to the garage. My options were as limited as my time.
Crouching in the snow, I worked numb fingers beneath the lip of the metal door and – screwing up my face in preparation for the worst – heaved upwards. After some initial resistance, the door came up smoothly, rattling a little, but remaining – for the most part – silent. No shriek of metal on metal, no grinding of rusty gears, no Robert Mendoza ready to blow my face off with a shotgun as I ducked beneath the door and into the pitch–dark garage.
The musty air smelled familiarly of oil and it was already cold enough inside for me to see my breath. I could feel the frigid breeze at my back, creeping in from outside to fill the cramped interior. Leaving the door halfway raised, I stole quickly across the cement floor towards the door to the adjacent house. I couldn't see much, and I didn't have a flashlight on me, but I felt my way along the wall until I saw the thin strip of light glowing from the crack between the door and doorframe.
It was ajar.
I hesitated with my shoulder posted against the doorframe, heart thumping, and then edged the door open a crack, pointing the Beretta through the opening.
Nothing.
The vacant hallway was dark, but there was light was coming from a room around the corner – perhaps the library where I had first spoken with Mendoza, but I couldn't be sure. I stepped softly inside, leaving the door open behind me for the police to follow. The sharp tang of leather immediately assaulted my nose as I proceeded softly towards the sitting room – a smell I didn't remember from my previous visitation. I recalled it hanging faintly in the air then, but not as pungently.
Don't be stupid, I reassured myself shakily. He hasn't turned Jill into a jacket. Yet.
The kitchen to my right was dark and empty, so I moved silently to the sitting room. "Lit" was probably too strong an adjective to describe the trophy room: the pitiful remnants of a fire were smoldering beneath the hearth, barely providing enough light to make out the rest of the room. However, compared to the darkness cloaking the rest of the house it was almost blinding. And in that dim lighting, the countless animal heads mounted on Mendoza's walls seemed to follow me with their eyes, leering at me ominously.
I found myself momentarily hypnotized by their glassy gazes. Shouldn't take long to question them all and cross–reference their responses, get some additional dirt on Robbie. I'm sure they'd be happy to talk.
There was another hall that met up with the previous passage through which I'd entered, forming a T. I turned left down this new corridor, saw a sparsely illumin
ated bedroom straight ahead and what appeared to be an adjacent bathroom.
Still no activity.
Leading with the 9mm, I crossed slowly into the bedroom, keeping my back pressed to the wall. There was nothing of interest in the room – checkered wallpaper, a TV on a nightstand, a couple jackets thrown over the bed, transparent curtains drawn over the tiny window, a landscape on the wall. All that and a closet to my right – or, what appeared to be a closet. A thin beam of light stretched from beneath it, illuminating the shag rug and my scuffed Rockports.
My heart was pounding again, causing me to breathe heavily through my nostrils, which – in turn – made me notice the scent of leather all the more clearly. It was almost overpowering, and I was sure it was coming from behind that door.
So this is the workshop, then. God, how does he sleep with that smell right here?
