The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (25 page)

Jill smiled and trailed a finger absently through the layer of dust coating the 'Out' tray. "Yes, sir," she said. Her voice cracked with weariness, almost lustily, and I immediately found myself imagining what it would be like to fall asleep beside her on a warm summer night, naked under the sheets, hearing that husky voice in my ear.

"Can I have another Aspirin?" I asked abruptly, embarrassed by my thoughts – even though there was no way Jill could have guessed what was on my mind. I cleared my throat and said somewhat more naturally, "I have a headache from thinking too much."

"Sure, Chance." Sighing, she got to her feet again. After a long moment of silence, in which she looked vacantly around the dark room, she sent me a weary smile. "Y'know, maybe we
should
go home. I don't think I've gotten a good night's rest in almost a week."

I stood slowly and began gathering my things to go. "This case has got you that excited, huh?" I asked through a monstrous yawn, still trying to rid myself of my horrid imagination. Talking about sleeping wasn't helping, and neither had the glorious look I'd gotten at the backs of her knees. "Seriously, Jill what could possibly deprive
you
of sleep?"

But she had already left the room, leaving me with a man's foolish musings and another mystery unanswered.

*  *  *

Sunday, December 5th
- - -

Funerals have always been my least favorite of social gatherings – not that they're particularly high on anyone's standards. Maybe I'm just more sensitive than other folks, or maybe I just fear being sucked into someone else's grief, because I've always tended to distance myself emotionally from the other people in my life. I seem to be a grief sponge, somehow absorbing other people's sorrow just by being in close proximity, which sucks because empathy has never exactly been my strong suit – certainly not my royal flush. The Good Book admonishes to "bear one another's burdens", but generally I have enough of my own to worry about.

The funeral for Ruby Daniels was a relatively small affair. It was the perfect antagonist to an otherwise perfect Sunday, the less–than–enjoyable follow–up to a fiery sermon delivered from the pulpit and breakfast at Rita's. It was depressing to see all the vacant folding chairs: silent ranks of cold metal, patiently waiting for the dead to be lowered into the grave. From what I gathered, the majority of acquaintances had sent their condolences via mail and the telephone, being unable to attend. Only the closest family members had come out for one last hour with their departed sister and daughter. As for me, I'd seen Daniels' write–up in the obituary and come out of a strong sensation of guilt – not necessarily sympathy for the grieving Jeff Daniels.

Emotional support,
I'd told myself earlier in the day.
It'll help him to know that someone's got his back – even if that someone's me.

Of course, that was assuming he wasn't still pissed at me. I hadn't heard anything from him since our chat the night of the 2nd, so I could only assume that his anger with me had cooled, or perhaps he just wanted nothing to do with me. Well, I was trying to do the right thing, and that was enough for me.

In the spring, the High Street Cemetery in Mullica Hill was a beautiful little place. Lush carpets of grass – weeded and fertilized – and blossoming cherry trees would give the little cemetery an aura of peace despite the sadness that dwelt therein. The day of the Daniels funeral, however, was bitter cold – a day that caught the little cemetery deep in slumber. Snow and ice hid the grass, and the naked trees bore witness to the harshness of the season, shivering beneath the icy wind.

A small, open tent had been erected over the small clearing which was to be Ruby Daniels' final resting place. The headstone had been cut from a pure, polished marble, and the inscription read: "A loved and loving wife, beautiful even in death." It was a rather long epitaph – it had certainly cost more than a simple "loving wife" would have – but it seemed an appropriate message, nevertheless.

I wore my trench coat over my best suit, buttoned only at the throat and with the arms out of the sleeves. It was just comfortable that way, and it kept me warmer. My hair follicles, however, cried out in agony. Each individual hair was painfully slicked and combed by my aging mother, whom I had taken to Mass earlier that morning. I clutched my fedora in two hands because I couldn't put it on – for fear that I would ruin my mother's meticulous handiwork, and also out of respect for the deceased.

The preacher delivering the graveside sermon was a devout man, round about the middle and with a severely receding hairline. He delivered the eulogy without preamble, speaking over the sobs and sniffles of the small crowd gathered around the closed coffin.

There was only one man, I noticed, who was not crying – besides myself. Jeff Daniels looked barely nineteen. He was clean–shaven and dressed entirely in black, hair parted down the middle so perfectly that he might have used a ruler. The widower stood alone, arms crossed over his chest, staring absently at his murdered wife's coffin. His grey eyes were unseeing, his mind lost in once–upon–a–time, his strong jaw relaxed, no creases of concern or grief marking his forehead.

I watched him as he swept his cool gaze over the coffin and the flowers strewn in the snow around it, as though contemplating their existence. His face remained expressionless, his eyes emotionless, as his gaze moved from face to face, searching the grief found there. He had an aura of innocence around him, a naïve hope of utopia and eternal bliss manifested in the calm he outwardly displayed. But I saw a flash of pain pass over his eyes when his stare fell upon me and recognition dawned therein. We held each other's gaze for a long moment, each searching out the other. Then, I inclined my head slightly in a gesture of respect and offered a small, empathetic smile.

There was a collective "Amen" as the minister closed his prayer, and then one of Daniels' sisters began the opening verse to
Amazing
Grace
. On the second verse, everyone joined in singing – all save Jeff, who continued to stare at the ground in silence, listening rather than joining.

The small party rose to leave.

A few of Daniels' friends and family stayed behind to pay their last respects to the dead woman and console her husband, but the young man still carried that unnatural calm, rendering words of comfort almost unnecessary.

I waited until the small group around man and coffin had dissipated, then approached cautiously. I extended my hand to the young widower. "I offer my deepest sympathies to you," I said, trying not to sound gruff. "I hope you can forgive me for not being able to do more."

Daniels shook my gloved hand but there was no strength in his grip, and only the ghost of a smile tickled his pale lips. "You are, Detective. You're hunting down the ones who did this so that it doesn't happen again."

I offered a sad excuse for a smile, tucking my fedora under my arm. "I believe I do have some good news, then. We've apprehended the three responsible. They will go on trial as soon as one of them recovers from a certain gunshot wound."

If Daniels was surprised or pleased by the news, he didn't exhibit either emotion. "Wonderful," he said simply, displaying his gloved palms and then clapping them together again. It was a hollow display of a gratitude he didn't feel.

I cleared my throat pointedly. "There is the question of pressing charges, now. You'll need a good prosecuting attorney – I know some people I could introduce you to –"

Daniels sighed loudly, interrupting, and shook his head slowly. "No, no… I don't want money for this, I don't want to make anyone suffer. I don't want to get involved in a fight that will consume me for the rest of my life. I've given up my hate – that's what Ruby would have wanted. I forgive them." He looked up into my eyes, an odd sort of gleam lighting his gaze. "Tell them that for me, will you? That I forgive them?"

I pondered the change that had come over the man since I'd last spoken with him. He had gone from vengeful to forgiving in only a few short days, and the sudden change was so drastic it was spell–bounding. For a moment, I thought about arguing with him, but then nodded instead, somewhat unsure of how to respond.

"Sure, Jeff."

Daniels smiled again and shook my hand again, more firmly this time. "Thank you, Detective. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to spend a few last moments alone with my wife."

"Of course." I tugged the white rose out of my breast pocket and laid it atop the cold steel lid of the coffin. Then, turning away, I gingerly perched my hat on the hard layer that was my hair and walked out of the little tent. Behind me, there was no sound: the dead don't respond to grief, no matter how poignant.

I crossed the silent cemetery alone, my eyes tearing from more than just the wind.

Chapter Thirteen

Monday, December 6th

I visited the Camden County jail first thing on Monday morning, intending to get the worst out of the way before picking up the routine slack I'd neglected. To be completely honest, there was more than one reason preempting the visit, the primary one being to ask questions of course, but there was also a strange sense of conviction in my guts, a calling to go that could not be ignored.

Maybe Harris and Thawyer had discovered the Holy Grail in their cell and I was being drawn to it.

The pair had been transferred to the Camden penitentiary after spending the previous two nights in the Swedesboro detention center. It seemed they'd given the cops there a relatively hard time, so Slyder had gotten rid of the criminals as fast as he possibly could. Interestingly enough, he accompanied me himself that morning, whether entertaining questions of his own or just to keep me under wraps, I wasn't certain. I suspected that Sam Dempsey had assigned Slyder the task of babysitting me personally, but that didn't stop me from spending the twenty–five–minute ride ribbing Slyder over the fact that he was deigning to do grunt work, and simultaneously insisting that he found me immensely enjoyable company. Just because I'm an ass who finds himself amusing. Regardless of my jesting, however, I was truly grateful for his presence: a jailhouse visit isn't exactly the type of thing one enjoys doing alone.

At 9:20, we handed in our weapons at the security station and followed an officer to the cell where our "friends" were being held. Predictably, the prison was cold and echoing, like a stone and metal cave. On the plus side, the inmates remained relatively silent as Slyder and I passed cells and more cells, trying our best not to look anyone directly in the eye.

Thawyer and Harris were being held in Cell 13b in the high security section, perhaps due to their misbehavior. Camden always had been a bad neighborhood with a reputation of national renown, and there were more cells occupied in high security than low, so I guess that proved the point.

"Red," Thawyer hissed as we approached, slapping his dozing fellow on the arm to alert him.

"Good morning," I said jovially, leaning against the bars separating us from the crooks. With my peripheral vision, I thought I saw our escort guard shoot Slyder a look, but decided to ignore him. "Tell me, how's the jailbird life?"

"Oh, it rocks, man," Red scoffed, rolling over in his bunk to look at me. "They treat us like goddamn kings here."

"How's the leg, dude?" I asked coolly.

"How's the
face
, dipshit?" Thawyer snapped back, bringing his face as close to mine as the bars would allow. His breath reeked, and if I'd been a nicer man, I might have offered him a Tic–Tac from the tin in my breast pocket.

But Harris had forced himself to a sitting position and didn't need Thawyer to defend him. The tall man's face was pale, cheeks flushing fast with blotchy anger. "Lissen, pal," he said, visibly grinding his teeth. "I'm going to make sure you pay for this one. Cops ain't supposed to overstep their bounds."

I rubbed fingers over my eyes, forestalling the headache I already felt coming. "I don't need to explain myself to you. You'd just assaulted an officer and were on the run again. I had every right to shoot you."

To my right, Slyder grunted as he always did before he spoke. Obviously he wanted to discourage further discussion of the event in question. Besides, any good lawyer would immediately draw the distinction that I wasn't technically an officer of the law.

"We came to ask you fellas some questions," Slyder said conversationally. "If you don't mind, of course."

Thawyer was still staring me down, but his interrogative was directed at the Chief. "Is that all you cop–types do? Ask fucking questions?"

Slyder had pulled a notepad from his back pocket. He ignored Thawyer entirely. "Where were you staying prior to the Deptford Hotel?"

Past Thawyer, I saw Red arch an eyebrow. "You taking a survey?"

"I want an address," Slyder growled. His valiant stab at patience was already failing, but considering his character, I couldn't blame him.

"Pitman," Thawyer replied finally, picking at his fingernails. "That hotel off of Holly. Room twelve, first floor. You're not gonna find much there."

"Let
me
be the judge of that," I said pleasantly.

"Hey, fuck you," Thawyer said, obviously trying to goad me into anger.

I turned away from him to address the security guard. "We gotta get this one an appointment with the shrink," I said, jerking my thumb back at the criminal. "So much anger in him."