The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (28 page)

On paper, the words might have sounded insensitive, yet in person, her harsh tone was revealing. There was very real pain behind the words, but whether it was for her husband or herself wasn't immediately clear. The fact that she could put health and happiness on the line for a weasel like Fin spoke of her commitment as a wife, although I wouldn't have gone so far as to say she
loved
him.

Slyder offered a weak chuckle to break the silence. "She'd make a good sleuth, eh, Stikup?"

I tried to force a grin but got a grimace instead. I nodded at Thawyer, attempting to apologize non–verbally for Slyder's god–awful levity. "Mrs. Thawyer, if you wouldn't mind? We don't want to waste anymore of your time."

Patricia lit a cigarette and stuck it between her teeth. She blew the smoke out of her nose and nodded. "Go ahead," she said with her eyes closed. "Take as long as you need."

I nodded my thanks and gestured for Slyder to go first.

The house was bigger on the inside than it had appeared from the exterior, although only slightly, and my first impression of its filthiness held true. The kitchen seemed to be the largest square room in the house, although with the odd assortments of junk everywhere, covering everything, it still managed to feel cramped. Slyder and I made quick work of that area, and then he checked the tiny bathroom and the back porch while I poked around in the sitting room. It was awkward working beneath Patricia Thawyer's scrutiny, although the distant look in her eyes told me that – for all intents and purposes – she didn't even see me there.

The Chief and I rendezvoused several minutes later, both empty–handed. I could at least offer a detailed description of the old records I'd found stacked beside the dusty turntable in the sitting room; the only thing he'd found was a bike rusting in the snow.

We headed for the master bedroom.

The narrow hallway walls were covered with newspaper clippings and photographs, all stuck on with thumbtacks and masking tape. A grimy window on the opposite wall admitted a minimum of light for viewing these. I pointed out a few of the clippings to Slyder. All of them seemed to touch the topic of criminal activity, involving either Finigan Thawyer himself or another man named Bradley Thawyer. From the looks of this man – pictured in several grainy snapshots as tall and gaunt with shaggy hair – I figured that he could only be Finigan's father. The younger Thawyer, like his companion, Harris, seemed proud of the heritage his family had passed on.

I suppose he just gets off on the romance of thievery, although there's a hell of a difference between today's crooks and Robin Hood.

"Nobility is dead," I muttered. With a shake of my head, I brushed past Slyder and into the antechamber.

The master bedroom – if it could be called that – was in a state of disarray. The bed had been stripped of sheets – these were wound into a tight ball atop of the stained and torn mattress – and the carpets were worn through. Heavy curtains had been drawn over each of the two windows on either side of the bed, casting the room into perpetual shadow. The big mirror that hung on the back of the door was cracked and spotted to such an extent so that all I could see of myself was an indistinguishable blob.

Slyder hit the lightswitch, and the single bulb in the overhead fan flickered on. The light cast was insufficient to illuminate the room, so I crossed the room – tripping over clothes and piles of papers – and raised the curtains to cast some light on the situation.

"Well, let's get to work," Slyder said wearily. He grimaced as he surveyed the piles of clothes, stacks of books, and randomly assorted papers. "I suppose we could get CSI over here if we can't find anything. I'd just prefer not to make this an ordeal."

It sounded like he was shifting responsibility to avoid a headache, but Slyder was right, and he knew his job. After all, the Thawyer homestead wasn't a crime scene per se, and we didn't need a team to do something the two of us could do just as well ourselves.

"Righto, Chief." I rubbed my hands together eagerly for Slyder's benefit, then immediately pulled on a pair of gloves. While the Chief stood in the middle of the room, deciding where to begin, I started pulling the drawers out of the big bureau.

Dust and significant spider webs suggested that no one had opened the drawers for a long time. Boxers, t–shirts, and other assorted garments were the only things in the top drawer, the same with the second, save for the addition of several articles of women's underwear. The bottom drawer, however, was where things got interesting. I found several half–empty packs of cigarettes, a few crumpled 100–dollar bills, and a baggie of green…
stuff
buried beneath a mound of torn and sweat–stained t–shirts.

I straightened and said aloud: "Marijuana."

Slyder looked up from his current search through a stack of books and I tossed the Ziploc to him. He caught it deftly and held it up to the miserable excuse for a light bulb for observation.

I crossed arms over my chest watching his reaction. "So, now defense will argue drug influence in order to get Thawyer a lighter sentence. And Harris too, probably."

Slyder sent me a disgusted look, which told me he was thinking along the same lines. "It'll most definitely be mentioned, although this isn't really a strong enough drug to really push that bill. If we find harder stuff, then definitely. Possession is enough to land them a prison term anyway, so I'm not sure how much leeway it'll give them."

I dropped my voice as I spoke next. "Do you think
Mrs
. Thawyer has been taking some of this? I mean, that was Marlboro she was smoking now, but…" But she hadn't looked good, and habitual druggies are easily noticed by their failing health.

Or, like Jimi – God rest his soul – they're found dead in their apartments.

Slyder shrugged but seemed curious. "I suppose it's possible she's pushing heroin between her toes… Shit,
any
thing's possible. To be frank, though, I'd much rather we find something to pin on Finigan than her, but I guess we'll take what we can get."

It would be a shame to put Patricia away too, but possession of anydrug – even one as "harmless" as Mary Jane – is serious business. I nodded grimly, then directed my attention back to the search.

The drawers yielded nothing else out of the ordinary. More clothes, some spare change, more cigarettes, bits of jewelry, and odd assortments of
junk
. I'd struck gold early; but maybe it had been too easy.

I turned my attentions to the rest of the room.

The television sitting on the bookshelf was coated with dust and one of the two rabbit ears was bent nearly in half. As for the bookcase itself, books and magazines had been wedged onto it in all varieties of angles so the maximum amount of space was utilized.

I got down on my knees and began pulling these off, but found out the hard way that if the wrong book was removed, the entire stack would come tumbling down.

Jenga, anyone?

Slyder's ears perked up at the sound of tumbling debris. "Everything okay over there, Stikup?"

"Situation under control." I stuffed the books haphazardly back onto the shelf, then stood and instead headed for the closet.

The musty smell that wafted from the cramped confines of the wardrobe was almost enough to drive me away. Cobwebs barred my entrance to the tomb–like edifice, wispy strands clinging to every available surface. I sliced through the silk curtain with my left hand and began pulling out cardboard boxes: these were stacked from floor to ceiling. I set the box on the floor, swiped away a rather large and hairy spider, and pulled open the flaps. The contents were old photographs and more newspaper clippings.

I sighed as I shoved that box aside. The dearth of any potential evidence had me frustrated, but I forced myself to keep searching. While Slyder began pulling shoes out from beneath the queen–sized bed, I emptied the closet of boxes. My search culminated in my finding nothing more interesting than a potentially valuable stamp attached to a yellowed envelope.

Nothing there. Nothing useful, at any rate.

If I were a thief, where would I hide the important stuff?Aside from on my person or in a graveyard.

I stacked the boxes back in the closet, then forced the door closed again before everything could come crashing down on my the meantime, Slyder had begun an investigation of one of the two bedside tables. He had taken the top drawer out and set it down on his lap. So far, all he had was a set of screwdrivers, a pair of eyeglasses, and a comb – all of which were spread out on the bed for him to see.

I seated myself on the opposite side of the bed and pulled the answering–machine toward me. I hit the playback button and listened to a few random messages – one from someone who sounded distinctly like Red Harris about what time they were going to meet – but found no useful information aside from what time Thawyer's wife had wanted him to pick her up from the grocery store. The date of Harris' call was November 26th – two days before Mendoza's car had been stolen.

I narrowed my eyes, thinking back to the notes I'd kept.
Things must have already been in motion at that point, although Fin and Red insist they had nothing to do with the car theft.
Of course, I didn't place much stock in the convict's testimony, even if it had been off the record. But I was still mulling over the possibility in my mind because even though I didn't have a reason to believe Thawyer, I didn't have a reason
not
to either.

I replaced the answering machine and instead began pulling apart the nightstand. I went through several old letters, found another pack of cigarettes, several slivers of broken glass, a couple double–A batteries, and a notebook full of addresses and phone numbers. All junk, of course – another man's treasures.

I was almost amused to find myself growing increasingly more disappointed. Contrary to what I'd expected, it seemed that the Thawyers lived fairly normal lives. There wasn't even a journal with incriminating entries like "I Robbed the Bank Today", or "I Killed Some Lady on the Street Just for the Hell of it". Their family was dysfunctional, but hell – whose family wasn't in the 1990's? Thawyer might have been scum, but it was apparent that he'd at least made an attempt at a normal life for his wife (who might well have been named Penelope) and child.

"Stikup. Come look at this."

I dropped the notebook I'd been perusing and crawled across the bed to Slyder's side. He handed me a piece of lined paper that had been crumpled and shoved into the back of the drawer. I took it from him and laid it on the bed, carefully smoothing out the creases with my gloved hands.

*  *  *

This will help you get around. Don't worry about beating it up.

*  *  *

Without waiting for me to say anything, the SPD chief reached out and turned the note over for me. I was left looking down at the blank side of the lined paper, which would have been inconsequential if it hadn't been for the flakes of rusty paint clinging there.

I quickly dug in my pocket for a pair of forceps, then used them to carefully pick up a scrap of paint and turn it over. Slyder leaned in closer to see, still holding the note steady for me to probe. The backside of the paint flake was a dark blue–gray, possibly indicative of an older weather–resistant paint primarily found on vehicles made in the 70's and 80's.

I sucked on my lower lip, which was still healing. "The boss left Mendoza's car at the cannery for his goons to pick up – without meeting them in person – so he left this note beneath the wipers."

Slyder grinned triumphantly. "My thoughts exactly. I'm willing to bet that there are fingerprints all over this sucker. Let's take it back the station and get CSI to have a look at it. They can dust it and determine whether or not the flakes really came from the same car."

"Do you want to finish checking the place now, or wait and see if it's necessary?" I asked.

He checked his watch, although his mannerisms suggested that he'd already made up his mind. "The way I figure, Stikup, is we take this in now and pray to the Big Guy upstairs that we get something from it. If we don't, we'll send a team back and move from there. Sound good to you?"

I shrugged. "You're driving."

Slyder carefully placed the note in a plastic baggy – being cautious not to drop any of the paint flakes. I packed the phone–notebook from the other drawer and the tape from the answering machine in much the same fashion – just in case. We cleaned up after ourselves as quickly as we could, then headed back down the hall to the living room where we'd left Thawyer's wife.

Patricia was sitting in the same chair we had left her in, but now there was a young boy seated on her lap. I immediately saw the resemblance to his father – the short brown hair, the dark eyes, the pinched facial features. He looked to be no older than six.

Both of them looked up at us as we entered, the expressions on their faces revealing more curiosity than anything. Neither spoke as we came to stand before them. Thawyer's wife blew a cloud of smoke into the air and watched us with curiosity. The boy lay back against her, resting his head on her left breast, and eyed us apprehensively.

Slyder cleared his throat. "Ah, we've concluded our search, Ma'am. I think we've found what we were looking for." He produced the bag of weed I'd found, almost reluctantly. "Detective Stikup found this in a drawer. Do you know anything about this?"