The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (32 page)

I'm like stuck in "pause", here. What should I be doing right now?

I figured a cup of coffee might help me remember. But then again, if I didn't want to think about it, a nice glass of scotch might help me forget.

Guess I'll decide on the way.

I briefly considered calling Jill – with no real reason in mind – but decided against it. Instead, I walked out the door and into the cold, the chest holster with the 9mm for security slung over my shoulder, placing the fedora atop my head.

I made my way downtown with ease, and 6:35 found me pulling the Anglia over to the curb behind a hippie van. It had begun flurrying, and I decided that the temperature had dropped at least four degrees since leaving my house. Not wanting to remain outside, I quickly climbed the front steps of the old, Victorian–style building and pushed through the double doors and into the entrance hall.

Donnie's was a decent enough place I decided as I entered the common room: the place was laid out in a comfortable enough fashion. As I entered, the bar was located to my immediate left, guarded every three or four feet by barstools. The room expanded outward to my right, decorated with plush chairs, a cabinet with a flat–screen TV, and several pool tables.

Kevin Slyder was seated at the third stool from where I stood, and he craned his neck to see who had entered. When he spotted me, he waved me over without really looking at me.

I came up next to him and removed my fedora. "Been waiting long?" I asked as I shrugged off my coat; it was really warm inside.

"Nah," he replied, leaning on the counter. "Just a few minutes. I assume you want a drink?"

"Assume makes an ass out of 'u' and me." I grunted as I hauled myself up onto the barstool. "Unfortunately, that's the problem that's plagued me my entire life. Yeah, I'll have a drink – but only if you're buying."

He laughed as I flagged down the bartender and ordered a cup of coffee with a shot of whiskey in it. It certainly wouldn't be as good as the Dick Tracy I got at Rita's, but it was still the best of both worlds: I wasn't in a mood to think (and coffee generally helped me think), but I also wasn't in the mood to forget what I
needed
to think about (which alcohol certainly would help me do). My hope was that I would remain in about the same state of mind, just slightly less alert.

Probably not the best idea,
I thought, simultaneously thanking the bartender as he set the steaming beverage before me. Getting a DUI would lower my rep a little, but that seemed unlikely. I'd proven able to hold my liquor in the past, and besides, I wasn't much of a drinking man, so a little now and again couldn't hurt me. Especially not now – now that I was at a complete loss for what to do.

A little danger might be good for me.

The trail had gone stone cold, hadn't it?

I groaned suddenly and rested my forehead on my fist. "All this time it seemed like we were making such great progress. I was positive we were going to wrap this up this evening. What the hell went wrong?"

Slyder heaved a sigh, posting his considerable elbows on the bartop. "Welcome back to police biz, Stikup. Better get used to the feeling – more often than not things end up like this one way or another. We'll still devote resources to it and everything, but 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 theft."

"Thanks for being so positive, Chief." I swilled the contents of my mug around, wondering bleakly whether or not I could find a motive and a suspect within the dark brown liquid. "I guess we're facing a long and drawn out case then, eh?"

"We'll try to be optimistic, but uh…
yeah
." Slyder took a good pull, then covered a burp with a thick fist. "So you up for some pool, or do you just want the nonsense out of my car?"

"Gee, I dunno, Kevin – 8 ball isn't exactly my lucky sport. 'Sides, I'm superstitious, so I don't want to risk angering the gods." I yawned and stretched. "Nah, I feel like hitting the hay when I get home, so I'll just take the crap off your hands and get outta your hair. How's that sound?"

He raised his glass in salute. "Like the best plan we have as of right now."

We finished our drinks in silence over the space of ten or twelve minutes. The unspoken rules of public drinking had always amused me – like how the person sitting next to you is obligated to listen to all your woes even if you've never met them before. Of course, the rule of silence dictates a no–talking relationship – until the grieving party so chooses to break the silence. And then there's the listener's obligation to purchase the griever's drinks, but with discretion – depending on sympathy and how badly he thinks the other is exaggerating. And that's always up for interpretation.

Who comes up with this stuff?
I wondered, downing the last of my Irish–style coffee.

Slyder got down from his seat first, left a twenty on the bartop – even though protested – and led me out the front door. We paused on the front porch, pulling our coats closed as we looked around in the darkness at the bleak stillness. The air was still biting cold, so I buttoned my coat up to my chin and thrust my hands deep into my pockets.

The single overhead lamp on the porch seemed to cast more shadows than light, dim as it was. The pale yellow glow from a nearby streetlamp shone on the walkway and spilled onto the white lawn. Snow dusted everything, and most surfaces were crusty with ice and rocksalt. Nothing moved – no cars in the badly plowed street, no people on the sidewalks.

Slyder lit a cigarette, and when he inhaled, the end of the butt glowed orange in the darkness. Being as our breath came out in mists already, I couldn't actually tell he was smoking – save for the smell. A long pause kept us silent and thoughtful, gazing out at the night.

Finally, he turned and clapped me on the shoulder. "For all your bravado, you're really a good man, Stikup. I'm honestly glad to be working with you."

It was the alcohol affecting him – it had to be. I made a face and batted my eyelashes. "Aw, gosh, Chief – you're making me blush."

Slyder spat on the porch, embarrassed and disgruntled. "You've got something wise to say about everything, don't you? You should learn how to take a fucking compliment."

He sounded a little pissed, and I instantly regretted my comment. No one likes a smart–ass, after all. Another decidedly more awkward moment of silence passed, and then I sighed. "Apologies," I allowed, reluctant but honest. "I do appreciate it, Kevin – I really do."

Gruffly, he snorted a cloud of steam and smoke, then led the way down the steps. We hooked a right and walked the treacherous sidewalk to his squad car. I waited, shivering on the ice while he walked around to the driver's side and leaned inside. He produced a plastic Acme bag, weighed down with unseen items, then climbed back up onto the sidewalk to hand me the parcel.

"All yours," he said, removing his cigarette from his mouth. "Pretty much all we've got."

"Hardly professional," I said, holding up the shopping bag. Everything inside, however, was contained in police bags and properly organized. "I don't know what I'm gonna get out of all this, but I'll do my best."

"That's all I ask." Slyder jammed the cigarette back between his teeth, then turned and walked back out into the street. "Call me if you get anything," he said, pausing beside the driver's door.

"Of course," I said with a nod. "Thanks for the drink."

"Cheers," he replied.

I watched him climb in and pull away from the curb. "You're gonna get cancer if you don't stop smoking those things, you know!" I called after the car as it roared away, but he obviously hadn't heard me, and I was left alone in the night.

The empty street remained still and dark, the frigid breeze the only thing stirring the silence. I tucked the heavy bag beneath my arm, then turned and trudged back to the Anglia, longing for my bed and pillow, but knowing that a sleepless night awaited me instead.

*  *  *

I arrived back at my house at two minutes past eight, sincerely grateful that the temperature hadn't dropped any further since I'd departed from Donnie's.

Safely in my study (AKA, the bedroom), I turned the Acme bag upside–down over the writing desk and spread out its contents. In preparation for the thinking process, I poured a glass of cider, donned an old pair of flannel pajama pants and a bathrobe, and washed my face so I would be alert. I was as prepared as anyone in my undesirable predicament could hope to be.

Slyder hadn't exaggerated. The license plate and the note found in Thawyer's bedside table were the only hard pieces of evidence we had. Aside from that, there were three folders – one on each crook – and several thick packets of police photographs, including shots of the body of Ruby Daniels, the crime scenes themselves, the alley where I had cornered Harris and Thawyer, the hotel room in Pitman and the one in Deptford where they'd stayed for all of an hour, witnesses, Rick Miles and his wife, mug shots, and even the getaway vehicle, which had been photographed from the cop car that had pursued it and later from the interior when Slyder and I had torn the Sedan apart.

Slyder had kept the guns at the station. I supposed that CSI had already dusted and cleaned them, and I didn't need the extra crap to carry around.

That or he just forgot them.

I put my hands on my hips, looking down at all the shit on my desk. It certainly wouldn't hurt to look over these random trinkets, yet that negative little voice inside my skull kept insisting that it would just be a waste of time. And time was everything, of course: I had plenty of it to work with, yet not enough with which to solve the case.

On the way home from Donnie's, I had detoured over to the office and picked up all the stuff Jill had filed for me on the case as well as snippets of things I'd gleaned personally during the investigation. It was a pitiful folder of random scraps of paper, a few newspaper clippings and the address book from Thawyer's house, information from the coroner and Slyder, the King James Bible I had found at the hotel, and the receipts from the Shootin' Shack.

The office had been sad and lonely, dark and cold. I'd briefly considered just turning on some lights and spending the night there, but found that all I could think about was Jill, so I'd locked the place up again and headed home. I was sure I could just as well be distracted by thoughts of my secretary at home, but figured that it was warmer there anyway.

Okay, great start, cowboy. You're distracted already.
I took a swig of cider and turned away from the desk, gathering the bathrobe more tightly around my body.
Get focused,
I ordered myself sternly.
No one's here to disturb you, so just get thinking. You think a lot when you
don't
have to, so come on now! Get with the program.

However strangely, I always found that I did my best thinking by talking to myself, so I began going over everything verbally. I knew it would certainly help to make some coffee, but I refused to let myself get distracted again. Besides, I was hoping to get to bed at a decent hour, and the caffeine would defeat that purpose.

The first thing I did was clear the bulletin board (hanging by the window) of calendars, postcards, and other random papers and instead applied selected photographs to the board's surface with thumbtacks. That way I could keep the relevant images at hand while leaving the rest in the bag, the better to keep my thoughts organized. I did my best to arrange them in chronological order, but I was only running on memory and the dates and times I had recorded for myself. I stood in front of the board for a good amount of time, gazing at the selected photos and telling myself that I was getting nowhere.

I licked my lips as I turned and paced the floor, arms crossed over my chest. "There's nothing new here. Everything was dusted, so there's no chance of missed fingerprints. The photographs are only helping me remember, not discover, and there are no hidden clues in that note Slyder found."

I laughed aloud and posted my hands on my hips. "This, my friend, is called a dead end. There's nothing you can do about it – it's not your fault. What you need to do is back up and get out of the alley. You need to get some more suspects because you can already eliminate the ones you've got, and there weren't many to begin with."

I drained the cider, then seated myself on the bed, cradling the empty glass in my hands.

There had to be something here that would link the crooks we'd already nabbed with the unknown employer – and the supposed
other
group of cronies. I had the distinct sense that the missing link was right there in front of me – I just didn't know
what
that something was. Or where.

If only it was as easy as it is in the movies.
I grimaced, shaking my head in frustration.
I might actually get a happy ending.

Well, this was where the rabbit trail ended. There was no way around it, that was for damn sure.

I stood in a rush, slammed the empty glass down on the desktop, and then stalked out of the bedroom, heading for the bathroom. There was nothing more to do but splash water on my face and go to bed. I tended to do some pretty good thinking as I was falling asleep, but I wasn't really counting on it. Besides, whatever the outcome, I would feel much better in the morning, and maybe some fresh ideas would come to me over coffee and oatmeal.