The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (6 page)

A connection,
I thought, quickly scribbling the information down in my notebook.
Oh, goodie.

Slyder blew out a sigh. "Let's hope you can turn up some leads at his place."

"Of course," I said businesslike, ready to bid him adieu. But then it occurred to me to ask an important question, one that I had – until present – neglected. "How much am I getting paid for this by the way?"

"Miles agreed to pay the standard fee," Slyder replied evenly. "He seemed pretty bent out of shape when I told him your figures."

I arched an eyebrow.
Scarlotti gets paid at least three times what I do, but directly by the district.
I suppose my status as a private eye, separate from the local precinct, dictated that Miles personally foot my bill, which was something I hadn't thought of before. He'd probably been pissed too, considering he hadn't requested a PI: the police had made the decision for him.

With a shrug, I said: "Hey, I gotta eat too."

"We all do," Slyder returned. "What do you plan on doing now, Stikup?" Calculating, again.

"Oh, I don't know." I tucked the phone between my head and shoulder and turned to look back out the window again. "I was actually thinking about a nap and a doughnut. That's what you cops do, isn't it?"

This time, he chuckled, a sound I didn't recall ever hearing before. It was odd and somehow out of place – like laughing at a funeral or shouting in a library.

I grinned foolishly, like I'd just won the lottery.
Stikup: one, Sylder: nothing,
I thought. However, it hadn't been a real, full, belly laugh. It was good for a start, but I would have to keep trying if I wanted more impressive results.

"Make sure you check out Mendoza," he ordered unnecessarily. "I'll let you go."

I hung up feeling pleased. There was a good possibility that I would find enough information at 13 Jackson to bust the case wide open. And it hadn't even been a full day since the theft. Now, wouldn't
that
look good on the ol' résumé?

Of course it was fantastical thinking. But when have I ever been a realist?

Ten minutes later, I donned my coat and hat and headed out to the Anglia. Jill wished me good luck on her way in from fetching the mail. I started the car with trouble – something in the engine was dying from the sound of it – and headed off in the direction of number 13, Jackson Boulevard in Mantua Township.

It took me about twenty minutes to find the place, and by that time it was almost five. I hated to make Jill lock up the office on her own, but I didn't want to waste time that could be spent on the case. She would understand.

13 was a rancher: brick exterior, large bay window in the front, single car garage connected to the house itself. The front lawn wasn't all that big, but that eliminated the trouble of mowing, come spring and summer. In other words, it was my kind of property.

At first I thought that maybe no one was home since nearly all the lights were out inside. However, when I rang the doorbell, a mustached man dressed in a checkered shirt and blue jeans answered. He was taller than me – probably somewhere around 6'3' – and looked to be about twice my weight to boot. His facial hair was dark black like Captain Slyder's, and shot through with silver, but his other features were more akin to those of someone that I had seen somewhere before.

Hey, that's how it always is in the cop movies. Sounds more dramatic or something. Maybe I was just imagining it. Or maybe I had seen him in the deli downtown once or twice.

Clearing my throat, I addressed the man. "'Evening, Mr. Mendoza. My name's Stikup – Private Investigator." I held out my left lapel to direct his attention to the snoop's badge. "I'm here investigating a break–in in downtown Swedesboro which we think might possibly be related to the recent theft of your vehicle. So, I've got a few questions for you – if you don't mind."

"Ah." Mendoza opened the door wider to admit me. There was definitely reluctance in the action. "Thought you might be here to tell me you'd actually
found
my car. C'mon in."

After stamping the snow off of my feet on the welcome mat, I thanked him and stepped inside. The living room was neatly furnished and looked comfortable, but my host led me to the next room over instead. A fire crackled in the library fireplace, and a tall–backed chair had been drawn up in front of it. Brown shag carpeting extended through the room back into living room, but the hall adjacent to the sitting room was hardwood. The faint smell of leather lingered in the air, hanging over everything.

It was immediately apparent that Robert Mendoza was a hunter. Six or seven rifles stood in a display case against the far wall, and numerous deer heads were mounted on the library walls between bookshelves. The most magnificent of these was a 12–point buck's, which was mounted directly above the mantle. Its cold marble eyes followed me across the room.

"You like 'em?" Mendoza asked, noticing where I was looking.

I cleared my throat. "Er – yeah. Real…
um
… beauties."

Mendoza grinned and gestured for me to have a seat in the tall chair. He pulled up another chair for himself and sat down facing me.

"So, what's this all about?" he asked me once we were both seated. "The police were here yesterday to look around after I phoned in the robbery."

I leaned forward and rested my arms on my knees. "Well, as I told you, there was a break–in downtown. I came here for clues since the criminals that stole your car were also the ones that broke into this other house."

The man coughed loudly into a hand. "Goddamn thugs," he said in disgust, curling his upper lip. "Going on a crime spree are they?"

"I s'pose." I fished around in my trench coat pocket and drew out my notepad. "You probably already told the police this, but I need to know when your car was stolen."

"Two days ago," Mendoza replied without hesitation. "I did tell them. They wrote up a report."

"They haven't sent it to me yet," I said as I consulted the tiny calendar I'd drawn in the top right corner of my notebook. I'd scribbled one on every page, one for each month. That way I could keep track of events during the few cases I worked. Two days ago would place the theft on Sunday, November the 28th, approximately two weeks after Scarlotti Benson had been put out of commission.

I jotted down the date. "When did you first notice the car was missing?"

"I was home when it happened, Stikup. I heard them smash the driver's window. I got my gun and shot at 'em a couple times, but by the time I got there they had already hot–wired the car and were pulling out of the drive."

Ooh – a tough guy,
I thought. "Gave 'em what for, eh?"

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.