Holly has contributed nothing to the discussion so far, has just sat behind the wheel of her big boat of a car, arms crossed over her bosom, fingers tapping lightly at her shoulders. Now she turns to Hodges, who is sprawled in the backseat. ‘Did you ask Peter about the notebook?’
‘I never got a chance,’ Hodges says. Holly’s got a bee in her hat about that notebook, and he should have asked, just to satisfy her, but the truth is, it never even crossed his mind. ‘He decided to go, and boogied. Wouldn’t even take my card.’
Holly points to the school. ‘I think we should talk to Ricky the Hippie before we leave.’ And when neither of them replies: ‘Peter’s house will still be there, you know. It’s not going to fly away, or anything.’
‘Guess it wouldn’t hurt,’ Jerome says.
Hodges sighs. ‘And tell him what, exactly? That one of his students found or stole a stack of money and doled it out to his parents like a monthly allowance? The parents should find that out before some teacher who probably doesn’t know jack-shit about anything. And Pete should be the one to tell them. It’ll let his sister off the hook, for one thing.’
‘But if he’s in some kind of jam he doesn’t want them to know about, and he still wanted to talk to someone … you know, an adult …’ Jerome is four years older than he was when he helped Hodges with the Brady Hartsfield mess, old enough to vote and buy legal liquor, but still young enough to remember how it is to be seventeen and suddenly realize you’ve gotten in over your head with something. When that happens, you want to talk to somebody who’s been around the block a few times.
‘Jerome’s right,’ Holly says. She turns back to Hodges. ‘Let’s talk to the teacher and find out if Pete asked for advice about anything. If he asks why we want to know—’
‘Of course he’ll want to know why,’ Hodges says, ‘and I can’t exactly claim confidentiality. I’m not a lawyer.’
‘Or a priest,’ Jerome adds, not helpfully.
‘You can tell him we’re friends of the family,’ Holly says firmly. ‘And that’s true.’ She opens her door.
‘You have a hunch about this,’ Hodges says. ‘Am I right?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It’s a Holly-hunch. Now come on.’
25
As they are walking up the wide front steps and beneath the motto EDUCATION IS THE LAMP OF LIFE, the door of Andrew Halliday Rare Editions opens again and Pete Saubers steps inside. He starts down the main aisle, then stops, frowning. The man behind the desk isn’t Mr Halliday. He is in most ways the exact opposite of Mr Halliday, pale instead of florid (except for his lips, which are weirdly red), white-haired instead of bald, and thin instead of fat. Almost gaunt. Jesus. Pete expected his script to go out the window, but not this fast.
‘Where’s Mr Halliday? I had an appointment to see him.’
The stranger smiles. ‘Yes, of course, although he didn’t give me your name. He just said a young man. He’s waiting for you in his office at the back of the shop.’ This is actually true. In a way. ‘Just knock and go in.’
Pete relaxes a little. It makes sense that Halliday wouldn’t want to have such a crucial meeting out here, where anybody looking for a secondhand copy of To Kill a Mockingbird could walk in and interrupt them. He’s being careful, thinking ahead. If Pete doesn’t do the same, his slim chance of coming out of this okay will go out the window.
‘Thanks,’ he says, and walks between tall bookcases toward the back of the shop.
As soon as he goes by the desk, Morris rises and goes quickly and quietly to the front of the shop. He flips the sign in the door from OPEN to CLOSED.
Then he turns the bolt.
26
The secretary in the main office of Northfield High looks curiously at the trio of after-school visitors, but asks no questions. Perhaps she assumes they are family members come to plead the case of some failing student. Whatever they are, it’s Howie Ricker’s problem, not hers.
She checks a magnetic board covered with multicolored tags and says, ‘He should still be in his homeroom. That’s three-oh-nine, on the third floor, but please peek through the window and make sure he’s not with a student. He has conferences today until four, and with school ending in a couple of weeks, plenty of kids stop by to ask for help on their final papers. Or plead for extra time.’
Hodges thanks her and they go up the stairs, their heels echoing. From somewhere below, a quartet of musicians is playing ‘Greensleeves.’ From somewhere above, a hearty male voice cries jovially, ‘You suck, Malone!’
Room 309 is halfway down the third-floor corridor, and Mr Ricker, dressed in an eye-burning paisley shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the tie pulled down, is talking to a girl who is gesturing dramatically with her hands. Ricker glances up, sees he has visitors, then returns his attention to the girl.