Holly rolls her eyes. Jerome turns to Hodges, who sighs and nods. ‘She’s right. There’s room. I’ll pay your fucking fine.’
Jerome swings right. The Mercedes clips the fender of the car stopped ahead of them, then bumps up onto the sidewalk. Here comes the first mailbox. Jerome swings even farther to the right, now entirely off the street. There’s a thud as the driver’s side knocks the mailbox off its post, then a drawn-out squall as the passenger side caresses the chainlink fence. A woman in shorts and a halter top is mowing her lawn. She shouts at them as the passenger side of Holly’s German U-boat peels away a sign reading NO TRESPASSING NO SOLICITING NO DOOR TO DOOR SALESMEN. She rushes for her driveway, still shouting. Then she just peers, shading her eyes and squinting. Hodges can see her lips moving.
‘Oh, goody,’ Jerome says. ‘She’s getting your plate number.’
‘Just drive,’ Holly says. ‘Drive drive drive.’ And with no pause: ‘Red Lips is Morris Bellamy. That’s his name.’
It’s the flagger yelling at them now. The construction workers, who have been uncovering a sewer pipe running beneath the street, are staring. Some are laughing. One of them winks at Jerome and makes a bottle-tipping gesture. Then they are past. The Mercedes thumps back down to the street. With traffic bound for the North Side bottlenecked behind them, the street ahead is blessedly empty.
‘I checked the city tax records,’ Holly says. ‘At the time John Rothstein was murdered in 1978, the taxes on 23 Sycamore Street were being paid by Anita Elaine Bellamy. I did a Google search for her name and came up with over fifty hits, she’s sort of a famous academic, but only one hit that matters. Her son was tried and convicted of aggravated rape late that same year. Right here in the city. He got a life sentence. There’s a picture of him in one of the news stories. Look.’ She hands the iPad to Hodges.
Morris Bellamy has been snapped coming down the steps of a courthouse Hodges remembers well, although it was replaced by the concrete monstrosity in Government Square fifteen years ago. Bellamy is flanked by a pair of detectives. Hodges recalls one of them, Paul Emerson. Good police, long retired. He’s wearing a suit. So is the other detective, but that one has draped his coat over Bellamy’s hands to hide the handcuffs he’s wearing. Bellamy is also in a suit, which means the picture was taken either while the trial was ongoing, or just after the verdict was rendered. It’s a black-and-white photo, which only makes the contrast between Bellamy’s pale complexion and dark mouth more striking. He almost looks like he’s wearing lipstick.
‘That’s got to be him,’ Holly says. ‘If you call the state prison, I’ll bet you six thousand bucks that he’s out.’
‘No bet,’ Hodges says. ‘How long to Sycamore Street, Jerome?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Firm or optimistic?’
Reluctantly, Jerome replies, ‘Well … maybe a tad optimistic.’
‘Just do the best you can and try not to run anybody ov—’
Hodge’s cell rings. It’s Pete. He sounds out of breath.
‘Have you called the police, Mr Hodges?’
‘No.’ Although they’ll probably have the license plate of Holly’s car by now, but he sees no reason to tell Pete that. The boy sounds more upset than ever. Almost crazed.
‘You can’t. No matter what. He’s got my sister. He says if he doesn’t get the notebooks, he’ll kill her. I’m going to give them to him.’
‘Pete, don’t—’
But he’s talking to no one. Pete has broken the connection.
46
Morris hustles Tina along the path. At one point a jutting branch rips her filmy blouse and scratches her arm, bringing blood.
‘Don’t make me go so fast, mister! I’ll fall down!’
Morris whacks the back of her head above her ponytail. ‘Save your breath, bitch. Just be grateful I’m not making you run.’
He holds onto her shoulders as they cross the stream, balancing her so she won’t fall in, and when they reach the point where the scrub brush and stunted trees give way to the Rec property, he tells her to stop.
The baseball field is deserted, but a few boys are on the cracked asphalt of the basketball court. They’re stripped to the waist, their shoulders gleaming. The day is really too hot for outside games, which is why Morris supposes there are only a few of them.
He unties Tina’s hands. She gives a little whimper of relief and starts rubbing her wrists, which are crisscrossed with deep red grooves.
‘We’re going to walk along the edge of the trees,’ he tells her. ‘The only time those boys will be able to get a good look at us is when we get near the building and come out of the shade. If they say hello, or if there’s someone you know, just wave and smile and keep walking. Do you understand?’
‘Y-Yes.’
‘If you scream or yell for help, I’ll put a bullet in your head. Do you understand that?’