‘Well, you know what? He knows you. As James Mallon rather than Oliver Madden, but when I faxed him a photo six-pack, he had no trouble circling you.’
Madden’s face is entirely expressionless now, and Hodges sees he’s not handsome at all. Or ugly, for that matter. He’s nobody, extra tall or not, and that’s how he’s gotten by as long as he has, pulling one scam after another, taking in even a wily old coyote like Dwight Cramm. He’s nobody, and that makes Hodges think of Brady Hartsfield, who almost blew up an auditorium filled with kids not so long ago. A chill goes up his back.
‘Are you police?’ Madden asks. He looks Hodges up and down. ‘I don’t think so, you’re too old. But if you are, let me see your ID.’
Hodges repeats what he told the guy in the coverall: ‘Not exactly police, but in the neighborhood.’
‘Then good luck to you, Mr In The Neighborhood. I’ve got appointments, and I’m running a bit late.’
He starts toward the Navigator, not running but moving fast.
‘You were actually tight on time,’ Hodges says amiably, falling in step. Keeping up with him would have been hard after his retirement from the police. Back then he was living on Slim Jims and taco chips, and would have been wheezing after the first dozen steps. Now he does three miles a day, either walking or on the treadmill.
‘Leave me alone,’ Madden says, ‘or I’ll call the real police.’
‘Just a few words,’ Hodges says, thinking, Damn, I sound like a Jehovah’s Witness. Madden is rounding the Navigator’s rear end. His overnight bag swings back and forth like a pendulum.
‘No words,’ Madden says. ‘You’re a nut.’
‘You know what they say,’ Hodges replies as Madden reaches for the driver’s-side door. ‘Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t.’
Madden opens the door. This is really working out well, Hodges thinks as he pulls his Happy Slapper from his coat pocket. The Slapper is a knotted sock. Below the knot, the sock’s foot is loaded with ball bearings. Hodges swings it, connecting with Oliver Madden’s left temple. It’s a Goldilocks blow, not too hard, not too soft, just right.
Madden staggers and drops his briefcase. His knees bend but don’t quite buckle. Hodges seizes him above the elbow in the strong come-along grip he perfected as a member of this city’s MPD and helps Madden into the driver’s seat of the Navigator. The man’s eyes have the floaty look of a fighter who’s been tagged hard and can only hope for the round to end before his opponent follows up and puts him down for good.
‘Upsa-daisy,’ Hodges says, and when Madden’s ass is on the leather upholstery of the bucket seat, he bends and lifts in the trailing left leg. He takes his handcuffs from the left pocket of his sportcoat and has Madden tethered to the steering wheel in a trice. The Navigator’s keys, on a big yellow Hertz fob, are in one of the cupholders. Hodges takes them, slams the driver’s door, grabs the fallen briefcase, and walks briskly around to the passenger side. Before getting in, he tosses the keys onto the grass verge near the sign reading LOADING AND UNLOADING ONLY. A good idea, because Madden has recovered enough to be punching the SUV’s start button over and over again. Each time he does it, the dashboard flashes KEY NOT DETECTED.
Hodges slams the passenger door and regards Madden cheerfully. ‘Here we are, Oliver. Snug as two bugs in a rug.’
‘You can’t do this,’ Madden says. He sounds pretty good for a man who should still have cartoon birdies flying in circles around his head. ‘You assaulted me. I can press charges. Where’s my briefcase?’
Hodges holds it up. ‘Safe and sound. I picked it up for you.’
Madden reaches with his uncuffed hand. ‘Give it to me.’
Hodges puts it in the footwell and steps on it. ‘For the time being, it’s in protective custody.’
‘What do you want, asshole?’ The growl is in stark contrast to the expensive suit and haircut.
‘Come on, Oliver, I didn’t hit you that hard. The plane. Cramm’s plane.’
‘He sold it to me. I have a bill of sale.’
‘As James Mallon.’
‘That’s my name. I had it changed legally four years ago.’
‘Oliver, you and legal aren’t even kissing cousins. But that’s beside the point. Your check bounced higher than Iowa corn in August.’
‘That’s impossible.’ He yanks his cuffed wrist. ‘Get this off me!’
‘We can discuss the cuff after we discuss the check. Man, that was slick. First of Reno is a real bank, and when Cramm called to verify your check, the Caller ID said First of Reno was what he was calling. He got the usual automated answering service, welcome to First of Reno where the customer is king, blah-de-blah, and when he pushed the right number, he got somebody claiming to be an accounts manager. I’m thinking that was your brother-in-law, Peter Jamieson, who was arrested early this morning in Fields, Virginia.’