19
The deathcar had been transported to Police Impound on a carrier, still locked. Hodges and Huntley received this update when they got back to their own car. The head mechanic from Ross Mercedes had just arrived, and was pretty sure he could unlock the damn thing. Eventually.
“Tell him not to bother,” Hodges said. “We’ve got her key.”
There was a pause at the other end, and then Lieutenant Morrissey said, “You do? You’re not saying she—”
“No, no, nothing like that. Is the mechanic standing by, Lieutenant?”
“He’s in the yard, looking at the damage to the car. Damn near tears, is what I heard.”
“He might want to save a drop or two for the dead people,” Pete said. He was driving. The windshield wipers beat back and forth. The rain was coming harder. “Just sayin.”
“Tell him to get in touch with the dealership and check something,” Hodges said. “Then have him call me on my cell.”
The traffic was snarled downtown, partly because of the rain, partly because Marlborough Street had been blocked off at City Center. They had made only four blocks when Hodges’s cell rang. It was Howard McGrory, the mechanic.
“Did you have someone at the dealership check on what I was curious about?” Hodges asked him.
“No need,” McGrory said. “I’ve worked at Ross since 1987. Must have seen a thousand Mercs go out the door since then, and I can tell you they all go out with two keys.”
“Thanks,” Hodges said. “We’ll be there soon. Got some more questions for you.”
“I’ll be here. This is terrible. Terrible.”
Hodges ended the call and passed on what McGrory had said.
“Are you surprised?” Pete asked. Ahead was an orange DETOUR sign that would vector them around City Center . . . unless they wanted to light their blues, that was, and neither did. What they needed now was to talk.
“Nope,” Hodges said. “It’s standard operating procedure. Like the Brits say, an heir and a spare. They give you two keys when you buy your new car—”
“—and tell you to put one in a safe place, so you can lay hands on it if you lose the one you carry around. Some people, if they need the spare a year or two later, they’ve forgotten where they put it. Women who carry big purses—like that suitcase the Trelawney woman had—are apt to dump both keys into it and forget all about the extra one. If she’s telling the truth about not putting it on a fob, she was probably using them interchangeably.”
“Yeah,” Hodges said. “She gets to her mother’s, she’s preoccupied with the thought of spending another night dealing with Mom’s pain, she’s juggling the boxes and her purse . . .”
“And left the key in the ignition. She doesn’t want to admit it—not to us and not to herself—but that’s what she did.”
“Although the warning chime . . .” Hodges said doubtfully.
“Maybe a big noisy truck was going by as she was getting out and she didn’t hear the chime. Or a police car, winding its siren. Or maybe she was just so deep in her own thoughts she ignored it.”
It made sense then and even more later when McGrory told them the deathcar hadn’t been jimmied to gain entry or hotwired to start. What troubled Hodges—the only thing that troubled him, really—was how much he wanted it to make sense. Neither of them had liked Mrs. Trelawney, she of the boatneck tops, perfectly plucked brows, and squeaky widder-titter. Mrs. Trelawney who hadn’t asked for any news of the dead and injured, not so much as a single detail. She wasn’t the doer—no way was she—but it would be good to stick her with some of the blame. Give her something to think about besides veggie dinners from B’hai.
“Don’t complicate what’s simple,” his partner repeated. The traffic snarl had cleared and he put the pedal down. “She was given two keys. She claims she only had one. And now it’s the truth. The bastard who killed those people probably threw the one she left in the ignition down a handy sewer when he walked away. The one she showed us was the spare.”
That had to be the answer. When you heard hoofbeats, you didn’t think zebras.
20
Someone is shaking him gently, the way you shake a heavy sleeper. And, Hodges realizes, he almost has been asleep. Or hypnotized by recollection.
It’s Elaine, the DeMasio’s hostess, and she’s looking at him with concern. “Detective Hodges? Are you all right?”
“Fine. But it’s just Mr. Hodges now, Elaine. I’m retired.”
He sees concern in her eyes, and something more. Something worse. He’s the only patron left in the restaurant. He observes the waiters clustered around the doorway to the kitchen, and suddenly sees himself as they and Elaine must be seeing him, an old fellow who’s been sitting here long after his dining companion (and everyone else) has left. An old overweight fellow who sucked the last of his cake off his fork like a child sucking a lollipop and then just stared out the window.
They’re wondering if I’m riding into the Kingdom of Dementia on the Alzheimer’s Express, he thinks.
He smiles at Elaine—his number one, wide and charming. “Pete and I were talking about old cases. I was thinking about one. Kind of replaying it. Sorry. I’ll clear out now.”
But when he gets up he staggers and bumps the table, knocking over the half-empty water glass. Elaine grabs his shoulder to steady him, looking more concerned than ever.
“Detective . . . Mr. Hodges, are you okay to drive?”
“Sure,” he says, too heartily. Pins and needles are doing windsprints from his ankles to his crotch and then back down to his ankles again. “Just had two glasses of beer. Pete drank the rest. My legs went to sleep, that’s all.”
“Oh. Are you better now?”
“Fine,” he says, and his legs really are better. Thank God. He remembers reading somewhere that older men, especially older overweight men, should not sit too long. A blood clot can form behind the knee. You get up, the released clot does its own lethal windsprint up to the heart, and it’s angel, angel, down we go.
She walks with him to the door. Hodges finds himself thinking of the private nurse whose job it was to watch over Mrs. T.’s mother. What was her name? Harris? No, Harris was the housekeeper. The nurse was Greene. When Mrs. Wharton wanted to go into the living room, or visit the jakes, did Mrs. Greene escort her the way Elaine is escorting him now? Of course she did.
“Elaine, I’m fine,” he says. “Really. Sober mind. Body in balance.” He holds his arms out to demonstrate.
“All right,” she says. “Come see us again, and next time don’t wait so long.”
“It’s a promise.”
He looks at his watch as he pushes out into the bright sunshine. Past two. He’s missing his afternoon shows, and doesn’t mind a bit. The lady judge and the Nazi psychologist can go f*ck themselves. Or each other.
21
He walks slowly into the parking lot, where the only cars left, other than his, likely belong to the restaurant staff. He takes his keys out and jingles them on his palm. Unlike Mrs. T.’s, the key to his Toyota is on a ring. And yes, there’s a fob—a rectangle of plastic with a picture of his daughter beneath. Allie at seventeen, smiling and wearing her City High lacrosse uni.
In the matter of the Mercedes key, Mrs. Trelawney never recanted. Through all the interviews, she continued to insist she’d only ever had the one. Even after Pete Huntley showed her the invoice, with PRIMARY KEYS (2) on the list of items that went with her new car when she took possession back in 2004, she continued to insist. She said the invoice was mistaken. Hodges remembers the iron certainty in her voice.
Pete would say that she copped to it in the end. There was no need of a note; suicide is a confession by its very nature. Her wall of denial finally crumbled. Like when the guy who hit and ran finally gets it off his chest. Yes, okay, it was a kid, not a dog. It was a kid and I was looking at my cell phone to see whose call I missed and I killed him.
Hodges remembers how their subsequent interviews with Mrs. T. had produced a weird kind of amplifying effect. The more she denied, the more they disliked. Not just Hodges and Huntley but the whole squad. And the more they disliked, the more stridently she denied. Because she knew how they felt. Oh yes. She was self-involved, but not stu—
Hodges stops, one hand on the sun-warmed doorhandle of his car, the other shading his eyes. He’s looking into the shadows beneath the turnpike overpass. It’s almost mid-afternoon, and the denizens of Lowtown have begun to rise from their crypts. Four of them are in those shadows. Three big ’uns and one little ’un. The big ’uns appear to be pushing the little ’un around. The little ’un is wearing a pack, and as Hodges watches, one of the big ’uns rips it from his back. This provokes a burst of troll-like laughter.
Hodges strolls down the broken sidewalk to the overpass. He doesn’t think about it and he doesn’t hurry. He stuffs his hands in his sportcoat pockets. Cars and trucks drone by on the turnpike extension, projecting their shapes on the street below in a series of shadow-shutters. He hears one of the trolls asking the little kid how much money he’s got.
“Ain’t got none,” the little kid says. “Lea me lone.”
“Turn out your pockets and we see,” Troll Two says.
The kid tries to run instead. Troll Three wraps his arms around the kid’s skinny chest from behind. Troll One grabs at the kid’s pockets and squeezes. “Yo, yo, I hear foldin money,” he says, and the little kid’s face squinches up in an effort not to cry.
“My brother finds out who you are, he bust a cap on y’asses,” he says.
“That’s a terrifyin idea,” Troll One says. “Just about make me want to pee my—”
Then he sees Hodges, ambling into the shadows to join them with his belly leading the way. His hands deep in the pockets of his old shapeless houndstooth check, the one with the patches on the elbows, the one he can’t bear to give up even though he knows it’s shot to shit.
“Whatchoo want?” Troll Three asks. He’s still hugging the kid from behind.
Hodges considers trying a John Wayne drawl, and decides not to. The only Wayne these scuzzbags would know is L’il. “I want you to leave the little man alone,” he says. “Get out of here. Right now.”
Troll One lets go of the little ’un’s pockets. He is wearing a hoodie and the obligatory Yankees cap. He puts his hands on his slim hips and cocks his head to one side, looking amused. “F*ck off, fatty.”
Hodges doesn’t waste time. There are three of them, after all. He takes the Happy Slapper from his right coat pocket, liking its old comforting weight. The Slapper is an argyle sock. The foot part is filled with ball bearings. It’s knotted at the ankle to make sure the steel balls stay in. He swings it at the side of Troll One’s neck in a tight, flat arc, careful to steer clear of the Adam’s apple; hit a guy there, you were apt to kill him, and then you were stuck in the bureaucracy.
There’s a metallic thwap. Troll One lurches sideways, his look of amusement turning to pained surprise. He stumbles off the curb and falls into the street. He rolls onto his back, gagging, clutching his neck, staring up at the underside of the overpass.
Troll Three starts forward. “F*ckin—” he begins, and then Hodges lifts his leg (pins and needles all gone, thank God) and kicks him briskly in the crotch. He hears the seat of his trousers rip and thinks, Oh you fat f*ck. Troll Three lets out a yowl of pain. Under here, with the cars and trucks passing overhead, the sound is strangely flat. He doubles over.
Hodges’s left hand is still in his coat. He extends his index finger so it pokes out the pocket and points it at Troll Two. “Hey, f*ckface, no need to wait for the little man’s big brother. I’ll bust a cap on your ass myself. Three-on-one pisses me off.”
“No, man, no!” Troll Two is tall, well built, maybe fifteen, but his terror regresses him to no more than twelve. “Please, man, we ’us just playin!”
“Then run, playboy,” Hodges says. “Do it now.”
Troll Two runs.
Troll One, meanwhile, has gotten on his knees. “You gonna regret this, fat ma—”
Hodges takes a step toward him, lifting the Slapper. Troll One sees it, gives a girly shriek, covers his neck.
“You better run, too,” Hodges says, “or the fat man’s going to tool up on your face. When your mama gets to the emergency room, she’ll walk right past you.” In that moment, with his adrenaline flowing and his blood pressure probably over two hundred, he absolutely means it.
Troll One gets up. Hodges makes a mock lunge at him, and Troll One jerks back most satisfyingly.
“Take your friend with you and pack some ice on his balls,” Hodges says. “They’re going to swell.”
Troll One gets his arm around Troll Three, and they hobble toward the Lowtown side of the overpass. When Troll One considers himself safe, he turns back and says, “I see you again, fat man.”
“Pray to God you don’t, f*ckwit,” Hodges says.
He picks up the backpack and hands it to the kid, who’s looking at him with wide mistrustful eyes. He might be ten. Hodges drops the Slapper back into his pocket. “Why aren’t you in school, little man?”
“My mama sick. I goin to get her medicine.”
This is a lie so audacious that Hodges has to grin. “No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re skipping.”
The kid says nothing. This is five-o, nobody else would step to it the way this guy did. Nobody else would have a loaded sock in his pocket, either. Safer to dummy up.
“You go skip someplace safer,” Hodges says. “There’s a playground on Eighth Avenue. Try there.”
“They sellin the rock on that playground,” the kid says.
“I know,” Hodges says, almost kindly, “but you don’t have to buy any.” He could add You don’t have to run any, either, but that would be na?ve. Down in Lowtown, most of the shorties run it. You can bust a ten-year-old for possession, but try making it stick.
He starts back to the parking lot, on the safe side of the overpass. When he glances back, the kid is still standing there and looking at him. Pack dangling from one hand.
“Little man,” Hodges says.
The kid looks at him, saying nothing.
Hodges lifts one hand and points at him. “I did something good for you just now. Before the sun goes down tonight, I want you to pass it on.”
Now the kid’s look is one of utter incomprehension, as if Hodges just lapsed into a foreign language, but that’s all right. Sometimes it seeps through, especially with the young ones.
People would be surprised, Hodges thinks. They really would.