9
“Ollie.”
Janey says this, then falls silent long enough for Hodges to sip some of his new cup of coffee and eat a cookie. Then she turns to the window and the sailboats again, crosses her legs, and speaks without looking at him.
“Have you ever loved someone without liking them?”
Hodges thinks of Corinne, and the stormy eighteen months that preceded the final split. “Yes.”
“Then you’ll understand. Ollie was my big sister, eight years older than I was. I loved her, but when she went off to college, I was the happiest girl in America. And when she dropped out three months later and came running back home, I felt like a tired girl who has to pick up a big sack of bricks again after being allowed to put it down for awhile. She wasn’t mean to me, never called me names or pulled my pigtails or teased when I walked home from junior high holding hands with Marky Sullivan, but when she was in the house, we were always at Condition Yellow. Do you know what I mean?”
Hodges isn’t completely sure, but nods anyway.
“Food made her sick to her stomach. She got rashes when she was stressed out about anything—job interviews were the worst, although she finally did get a secretarial job. She had good skills and she was very pretty. Did you know that?”
Hodges makes a noncommittal noise. If he were to reply honestly, he might have said, I can believe it because I see it in you.
“One time she agreed to take me to a concert. It was U2, and I was mad to see them. Ollie liked them, too, but the night of the show she started vomiting. It was so bad that my parents ended up taking her to the ER and I had to stay home watching TV instead of pogoing and screaming for Bono. Ollie swore it was food poisoning, but we all ate the same meal, and no one else got sick. Stress is what it was. Pure stress. And you talk about hypochondria? With my sister, every headache was a brain tumor and every pimple was skin cancer. Once she got pinkeye and spent a week convinced she was going blind. Her periods were horroramas. She took to her bed until they were over.”
“And still kept her job?”
Janey’s reply is as dry as Death Valley. “Ollie’s periods always used to last exactly forty-eight hours and they always came on the weekends. It was amazing.”
“Oh.” Hodges can think of nothing else to say.
Janey spins the letter around a few times on the coffee table with the tip of her finger, then raises those light blue eyes to Hodges. “He uses a phrase in here—something about having nervous tics. Did you notice that?”
“Yes.” Hodges has noticed a great many things about this letter, mostly how it is in many ways a negative image of the one he received.
“My sister had her share, too. You may have noticed some of them.”
Hodges pulls his tie first one way, then the other.
Janey grins. “Yes, that’s one of them. There were many others. Patting light switches to make sure they were off. Unplugging the toaster after breakfast. She always said bread-and-butter before she went out somewhere, because supposedly if you did that, you’d remember anything you’d forgotten. I remember one day she had to drive me to school because I missed the bus. Mom and Dad had already gone to work. We got halfway there, then she became convinced the oven was on. We had to turn around and go back and check it. Nothing else would do. It was off, of course. I didn’t make it to school until second period, and got hit with my first and only detention. I was furious. I was often furious with her, but I loved her, too. Mom, Dad, we all did. Like it was hardwired. But man, was she ever a sack of bricks.”
“Too nervous to go out, but she not only married, she married money.”
“Actually, she married a prematurely balding clerk in the investment company where she worked. Kent Trelawney. A nerd—I use the word affectionately, Kent was absolutely okay—with a love of video games. He started to invest in some of the companies that made them, and those investments paid off. My mother said he had the magic touch and my father said he was dumb lucky, but it was neither of those things. He knew the field, that’s all, and what he didn’t know he made it his business to learn. When they got married near the end of the seventies, they were only wealthy. Then Kent discovered Microsoft.”
She throws her head back and belts out a hearty laugh, startling him.
“Sorry,” she says. “Just thinking about the pure American irony of it. I was pretty, also well adjusted and gregarious. If I’d ever been in a beauty contest—which I call meat-shows for men, if you want to know, and probably you don’t—I would have won Miss Congeniality in a walk. Lots of girlfriends, lots of boyfriends, lots of phone calls, and lots of dates. I was in charge of freshman orientation during my senior year at Catholic High School, and did a great job, if I do say so myself. Soothed a lot of nerves. My sister was just as pretty, but she was the neurotic one. The obsessive-compulsive one. If she’d ever been in a beauty contest, she would have thrown up all over her bathing suit.”
Janey laughs some more. Another tear trickles down her cheek as she does. She wipes it away with the heel of her hand.
“So here’s the irony. Miss Congeniality got stuck with the coke-snorting dingbat and Miss Nervy caught the good guy, the money-making, never-cheat husband. Do you get it?”
“Yeah,” Hodges says. “I do.”
“Olivia Wharton and Kent Trelawney. A courtship with about as much chance of success as a six-months preemie. Kent kept asking her out and she kept saying no. Finally she agreed to have dinner with him—just to make him stop bothering her, she said—and when they got to the restaurant, she froze. Couldn’t get out of the car. Shaking like a leaf. Some guys would have given up right there, but not Kent. He took her to McDonald’s and got Value Meals at the drive-through window. They ate in the parking lot. I guess they did that a lot. She’d go to the movies with him, but always had to sit on the aisle. She said sitting on the inside made her short of breath.”
“A lady with all the bells and whistles.”
“My mother and father tried for years to get her to see a shrink. Where they failed, Kent succeeded. The shrink put her on pills, and she got better. She had one of her patented anxiety attacks on her wedding day—I was the one who held her veil while she vomited in the church bathroom—but she got through it.” Janey smiles wistfully and adds, “She was a beautiful bride.”
Hodges sits silently, fascinated by this glimpse of Olivia Trelawney before she became Our Lady of Boatneck Tops.
“After she married, we drifted apart. As sisters sometimes do. We saw each other half a dozen times a year until our father died, even less after that.”
“Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the Fourth of July?”
“Pretty much. I could see some of her old shit coming back, and after Kent died—it was a heart attack—all of it came back. She lost a ton of weight. She went back to the awful clothes she wore in high school and when she was working in the office. Some of this I saw when I came back to visit her and Mom, some when we talked on Skype.”
He nods his understanding. “I’ve got a friend who keeps trying to hook me up with that.”
She regards him with a smile. “You’re old school, aren’t you? I mean really.” Her smile fades. “The last time I saw Ollie was May of last year, not long after the City Center thing.” Janey hesitates, then gives it its proper name. “The massacre. She was in terrible shape. She said the cops were hounding her. Was that true?”
“No, but she thought we were. It’s true we questioned her repeatedly, because she continued to insist she took her key and locked the Mercedes. That was a problem for us, because the car wasn’t broken into and it wasn’t hotwired. What we finally decided . . .” Hodges stops, thinking of the fat family psychologist who comes on every weekday at four. The one who specializes in breaking through the wall of denial.
“You finally decided what?”
“That she couldn’t bear to face the truth. Does that sound like the sister you grew up with?”
“Yes.” Janey points to the letter. “Do you suppose she finally told the truth to this guy? On Debbie’s Blue Umbrella? Do you think that’s why she took Mom’s pills?”
“There’s no way to be sure.” But Hodges thinks it’s likely.
“She quit her antidepressants.” Janey is looking out at the lake again. “She denied it when I asked her, but I knew. She never liked them, said they made her feel woolly-headed. She took them for Kent, and once Kent was dead she took them for our mother, but after City Center . . .” She shakes her head, takes a deep breath. “Have I told you enough about her mental state, Bill? Because there’s plenty more if you want it.”
“I think I get the picture.”
She shakes her head in dull wonder. “It’s as if the guy knew her.”
Hodges doesn’t say what seems obvious to him, mostly because he has his own letter for comparison: he did. Somehow he did.
“You said she was obsessive-compulsive. To the point where she turned around and went back to check if the oven was on.”
“Yes.”
“Does it seem likely to you that a woman like that would have forgotten her key in the ignition?”
Janey doesn’t answer for a long time. Then she says, “Actually, no.”
It doesn’t to Hodges, either. There’s a first time for everything, of course, but . . . did he and Pete ever discuss that aspect of the matter? He’s not sure, but thinks maybe they did. Only they hadn’t known the depths of Mrs. T.’s mental problems, had they?
He asks, “Ever try going on this Blue Umbrella site yourself? Using the username he gave her?”
She stares at him, gobsmacked. “It never even crossed my mind, and if it had, I would have been too scared of what I might find. I guess that’s why you’re the detective and I’m the client. Will you try that?”
“I don’t know what I’ll try. I need to think about it, and I need to consult a guy who knows more about computers than I do.”
“Make sure you note down his fee,” she says.
Hodges says he will, thinking that at least Jerome Robinson will get some good out of this, no matter how the cards fall. And why shouldn’t he? Eight people died at City Center and three more were permanently crippled, but Jerome still has to go to college. Hodges remembers an old saying: even on the darkest day, the sun shines on some dog’s ass.
“What’s next?”
Hodges takes the letter and stands up. “Next, I take this to the nearest UCopy. Then I return the original to you.”
“No need of that. I’ll scan it into the computer and print you one. Hand it over.”
“Really? You can do that?”
Her eyes are still red from crying, but the glance she gives him is nonetheless merry. “It’s a good thing you have a computer expert on call,” she says. “I’ll be right back. In the meantime, have another cookie.”
Hodges has three.
10
When she returns with his copy of the letter, he folds it into his inner jacket pocket. “The original should go into a safe, if there’s one here.”
“There’s one at the Sugar Heights house—will that do?”
It probably would, but Hodges doesn’t care for the idea. Too many prospective buyers tromping in and out. Which is probably stupid, but there it is.
“Do you have a safe-deposit box?”
“No, but I could rent one. I use Bank of America, just two blocks over.”
“I’d like that better,” Hodges says, going to the door.
“Thank you for doing this,” she says, and holds out both of her hands. As if he has asked her to dance. “You don’t know what a relief it is.”
He takes the offered hands, squeezes them lightly, then lets go, although he would have been happy to hold them longer.
“Two other things. First, your mother. How often do you visit her?”
“Every other day or so. Sometimes I take her food from the Iranian restaurant she and Ollie liked—the Sunny Acres kitchen staff is happy to warm it up—and sometimes I bring her a DVD or two. She likes the oldies, like with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I always bring her something, and she’s always happy to see me. On her good days she does see me. On her bad ones, she’s apt to call me Olivia. Or Charlotte. That’s my aunt. I also have an uncle.”
“The next time she has a good day, you ought to call me so I can go see her.”
“All right. I’ll go with you. What’s the other thing?”
“This lawyer you mentioned. Schron. Did he strike you as competent?”
“Sharpest knife in the drawer, that was my impression.”
“If I do find something out, maybe even put a name on the guy, we’re going to need someone like that. We’ll go see him, we’ll turn over the letters—”
“Letters? I only found the one.”
Hodges thinks Ah, shit, then regroups. “The letter and the copy, I mean.”
“Oh, right.”
“If I find the guy, it’s the job of the police to arrest him and charge him. Schron’s job is to make sure we don’t get arrested for going off the reservation and investigating on our own.”
“That would be criminal law, isn’t it? I’m not sure he does that kind.”
“Probably not, but if he’s good, he’ll know somebody who does. Someone who’s just as good as he is. Are we agreed on that? We have to be. I’m willing to poke around, but if this turns into police business, we let the police take over.”
“I’m fine with that,” Janey says. Then she stands on tiptoe, puts her hands on the shoulders of his too-tight coat, and plants a kiss on his cheek. “I think you’re a good guy, Bill. And the right guy for this.”
He feels that kiss all the way down in the elevator. A lovely little warm spot. He’s glad he took pains about shaving before leaving the house.
11
The silver rain falls without end, but the young couple—lovers? friends?—are safe and dry under the blue umbrella that belongs to someone, likely a fictional someone, named Debbie. This time Hodges notices that it’s the boy who appears to be speaking, and the girl’s eyes are slightly widened, as if in surprise. Maybe he’s just proposed to her?
Jerome pops this romantic thought like a balloon. “Looks like a porn site, doesn’t it?”
“Now what would a young pre–Ivy Leaguer like yourself know about porn sites?”
They are seated side by side in Hodges’s study, looking at the Blue Umbrella start-up page. Odell, Jerome’s Irish setter, is lying on his back behind them, rear legs splayed, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth, staring at the ceiling with a look of good-humored contemplation. Jerome brought him on a leash, but only because that’s the law inside the city limits. Odell knows enough to stay out of the street and is about as harmless to passersby as a dog can be.
“I know what you know and what everybody with a computer knows,” Jerome says. In his khaki slacks and button-down Ivy League shirt, his hair a close-cropped cap of curls, he looks to Hodges like a young Barack Obama, only taller. Jerome is six-five. And around him is the faint, pleasantly nostalgic aroma of Old Spice aftershave. “Porn sites are thicker than flies on roadkill. You surf the Net, you can’t help bumping into them. And the ones with the innocent-sounding names are the ones most apt to be loaded.”
“Loaded how?”
“With the kinds of images that can get you arrested.”
“Kiddie porn, you mean.”
“Or torture porn. Ninety-nine percent of the whips-and-chains stuff is faked. The other one percent . . .” Jerome shrugs.
“And you know this how?”
Jerome gives him a look—straight, frank, and open. Not an act, just the way he is, and what Hodges likes most about the kid. His mother and father are the same way. Even his little sis.
“Mr. Hodges, everybody knows. If they’re under thirty, that is.”
“Back in the day, people used to say don’t trust anyone over thirty.”
Jerome smiles. “I trust em, but when it comes to computers, an awful lot of em are clueless. They beat up their machines, then expect em to work. They open bareback email attachments. They go to websites like this, and all at once their computer goes HAL 9000 and starts downloading pictures of teenage escorts or terrorist videos that show people getting their heads chopped off.”
It was on the tip of Hodge’s tongue to ask who Hal 9000 is—it sounds like a gangbanger tag to him—but the thing about terrorist videos diverts him. “That actually happens?”
“It’s been known to. And then . . .” Jerome makes a fist and raps his knuckles against the top of his head. “Knock-knock-knock, Homeland Security at your door.” He unrolls his fist so he can point a finger at the couple under the blue umbrella. “On the other hand, this might be just what it claims to be, a chat site where shy people can be electronic pen-pals. You know, a lonelyhearts deal. Lots of people out there lookin for love, dude. Let’s see.”
He reaches for the mouse but Hodges grabs his wrist. Jerome looks at him inquiringly.
“Don’t see on my computer,” Hodges says. “See on yours.”
“If you’d asked me to bring my laptop—”
“Do it tonight, that’ll be fine. And if you happen to unleash a virus that swallows your cruncher whole, I’ll stand you the price of a new one.”
Jerome shoots him a look of condescending amusement. “Mr. Hodges, I’ve got the best virus detection and prevention program money can buy, and the second best backing it up. Any bug trying to creep into my machines gets swatted pronto.”
“It might not be there to eat,” Hodges says. He’s thinking about Mrs. T.’s sister saying, It’s as if the guy knew her. “It might be there to watch.”
Jerome doesn’t look worried; he looks excited. “How did you get onto this site, Mr. Hodges? Are you coming out of retirement? Are you, like, on the case?”
Hodges has never missed Pete Huntley so bitterly as he does at that moment: a tennis partner to volley with, only with theories and suppositions instead of fuzzy green balls. He has no doubt Jerome could fulfill that function, he has a good mind and a demonstrated talent for making all the right deductive leaps . . . but he’s also a year from voting age, four from being able to buy a legal drink, and this could be dangerous.
“Just peek into the site for me,” Hodges says. “But before you do, hunt around on the Net. See what you can find out about it. What I want to know most of all is—”
“If it has an actual history,” Jerome cuts in, once more demonstrating that admirable deductive ability. “A whatdoyoucallit, backstory. You want to make sure it’s not a straw man set up for you alone.”
“You know,” Hodges says, “you should quit doing chores for me and get a job with one of those computer-doctor companies. You could probably make a lot more dough. Which reminds me, you need to give me a price for this job.”
Jerome is offended, but not by the offer of a fee. “Those companies are for geeks with bad social skills.” He reaches behind him and scratches Odell’s dark red fur. Odell thumps his tail appreciatively, although he would probably prefer a steak sandwich. “In fact there’s one bunch that drives around in VW Beetles. You can’t get much geekier than that. Discount Electronix . . . you know them?”
“Sure,” Hodges says, thinking of the advertising circular he got along with his poison-pen letter.
“They must have liked the idea, because they have the same deal, only they call it the Cyber Patrol, and their VWs are green instead of black. Plus there are mucho independents. Look online, you can find two hundred right here in the city. I thinks I stick to chos, Massa Hodges.”
Jerome clicks away from Under Debbie’s Blue Umbrella and back to Hodges’s screensaver, which happens to be a picture of Allie, back when she was five and still thought her old man was God.
“But since you’re worried, I’ll take precautions. I’ve got an old iMac in my closet with nothing on it but Atari Arcade and a few other moldy oldies. I’ll use that one to check out the site.”
“Good idea.”
“Anything else I can do for you today?”
Hodges starts to say no, but Mrs. T.’s stolen Mercedes is still bugging him. There is something very wrong there. He felt it then and feels it more strongly now—so strongly he almost sees it. But almost never won a kewpie doll at the county fair. The wrongness is a ball he wants to hit, and have someone hit back to him.
“You could listen to a story,” he says. In his mind he’s already making up a piece of fiction that will touch on all the salient points. Who knows, maybe Jerome’s fresh eye will spot something he himself has missed. Unlikely, but not impossible. “Would you be willing to do that?”
“Sure.”
“Then clip Odell on his leash. We’ll walk down to Big Licks. I’ve got my face fixed for a strawberry cone.”
“Maybe we’ll see the Mr. Tastey truck before we get there,” Jerome says. “That guy’s been in the neighborhood all week, and he’s got some awesome goodies.”
“So much the better,” Hodges says, getting up. “Let’s go.”