24
Hodges is in Interrogation Room 4 again—IR4, his lucky room—but this time he’s on the wrong side of the table, facing Pete Huntley and Pete’s new partner, a stunner with long red hair and eyes of misty gray. The interrogation is collegial, but that doesn’t change the basic facts: his car has been blown up and a woman has been killed. Another fact is that an interrogation is an interrogation.
“Did it have anything to do with the Mercedes Killer?” Pete asks. “What do you think, Billy? I mean, that’s the most likely, wouldn’t you say? Given the vic was Olivia Trelawney’s sister?”
There it is: the vic. The woman he slept with after he’d come to a point in his life where he thought he’d never sleep with any woman again. The woman who made him laugh and gave him comfort, the woman who was his partner in this last investigation as much as Pete Huntley ever was. The woman who wrinkled her nose at him and mocked his yeah.
Don’t you ever let me hear you call them the vics, Frank Sledge told him, back in the old days . . . but right now he has to take it.
“I don’t see how it can,” he says mildly. “I know how it looks, but sometimes a cigar is just a smoke and a coincidence is just a coincidence.”
“How did you—” Isabelle Jaynes begins, then shakes her head. “That’s the wrong question. Why did you meet her? Were you investigating the City Center thing on your own?” Playing the uncle on a grand scale is what she doesn’t say, perhaps in deference to Pete. After all, it’s Pete’s old running buddy they’re questioning, this chunky man in rumpled suit pants and a blood-spotted white shirt, the tie he put on this morning now pulled halfway down his big chest.
“Could I have a drink of water before we get started? I’m still shook up. She was a nice lady.”
Janey was a hell of a lot more than that, but the cold part of his mind, which is—for the time being—keeping the hot part in a cage, tells him this is the right way to go, the route that will lead into the rest of his story the way a narrow entrance ramp leads to a four-lane highway. Pete gets up and goes out. Isabelle says nothing until he gets back, just regards Hodges with those misty gray eyes.
Hodges drinks half the paper cup in a swallow, then says, “Okay. It goes back to that lunch we had at DeMasio’s, Pete. Remember?”
“Sure.”
“I asked you about all the cases we were working—the big ones, I mean—when I retired, but the one I was really interested in was the City Center Massacre. I think you knew that.”
Pete says nothing, but smiles slightly.
“Do you remember me asking if you ever wondered about Mrs. Trelawney? Specifically if she was telling the truth about not having an extra key?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What I was really wondering was if we gave her a fair shake. If we were wearing blinders because of how she was.”
“What do you mean, how she was?” Isabelle asks.
“A pain in the ass. Twitchy and haughty and quick to take offense. To get a little perspective, turn it around a minute and think of all the people who believed Donald Davis when he claimed he was innocent. Why? Because he wasn’t twitchy and haughty and quick to take offense. He could really put that grief-stricken haunted-husband thing across, and he was good-looking. I saw him on Channel Six once, and that pretty blond anchor’s thighs were practically squeezing together.”
“That’s disgusting,” Isabelle says, but she says it with a smile.
“Yeah, but true. He was a charmer. Olivia Trelawney, on the other hand, was an anti-charmer. So I started to wonder if we ever gave her story a fair shot.”
“We did.” Pete says it flatly.
“Maybe we did. Anyway, there I am, retired, with time on my hands. Too much time. And one day—just before I asked you to lunch, Pete—I say to myself, Assume she was telling the truth. If so, where was that second key? And then—this was right after our lunch—I went on the Internet and started to do some research. And do you know what I came across? A techno-fiddle called ‘stealing the peek.’”
“What’s that?” Isabelle asks.
“Oh, man,” Pete says. “You really think some computer genius stole her key-signal? Then just happened to find her spare key stowed in the glove compartment or under the seat? Her spare key that she forgot? That’s pretty far-fetched, Bill. Especially when you add in that the woman’s picture could have been next to Type A in the dictionary.”
Calmly, as if he had not used his jacket to cover the severed arm of a woman he loved not three hours before, Hodges summarizes what Jerome found out about stealing the peek, representing it as his own research. He tells them that he went to the Lake Avenue condo to interview Olivia Trelawney’s mother (“If she was still alive—I didn’t know for sure”) and found Olivia’s sister, Janelle, living there. He leaves out his visit to the mansion in Sugar Heights and his conversation with Radney Peeples, the Vigilant security guard, because that might lead to questions he’d be hard-pressed to answer. They’ll find out in time, but he’s close to Mr. Mercedes now, he knows he is. A little time is all he needs.
He hopes.
“Ms. Patterson told me her mother was in a nursing home about thirty miles from here—Sunny Acres. She offered to go up there with me and make the introduction. So I could ask a few questions.”
“Why would she do that?” Isabelle asks.
“Because she thought we might have jammed her sister up, and that caused her suicide.”
“Bullshit,” Pete says.
“I’m not going to argue with you about it, but you can understand the thinking, right? And the hope of clearing her sister of negligence?”
Pete gestures for him to go on. Hodges does, after finishing his water. He wants to get out of here. Mr. Mercedes could have read Jerome’s message by now. If so, he may run. That would be fine with Hodges. A running man is easier to spot than a hiding man.
“I questioned the old lady and got nothing. All I managed to do was upset her. She had a stroke and died soon after.” He sighs. “Ms. Patterson—Janelle—was heartbroken.”
“Was she also pissed at you?” Isabelle asks.
“No. Because she was for the idea, too. Then, when her mother died, she didn’t know anyone in the city except her mother’s nurse, who’s pretty long in the tooth herself. I’d given her my number, and she called me. She said she needed help, especially with a bunch of relatives flying in that she hardly knew, and I was willing to give it. Janelle wrote the obituary. I made the other arrangements.”
“Why was she in your car when it blew?”
Hodges explains about Holly’s meltdown. He doesn’t mention Janey appropriating his new hat at the last moment, not because it will destabilize his story but because it hurts too much.
“Okay,” Isabelle says. “You meet Olivia Trelawney’s sister, who you like well enough to call by her first name. The sister facilitates a Q-and-A with the mom. Mom strokes out and dies, maybe because reliving it all again got her too excited. The sister is blown up after the funeral—in your car—and you still don’t see a connection to the Mercedes Killer?”
Hodges spreads his hands. “How would this guy know I was asking questions? I didn’t take out an ad in the paper.” He turns to Pete. “I didn’t talk to anyone about it, not even you.”
Pete, clearly still brooding over the idea that their personal feelings about Olivia Trelawney might have colored the investigation, is looking dour. Hodges doesn’t much care, because that’s exactly what happened. “No, you just sounded me out about it at lunch.”
Hodges gives him a big grin. It makes his stomach fold in on itself like origami. “Hey,” he says, “it was my treat, wasn’t it?”
“Who else could have wanted to bomb you to kingdom come?” Isabelle asks. “You on Santa’s naughty list?”
“If I had to guess, I’d put my money on the Abbascia Family. How many of those shitbags did we put away on that gun thing back in ’04, Pete?”
“A dozen or more, but—”
“Yeah, and RICO’d twice as many a year later. We smashed them to pieces, and Fabby the Nose said they’d get us both.”
“Billy, the Abbascias can’t get anyone. Fabrizio is dead, his brother is in a mental asylum where he thinks he’s Napoleon or someone, and the rest are in jail.”
Hodges just gives him the look.
“Okay,” Pete says, “so you never catch all the cockroaches, but it’s still crazy. All due respect, pal, but you’re just a retired flatfoot. Out to pasture.”
“Right. Which means they could go after me without creating a firestorm. You, on the other hand, still have a gold shield pinned to your wallet.”
“The idea is ridiculous,” Isabelle says, and folds her arms beneath her breasts as if to say That ends the matter.
Hodges shrugs. “Somebody tried to blow me up, and I can’t believe the Mercedes Killer somehow got an ESP vibe that I was looking into the Case of the Missing Key. Even if he did, why would he come after me? How could that lead to him?”
“Well, he’s crazy,” Pete says. “How about that for a start?”
“Sure, but I repeat—how would he know?”
“No idea. Listen, Billy, are you holding anything back? Anything at all?”
“No.”
“I think you are,” Isabelle says. She cocks her head. “Hey, you weren’t sleeping with her, were you?”
Hodges shifts his gaze to her. “What do you think, Izzy? Look at me.”
She holds his eyes for a moment, then drops them. Hodges can’t believe how close she just came. Women’s intuition, he thinks, and then, Probably a good thing I haven’t lost any more weight, or put that Just For Men shit in my hair.
“Look, Pete, I want to shake. Go home and have a beer and try to get my head around this.”
“You swear you’re not holding anything back? This is you and me, now.”
Hodges passes up his last chance to come clean without a qualm. “Not a thing.”
Pete tells him to stay in touch; they’ll want him in tomorrow or Friday for a formal statement.
“Not a problem. And Pete? In the immediate future I’d give my car a once-over before driving it, if I were you.”
At the door, Pete puts an arm over Hodges’s shoulders and gives him a hug. “I’m sorry about this,” he says. “Sorry about what happened and about all the questions.”
“It’s okay. You’re doing the job.”
Pete tightens his grip and whispers in Hodges’s ear. “You are holding back. You think I’ve been taking stupid pills?”
For a moment Hodges rethinks his options. Then he remembers Janey saying He’s ours.
He takes Pete by the arms, looks him full in the face, and says, “I’m just as mystified about this as you are. Trust me.”
25
Hodges crosses the Detective Division bullpen, fielding the curious glances and leading questions with a stone face that only breaks once. Cassie Sheen, with whom he worked most often when Pete was on vacation, says, “Look at you. Still alive and uglier than ever.”
He smiles. “If it isn’t Cassie Sheen, the Botox Queen.” He lifts an arm in mock defense when she picks a paperweight up off her desk and brandishes it. It all feels both fake and real at the same time. Like one of those girl-fights on afternoon TV.
In the hall, there’s a line of chairs near the snack and soda machines. Sitting in two of the chairs are Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Henry. Holly isn’t with them, and Hodges instinctively touches the glasses case in his pants pocket. He asks Uncle Henry if he’s feeling better. Uncle Henry says he is, and thanks him. He turns to Aunt Charlotte and asks how she’s doing.
“I’m fine. It’s Holly I’m worried about. I think she blames herself, because she’s the reason . . . you know.”
Hodges knows. The reason Janey was driving his car. Of course Janey would have been in it anyway, but he doubts if that changes the way Holly feels.
“I wish you’d talk to her. You bonded with her, somehow.” Her eyes take on an unpleasant gleam. “The way you bonded with Janelle. You must have a way about you.”
“I’ll do that,” Hodges says, and he will, but Jerome is going to talk to her first. Assuming the number on the glasses case works, that is. For all he knows, that number rings a landline in . . . where was it? Cincinnati? Cleveland?
“I hope we’re not supposed to identify her,” Uncle Henry says. In one hand he holds a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He’s hardly touched it, and Hodges isn’t surprised. The police department coffee is notorious. “How can we? She was blown to bits.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Aunt Charlotte says. “They don’t want us to do that. They can’t.”
Hodges says, “If she’s ever been fingerprinted—most people have—they’ll do it that way. They may show you photographs of her clothes, or personal pieces of jewelry.”
“How would we know about her jewelry?” Aunt Charlotte cries. A cop getting a soda turns to look at her. “And I hardly noticed what she was wearing!”
Hodges guesses she priced out every stitch, but doesn’t comment. “They may have other questions.” Some about him. “It shouldn’t take long.”
There’s an elevator, but Hodges chooses the stairs. On the landing one flight down, he leans against the wall, eyes closed, and takes half a dozen big, shuddering breaths. The tears come now. He swipes them away with his sleeve. Aunt Charlotte expressed concern about Holly—a concern Hodges shares—but no sorrow about her blown-to-bits niece. He guesses that Aunt Charlotte’s biggest interest in Janey right now is what happens to all the lovely dosh Janey inherited from her sister.
I hope she left it to a f*cking dog hospital, he thinks.
Hodges sits down with an out-of-breath grunt. Using one of the stairs as a makeshift desk, he lays out the sunglasses case and, from his wallet, a creased sheet of notepaper with two sets of numbers on it.
26
“Hello?” The voice is soft, tentative. “Hello, who is this?”
“My name’s Jerome Robinson, ma’am. I believe Bill Hodges said I might call you.”
Silence.
“Ma’am?” Jerome is sitting by his computer, holding his Android almost tightly enough to crack the casing. “Ms. Gibney?”
“I’m here.” It’s almost a sigh. “He said he wants to catch the person who killed my cousin. There was a terrible explosion.”
“I know,” Jerome says. Down the hall, Barb starts playing her new ’Round Here record for the thousandth time. Kisses on the Midway, it’s called. It hasn’t driven him crazy yet, but crazy gets closer with every play.
Meanwhile, the woman on the other end of the line has started to cry.
“Ma’am? Ms. Gibney? I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“I hardly knew her, but she was my cousin, and she was nice to me. So was Mr. Hodges. Do you know what he asked me?”
“No, uh-uh.”
“If I’d eaten breakfast. Wasn’t that considerate?”
“It sure was,” Jerome says. He still can’t believe the lively, vital lady he had dinner with is dead. He remembers how her eyes sparkled when she laughed and how she mocked Bill’s way of saying yeah. Now he’s on the phone with a woman he’s never met, a very odd woman, from the sound of her. Talking to her feels like defusing a bomb. “Ma’am, Bill asked me to come out there.”
“Will he come with you?”
“He can’t right now. He’s got other things he has to do.”
There’s more silence, and then, in a voice so low and timid he can barely hear it, Holly asks, “Are you safe? Because I worry about people, you know. I worry very much.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m safe.”
“I want to help Mr. Hodges. I want to help catch the man who did it. He must be crazy, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Jerome says. Down the hall another song starts and two little girls—Barbara and her friend Hilda—emit joyous shrieks almost high enough to shatter glass. He thinks of three or four thousand Barbs and Hildas all shrieking in unison tomorrow night, and thanks God his mother is pulling that duty.
“You could come, but I don’t know how to let you in,” she says. “My uncle Henry set the burglar alarm when he went out, and I don’t know the code. I think he shut the gate, too.”
“I’ve got all that covered,” Jerome says.
“When will you come?”
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“If you talk to Mr. Hodges, will you tell him something for me?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him I’m sad, too.” She pauses. “And that I’m taking my Lexapro.”
27
Late that Wednesday afternoon, Brady checks in to a gigantic Motel 6 near the airport, using one of his Ralph Jones credit cards. He has a suitcase and a knapsack. In the knapsack is a single change of clothes, which is all he’ll need for the few dozen hours of life that still remain to him. In the suitcase is the ASS PARKING cushion, the Urinesta peebag, a framed picture, several homemade detonator switches (he only expects to need one, but you can never have enough backup), Thing Two, several Glad storage bags filled with ball bearings, and enough homemade explosive to blow both the motel and the adjacent parking lot sky-high. He goes back to his Subaru, pulls out a larger item (with some effort; it barely fits), carries it into his room, and leans it against the wall.
He lies down on his bed. His head feels strange against the pillow. Naked. And sort of sexy, somehow.
He thinks, I’ve had a run of bad luck, but I’ve ridden it out and I’m still standing.
He closes his eyes. Soon he’s snoring.