12
As the stars come out over the lake, Hodges and Janey Patterson sit in the kitchen nook, gobbling takeout Chinese and drinking oolong tea. Janey is wearing a fluffy white bathrobe. Hodges is in his boxers and tee-shirt. When he used the bathroom after making love (she was curled in the middle of the bed, dozing), he got on her scale and was delighted to see he’s four pounds lighter than the last time he weighed himself. It’s a start.
“Why me?” Hodges says now. “Don’t get me wrong, I feel incredibly lucky—even blessed—but I’m sixty-two and overweight.”
She sips tea. “Well, let’s think about that, shall we? In one of the old detective movies Ollie and I used to watch on TV when we were kids, I’d be the greedy vixen, maybe a nightclub cigarette girl, who tries to charm the crusty and cynical private detective with her fair white body. Only I’m not the greedy type—nor do I have to be, considering the fact that I recently inherited several million dollars—and my fair white body has started to sag in several vital places. As you may have noticed.”
He hasn’t. What he has noticed is that she hasn’t answered his question. So he waits.
“Not good enough?”
“Nope.”
Janey rolls her eyes. “I wish I could think of a way to answer you that’s gentler than ‘Men are very stupid’ or more elegant than ‘I was horny and wanted to brush away the cobwebs.’ I’m not coming up with much, so let’s go with those. Plus, I was attracted to you. It’s been thirty years since I was a dewy debutante and much too long since I got laid. I’m forty-four, and that allows me to reach for what I want. I don’t always get it, but I’m allowed to reach.”
He stares at her, honestly amazed. Forty-four?
She bursts into laughter. “You know what? That look’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in a long, long time. And the most honest one. Just that stare. So I’m going to push it a little. How old did you think I was?”
“Maybe forty. At the outside. Which would make me a cradle-robber.”
“Oh, bullshit. If you were the one with the money instead of me, everyone would take the younger-woman thing for granted. In that case, people would take it for granted if you were sleeping with a twenty-five-year-old.” She pauses. “Although that would be cradle-robbing, in my humble opinion.”
“Still—”
“You’re old, but not that old, and you’re on the heavyweight side, but not that heavy. Although you will be if you keep on the way you’re going.” She points her fork at him. “That’s the kind of honesty a woman can only afford after she’s slept with a man and still likes him well enough to eat dinner with him. I said I haven’t had sex in two years. That’s true, but do you know when I last had sex with a man I actually liked?”
He shakes his head.
“Try junior college. And he wasn’t a man, he was a second-string tackle with a big red pimple on the end of his nose. He was very sweet, though. Clumsy and far too quick, but sweet. He actually cried on my shoulder afterward.”
“So this wasn’t just . . . I don’t know . . .”
“A thank-you fuck? A mercy-fuck? Give me a little credit. And here’s a promise.” She leans forward, the robe gaping to show the shadowed valley between her breasts. “Lose twenty pounds and I’ll risk you on top.”
He can’t help laughing.
“It was great, Bill. I have no regrets, and I have a thing for big guys. The tackle with the pimple on his nose went about two-forty. My ex was a beanpole, and I should have known no good could come of it the first time I saw him. Can we leave it at that?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling, and stands up. “Come on in the living room. It’s time for you to make your report.”
13
He tells her everything except for his long afternoons watching bad TV and flirting with his father’s old service revolver. She listens gravely, not interrupting, her eyes seldom leaving his face. When he’s done, she gets a bottle of wine out of the fridge and pours them each a glass. They are big glasses, and he looks at his doubtfully.
“Don’t know if I should, Janey. I’m driving.”
“Not tonight you’re not. You’re staying here. Unless you’ve got a dog or a cat?”
Hodges shakes his head.
“Not even a parrot? In one of those old movies, you’d at least have a parrot in your office that would say rude things to prospective clients.”
“Sure. And you’d be my receptionist. Lola instead of Janey.”
“Or Velma.”
He grins. There’s a wavelength, and they’re on it.
She leans forward, once again creating that enticing view. “Profile this guy for me.”
“That was never my job. We had guys who specialized in that. One on the force and two on call from the psych department at the state university.”
“Do it anyway. I Googled you, you know, and it looks to me like you were just about the best the police department had. Commendations up the wazoo.”
“I got lucky a few times.”
It comes out sounding falsely modest, but luck really is a big part of it. Luck, and being ready. Woody Allen was right: eighty percent of success is just showing up.
“Take a shot, okay? If you do a good job, maybe we’ll revisit the bedroom.” She wrinkles her nose at him. “Unless you’re too old for twosies.”
The way he feels right now, he might not be too old for threesies. There have been a lot of celibate nights, which gives him an account to draw on. Or so he hopes. Part of him—a large part—still can’t believe this isn’t an incredibly detailed dream.
He sips his wine, rolling it around in his mouth, giving himself time to think. The top of her robe is closed again, which helps him concentrate.
“Okay. He’s probably young, that’s the first thing. I’m guessing between twenty and thirty-five. That’s partly because of his computer savvy, but not entirely. When an older guy murders a bunch of people, the ones he mostly goes after are family, co-workers, or both. Then he finishes by putting the gun to his own head. You look, you find a reason. A motive. Wife kicked him out, then got a restraining order. Boss downsized him, then humiliated him by having a couple of security guys stand by while he cleaned out his office. Loans overdue. Credit cards maxed out. House underwater. Car repo’d.”
“But what about serial killers? Wasn’t that guy in Kansas a middle-aged man?”
“Dennis Rader, yeah. And he was middle-aged when they bagged him, but only thirty or so when he started. Also, those were sex killings. Mr. Mercedes isn’t a sex-killer, and he’s not a serial killer in the traditional sense. He started with a bunch, but since then he’s settled on individuals—first your sister, now me. And he didn’t come after either of us with a gun or a stolen car, did he?”
“Not yet, anyway,” Janey says.
“Our guy is a hybrid, but he has certain things in common with younger men who kill. He’s more like Lee Malvo—one of the Beltway Snipers—than Rader. Malvo and his partner planned to kill six white people a day. Just random killings. Whoever had the bad luck to walk into their gunsights went down. Sex and age didn’t matter. They ended up getting ten, not a bad score for a couple of homicidal maniacs. The stated motive was racial, and with John Allen Muhammad—he was Malvo’s partner, much older, a kind of father figure—that might have been true, or partially true. I think Malvo’s motivation was a lot more complex, a whole stew of things he didn’t understand himself. Look closely and you’d probably find sexual confusion and upbringing were major players. I think the same is true with our guy. He’s young. He’s bright. He’s good at fitting in, so good that a lot of his associates don’t realize he’s basically a loner. When he’s caught, they’ll all say, ‘I can’t believe it was so-and-so, he was always so nice.’”
“Like Dexter Morgan on that TV show.”
Hodges knows the one she’s talking about and shakes his head emphatically. Not just because the show is fantasyland bullshit, either.
“Dexter knows why he’s doing what he’s doing. Our guy doesn’t. He’s almost certainly unmarried. He doesn’t date. He may be impotent. There’s a good chance he’s still living at home. If so, it’s probably with a single parent. If it’s Father, the relationship is cold and distant—ships passing in the night. If it’s Mother, there’s a good chance Mr. Mercedes is her surrogate husband.” He sees her start to speak and raises his hand. “That doesn’t mean they’re having a sexual relationship.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll tell you something, Bill. You don’t have to sleep with a guy to be having a sexual relationship with him. Sometimes it’s in the eye contact, or the clothes you wear when you know he’s going to be around, or what you do with your hands—touching, patting, caressing, hugging. Sex has got to be in this somewhere. I mean, that letter he sent you . . . the stuff about wearing a condom while he did it . . .” She shivers in her white robe.
“Ninety percent of that letter is white noise, but sure, sex is in it somewhere. Always is. Also anger, aggression, loneliness, feelings of inadequacy . . . but it doesn’t do to get lost in stuff like that. It’s not profiling, it’s analysis. Which was way above my pay-grade even when I had a pay-grade.”
“Okay . . .”
“He’s broken,” Hodges says simply. “And evil. Like an apple that looks okay on the outside, but when you cut it open, it’s black and full of worms.”
“Evil,” she says, almost sighing the word. Then, to herself rather than him: “Of course he is. He battened on my sister like a vampire.”
“He could have some kind of job where he meets the public, because he’s got a fair amount of surface charm. If so, it’s probably a low-paying job. He never advances because he’s unable to combine his above-average intelligence with long-term concentration. His actions suggest he’s a creature of impulse and opportunity. The City Center killings are a perfect example. I think he had his eye on your sister’s Mercedes, but I don’t think he knew what he was actually going to do with it until just a few days before the job fair. Maybe only a few hours. I just wish I could figure out how he stole it.”
He pauses, thinking that thanks to Jerome, he has a good idea about half of it: the spare key was very likely in the glove compartment all along.
“I think ideas for murder flip through this guy’s head as fast as cards in a good dealer’s fast shuffle. He’s probably thought of blowing up airliners, setting fires, shooting up schoolbuses, poisoning the water system, maybe assassinating the governor or the president.”
“Jesus, Bill!”
“Right now he’s fixated on me, and that’s good. It will make him easier to catch. It’s good for another reason, too.”
“Which is?”
“I’d rather keep him thinking small. Keep him thinking one-on-one. The longer he keeps doing that, the longer it will be before he decides to try putting on another horror show like the one at City Center, maybe on an even grander scale. You know what creeps me out? He’s probably already got a list of potential targets.”
“Didn’t he say in his letter that he had no urge to do it again?”
He grins. It lights up his whole face. “Yeah, he did. And you know how you tell when guys like this are lying? Their lips are moving. Only in the case of Mr. Mercedes, he’s writing letters.”
“Or communicating with his targets on the Blue Umbrella site. Like he did with Ollie.”
“Yeah.”
“If we assume he succeeded with her because she was psychologically fragile . . . forgive me, Bill, but does he have reason to believe he can succeed with you for the same reason?”
He looks at his glass of wine and sees it’s empty. He starts to pour himself another half a glass, thinks what that might do to his chances of a successful return engagement in the bedroom, and settles for a small puddle in the bottom instead.
“Bill?”
“Maybe,” he says. “Since my retirement, I’ve been drifting. But I’m not as lost as your sister . . .” Not anymore, at least. “. . . and that’s not the important thing. It’s not the take-away from the letters, and from the Blue Umbrella communications.”
“Then what is?”
“He’s been watching. That’s the take-away. It makes him vulnerable. Unfortunately, it also makes him dangerous to my known associates. I don’t think he knows I’ve been talking to you—”
“Quite a bit more than talking,” she says, giving her eyebrows a Groucho waggle.
“—but he knows Olivia had a sister, and we have to assume he knows you’re in the city. You need to start being super-careful. Make sure your door is locked when you’re here—”
“I always do.”
“—and don’t believe what you hear on the lobby intercom. Anyone can say he’s from a package service and needs a signature. Visually identify all comers before you open your door. Be aware of your surroundings when you go out.” He leans forward, the splash of wine untouched. He doesn’t want it anymore. “Big thing here, Janey. When you are out, keep an eye on traffic. Not just driving but when you’re on foot. Do you know the term BOLO?”
“Cop-speak for be on the lookout.”
“That’s it. When you’re out, you’re going to BOLO any vehicles that seem to keep reappearing in your immediate vicinity.”
“Like that lady’s black SUVs,” she says, smiling. “Mrs. Whozewhatsit.”
Mrs. Melbourne. Thinking of her tickles some obscure associational switch in the back of Hodges’s mind, but it’s gone before he can track it down, let alone scratch it.
Jerome’s got to be on the lookout, too. If Mr. Mercedes is cruising Hodges’s place, he’ll have seen Jerome mowing the lawn, putting on the screens, cleaning out the gutters. Both Jerome and Janey are probably safe, but probably isn’t good enough. Mr. Mercedes is a random bundle of homicide, and Hodges has set out on a course of deliberate provocation.
Janey reads his mind. “And yet you’re . . . what did you call it? Winding him up.”
“Yeah. And very shortly I’m going to steal some time on your computer and wind him up a little more. I had a message all worked out, but I’m thinking of adding something. My partner got a big solve today, and there’s a way I can use that.”
“What was it?”
There’s no reason not to tell her; it will be in the papers tomorrow, Sunday at the latest. “Turnpike Joe.”
“The one who kills women at rest stops?” And when he nods: “Does he fit your profile of Mr. Mercedes?”
“Not at all. But there’s no reason for our guy to know that.”
“What do you mean to do?”
Hodges tells her.