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 fucking 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.